The Subtle Art of Dropping the Ball Coupled With a Lifetime of Silent Regret.

I have a couple great regrets in life.  In my opinion, there aren’t many, but the lessons from each one changed my life.  Recently, I was frustrated by one of the young adults whom I mentor. Upon further reflection, it was clear that the pattern of behavior wasn’t new, as a couple others in the same age group did the same thing over the years.   It wasn’t until today that I realized that the difference between me and my mentees is a lesson that was “learned the hard way” when I was around their age.

When I was in my early teens, I befriended an older woman who lived across the hall from my family.  At the time, she didn’t have many relatives and felt alone because all she had left was her father. We moved into her building because an earthquake demolished the house that I grew up in.  Between the rubble that was left of our home and what wasn’t crushed being looted, what remained was minimal.

Over the years, our single neighbor became my best friend.  I spent countless hours talking to her, asking for advice, and learning about fashion.  To me, she was my hero. She was smart, glamourous, took care of her parents, had impeccable taste, and was incredibly opinionated.  Eventually, I called her Aunt Lynn. She didn’t have any nieces or nephews, so it worked. She’d give me her hand-me-downs, and I’d keep them in my closet for safe keeping.  They never fit, but they were a piece of her life in my closet, so they were important. Looking back at our time together, I wonder who needed whom more?

Almost four years into our friendship, I graduated from high school and left for college.  It was no surprise that I attended her alma mater. We kept in touch over the years and each time we spoke, it was a though no time went by.  She was so wise, and I promised her that I’d focus on accomplishing everything she wanted to but couldn’t. There was a forty-year age difference between me and my Aunt Lynn.  In her words, she grew up in a different era where opportunities were dismal for women. She was clearly resentful of the opportunities that life offered her at the time, given her gender.  So, I was going to accomplish her dreams and mine.

Then, I got sick after undergrad.  Looking back, my behavior was silly.  At the time, I was incredibly embarrassed.  A solid year was spent managing my illness, and in that time, I dodged all her calls.  Once I got better, another year was spent simply trying to catch up to where I was professionally before getting sick.  Again, I was too embarrassed to talk to her. All in all, three years were wasted because I was ashamed of not being able to accomplish my goals and her aspirations for me.

One day, I pulled my shit together and gave her a call.  She cried. She sounded so frail and I could hear that the phone was shaking in her hand as she wept.  When she managed to get some words out, she said, “Where did you go? Why did you get mad at me? What did I do?”

For lack of a better word, I felt like a complete asshole.  In the time that I was busy being a fool, my pride keeping me from communicating with my dear friend.  Since last chatting with her, she was diagnosed with cancer and none of the treatment was working. We both cried a lot during that phone call.  That day, I promised her and the universe that I wouldn’t let my pride turn me into a recluse.

There is something to be said about good friends, no matter the time or distance apart, they pick up where they left off.  We spoke fairly often, and, in that time, I applied to graduate school and got accepted. The day I left for grad school, she said, “Vivi, I’m so proud of you!  You’re going to be called Dr. Vivian someday! I knew you could do it!”

As the cancer drained her energy, and the school’s curriculum wore on my own energy, the phone calls decreased.  I’d leave her messages and she’d do the same. On the last week of my first year in grad school, finals wiped me out.  She called me when I was in the car with some friends. She wasn’t strong enough to speak up and I told her that I couldn’t hear her.  I said that I’d call her when I got home and all I heard her say was that it was important and not to forget. I’m embarrassed to say that the all-nighter from studying got to me and I fell asleep when I got home.  During finals week, there were a couple attempts to call her. Nobody picked up. The day after my last final exam, there finally was a call. One of her relatives called so say that Aunt Lynn had passed away. She said that my name was on a list on her fridge.

To this day, I wonder what she wanted to say.  It almost haunts me.

The final lesson from Aunt Lynn was the importance of following through no matter what.  People come in and out of your life. Don’t let them leave without telling them how important they are.