Troy

This year the start to the summer didn't feel the same to me as previous summers have, and I wasn't sure why until late this past week. Normally I'm so excited when the weather gets warm, so excited to sit in the sun and to swim in pools and lakes. And it isn't that I haven't been enjoying these things this year, it's that I've sort of been in a state of denial the whole time that it really is summer -- like it is happening and not happening at the same time. And that's because it is -- it is happening for me, but it isn't happening for my friend Mary.

Last August Mary, my cousin's wife and the mother of two of my Aunt's grandchildren, was training for the Ironman -- on a long swim in a local lake -- when she started swimming erratically and then stopped swimming altogether. She was rushed to shore by fishermen, met by paramedics who revived her and raced her to the hospital, but her brain had been without oxygen for a few minutes. We all kept vigil at the hospital for what we were stunned to learn were the last three days of her life. She was 38, and, in many respects, in peak physical fitness. We later learned that she had myocarditis, an infection in her heart.

We were friends for 20 years, and we shared a lot of songs, but the one that is coming up for me now is one that is as raw and angry and hauntingly sad as we all felt (and still feel at times) in the wake of Mary's death. When we were in college, we all loved Sinead O'Connor, but Mary REALLY loved her -- and she would often blast this song in the house that we shared at that time. Sometimes we could hear her scream along with Sinead:

You should have left the light on!

Losing Mary leaves a big hole -- and this summer, at least, the hole feels especially large because the other two friends of mine from college with whom Mary and I used to have an annual reunion don't seem to be interested in doing it without her. I understand, in a way. It's hard to do things where you feel really confronted with the loss -- that's one of the reasons (there are others) why I'm not going to the 4th of July celebration at the family farm where Mary is buried. I just wish my friends and I could come together as we did when she died -- it made it easier to bear. My acupuncturist says that grief is an inherently lonely process. That there is just a lot of it that has to be done internally. As my friend Sarah would say: Sigh.

I'm glad to have Sinead's company -- listening to her makes me feel close to Mary. You too can hear the bravest, most beautiful bald woman I know rocking her kick-ass song at a festival; you can also check out the video. And you can be sure that I'm leaving the light that Mary left behind on...