Goodbye Lori

Lori and I became friends in the spring of 1995.

I, like many others, have been blessed by her friendship, loyalty, compassion and forgiveness.

Lori had an uncommon, intuitive understanding of the mysteries of the human heart. Because of her generosity of spirit, she took in strays, two-legged and four, and gave everything she had to help, if help was needed – redoubling our joys and lessening our sorrows.

In her work life, she was promoted off the production line to train the new employees because her first priority was the safety of the people around her. Not many people know that she invented a machine that would increase production AND reduce risk of personal injury to the workers. The company had the machine made and installed at the factory in St. Marys. They still use it.

I loved Lori’s exquisite sense of humour and the way she could laugh at herself and the situations we might find ourselves in. The first summer of our friendship, we took her Robbie and my kids to the Pinery Park for a day at the beach. When we arrived, we both commented on how the beach seemed eerily ‘empty’- nevertheless we settled in for a delightful afternoon, allowing the children to freely enjoy all the pleasures of a day at the beach.

At one point in the afternoon, a couple came walking along the beach with their pre-schooler, admonishing him all the way “stay out of the water”, and “don’t play in the sand”. Lori and I of course were horrified that this couple was not allowing their child to partake of all the childhood rights of summer provided by a day at the beach. “Yuppies” we denounced simultaneously.

At the end of a long day of frolicking in the water, making and breaking sandcastles, eating picnic snacks, more frolicking in the water we packed up to head home. We gathered our precious, free-spirited children and trekked to the top of the dunes, to the edge of the parking area where we were astonished to see a sign had been posted that the beach was closed due to elevated bacterial counts. We stopped dead in our tracks, turned to each other and howled with laughter. From that day forward, whenever one of us was having a spell of maternal guilt over some parenting issue or another, one of us would say to the other, “Remember that day at the beach?” I hope Lori’s self-deprecating sense of humour is a permanent legacy of our cherished friendship.

While trying to prepare for this service I came across a poem, written by the infamous “Anonymous” that I think Lori would have wanted spoken for those here today.

When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free

Miss me a little - but not too long
And not with your head bowed low
Remember the love that we once shared
Miss me - but let me go

For this is a journey that we must all take
And each must go alone
It's all a part of the Master's plan
A step on the road to home

When you are lonely, and sick of heart
Go to the friends we know
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds
Miss me - but let me go

Immortality (or not)

My closest dearest oldest most cherished friend died on Mar 11. I've been thinking about death, dying, mourning, love and loss since then.
Do you suppose we like to believe in life after death in order to turn our "good-bye" into a "see ya later" ?
It's comforting to believe that she's waiting for me "on the other side" but I gotta say, a part of me is wondering if that's just a load of crap.
We had some notice that she was soon to go; I should've asked her to find a way to give me a sign from the other side.
I've never had anyone close to me die before. It sucks beyond description. What a bizarre experience, this born-live-die thing. Pointless. Suffering when you're born, life is not exactly a joy-ride (no matter who you are), and then you die, leaving a tsunami of grief behind you.
Never being good at 'good-bye', I can feel myself pulling away from people. We are all headed there, aren't we? Either the dead or the grieving. Not much to look forward to.
Lori, I miss you like hell.