Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Death of a friend Part I

January 20, 2015
Chapter One of Caroline's Story

A friend of mine took her life last week. Our lives had intertwined when my now 46 year old boy child was not quite three years old. It was 1971, and my husband and I had sold our home and purchased a mobile home in a lovely mobile home park because we had plans to travel to Europe and live there for a while (three to six months) and wanted a place we could close up and leave easily. Jamaica Bay had all the amenities, including a communal pool. My little one had been swimming before he could talk, so we went to the pool - a lot. One day as we entered the pool, there was another tow-head nearby but outside the pool area playing in the sand box who looked to be perhaps a year younger than my boy. We said hello, and he looked up and gave us the sweetest grin. He was completely dressed, including socks and shoes, something not terribly common in south Florida. We went in and saw a woman doing graceful laps up and down the pool.  I settled onto a deck chair and my little one went into the water. The woman noticed him and how young he was (everyone did) and they struck up a conversation, as much as a child his age was able to.  I heard him tell her his name - Jarrod. She seemed enchanted by his skill in the water and asked him lots of questions. I tuned them out, and eventually she got out of the water and plopped herself down next to me and sprinkled water on the magazine I was reading. When I looked up (not without annoyance) she asked, "What does one do for intellectual stimulation around here?" With more than a little coolness, I haughtily replied, "I go to school." Undeterred by my disdain, in fact probably amused by it, she laughed, easily and musically. In fact, her voice when speaking was quite melodic - a ringing soprano voice in a largish woman with long, black hair and clear turquoise eyes. 

Over the years from that auspicious beginning grew a deep and complex love/hate relationship that at times defined me, at times infuriated me, and certainly at times kept me honest - with myself. 

She was from New York - an Italian by heritage, married to a man who was working to finish up a job in New York in preparation for a position as a project manager for a large construction project nearby. He was gone for weeks at a time, then "home" with his family for some brief time, but nearly ready to move down permanently. She had another boy besides Kevin, the sandbox dweller, who was in in Kindergarten half days, whose name was Chris. I learned that the fully-dressed imp with the sweet smile, Kevin, was terrified of the water, thus he would not come with his mother to the pool unless she agreed to dress him completely. His logic was that he would never be expected to enter the water without a bathing suit. He was still in diapers under all that clothing and stubbornly clung to the idea that they too protected him from having to swim. Over time, as he and my son became childhood friends, he gradually became something of a swimmer in order to play with Jarrod, but he never learned to love it. He did learn to love me, though, and thought of me as a second mother, a role I was proud to claim. That sweet toddler grew into a very, very bright young man with a secure self concept, an ability to laugh at himself, and a skill with writing software that led him into a fine paying position and the respect of his peers. He took good care of his mother - his real mother - until he was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident at the age of 40. From that moment, her decline began.

To be continued...