Celebrating Your Friends

There was supposed to be a party today.

“I want to make it to 90,” Pierre told me when he was 88. His parents had only lived to their 70s, but others in his family had lived longer.

“We should have a party,” I suggested. He liked that idea. I mean, if you’re going to live that long, you deserve a celebration. “You could have dancing girls.”

His eyes lit up. He liked that idea, too.

We never had a chance to discuss details. Pierre died last January, a short time after his 89^th birthday.

We don’t always remember our friends on their birthdays. Sometimes we remember them on the day they died. November 22 is the day we remember President John F. Kennedy, not May 17, his birthday. September 11 is the day we remember those who were killed in the 2001 terrorist attacks. Those deaths were very public, so that’s understandable.

Sometimes we remember them on holidays because those are times we traditionally gather together and reminisce. My friend, Mary Ellen, was born on Christmas Eve, so that’s when I remember her.

But often we remember on their birthdays. Many of our holidays are someone’s birthday: Martin Luther King, Jr., George Washington, Abraham Lincoln.

And why not? Why shouldn’t we remember our friends on the anniversary of the day they came into this world? That’s the day that made our friendship possible.

It’s sad, though, especially the first year after they died. I’ve been thinking about Pierre all week, wondering if I could write about him today. After all, it took me almost a year to write about him at all.

But then I remembered that day at his house. I’d sent him a sinfully rich chocolate cheesecake for his birthday a few weeks earlier, so the topic came up easily (birthdays, not chocolate). He told me he was prepared for death whenever it came. His body had gone through a lot, and he wasn’t interested in staying alive just because medical science said it was possible.

He still saw beauty in little things: sitting in the warm sunshine on his front porch, watching the traffic speed up and down the Glen; a cozy cashmere sweater (or two); a funny story.

When he said he wanted to make it to 90, I knew it was a long-shot. He wasn’t going to have surgery just to get to that milestone, and that was his right. I also knew if he was told he wouldn’t make it, he’d probably just shrug that typically French, incredibly sexy shrug. I imagine he felt that making it to 89 was close enough. And it was, technically, his 90^th year.

So I choose to remember Pierre today, on what would’ve been his 90^th birthday, rather than later in the month, on the first anniversary of his death.

Maybe one of your friends died last year, too. And of course the first anniversary will be hard. But how about getting out your calendar and marking their birthday on it?

Decide to spend part of that day remembering them: do something you two used to do together, go someplace you both loved, dig out your photo album (remember those?) and wallow in good memories; call a mutual friend and swap stories.

It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But soon you won’t focus on how sad you are that they’re gone. Instead you’ll feel how very grateful you are that they were a part of your life.

Because that friendship – like all our friendships – made us who we are today.

A Birthday Reflection on Friends (Here and Not)

Today is one of those birthdays. You know the ones: they end in “0”.

We give them special significance, as if they mean something more than just the passing of one more year.

A little over ten years ago, I sat with my friend, Delle, at the end of year awards ceremony at our daughters’ grade school. Prize Day is the way Sacred Heart Schools end each year, formally moving up to the next grade, and publicly acknowledging academic and artistic achievements. Her daughter had just finished first grade; mine had just finished second grade.

I turned to her at one point and said, “I’m turning 50 next month and I don’t know what I want to do.”

Her eyes got big. “Oh! Have a party! That’s what I did!” She went on to tell me of the party she’d thrown for herself the previous November: just girlfriends. That sounded pretty good to me, so I stole her idea (steal from the best, that’s my motto).

After sending my husband and daughter out for the evening, my girlfriends and I (including one who drove up from St. Louis) gathered in my back yard for Oriental chicken salad, lots of desserts and cold drinks. We solved the problems of the world, as I recall, and laughed a lot while we did it.

These past ten years – and yes, I know, it’s partly a function of my age – I seem to have gone to a lot of funerals for friends. All were just about exactly my age.

I have to confess, I have not been looking forward to this birthday today. The number kind of catches in my throat, and I wonder if I’m supposed to be different now that I’m this new age.

Maybe it was seeing the AIDS Quilt in Washington this week, but I find myself thinking of those friends who didn’t make it to 60, or 50, or 40, or sometimes even 30. I wonder what my life would be like if they were still around. I know for sure what it’s been like without them.

So today I’m thinking of them, wishing they were actually here, to sit in the backyard with that now pleasant breeze, and laugh about life.

And grateful I knew them all.

And so for today, Sir Paul: