16 January 2016
I’ve written before about how lucky I am to be surrounded by love; how blessed my existence is because of the people in it. I seem to have a talent for drawing great people into my life, and although some have come and gone, all of them make an imprint that I treasure. I have a tendency to move around a bit myself, but connections and friendships remain – some fueled by visits, skype and correspondence and some just there waiting to be rekindled at the first reunion.
My very best friends are those that bring out the best in me – those people who make me want to be smarter, stronger, more generous and more loving. They are people I trust to be honest with me whether I have food stuck in my teeth, I’m making a fool of myself in a relationship or I have more to offer than what I’m presently giving. My very best friends are people I admire and respect but who are aware of their own foibles and know we are mates enough not to hide. And I don’t need to hide from them either.
Two of these people are Kathleen and Joris. I met them many years ago when we all lived in small town Victoria. We connected through shared appreciation of camping, movies and the occasional shot of tequila, and our friendship survived relocation, career changes and relationship troubles. We keep catching up and enjoying our time together whether it’s on a drive somewhere cool or at brunch with an exceptionally bad waiter. None of it matters when we’re all together.
Kathleen and Joris were there when I fell off my bike. It was Joris’ emergency beacon (EPIRB) that brought the helicopter that took me to the hospital. When I was on the ground, it was Joris who relieved Steve in the task of holding my head out of the dirt to keep me still and stable while I faded in and out of consciousness. I have a hard time imagining their individual and collective trauma as they continued the bike ride back to the lodge in the falling light (they had to finish the ride, pack and drive 2 hours to the hospital). The only thing I remember from the first two days in ICU is Kathleen’s stern and loving words that convinced me to stay alive and fighting.
They, along with Steve, Jean, Beth and Dorothee, made up the core of the Wellington branch of Team Claudia. Now, opportunity and career moves beckon. It was bound to happen, but that doesn’t make it easier. Kathleen and Joris are moving to a whole new country. Thankfully, they will still be in the Pacific rim, so there is a good chance I will see them over the next couple of years. It is still hard to say goodbye. It is hard to feel happy about parts of the core moving on … and away.
This accident and its aftermath have served as an anchor point for our friendship. It has certainly strengthened our bonds and has taught us all about vulnerability, strength, love, compassion, joy and fear. Moving on from that is scary. In a weird way, I want the bubble of the aftermath to continue, and on reflection, I think it’s because I want to hang on to that excuse or that circumstance that allows us all to stand together in mutual admiration and comfort. Unfortunately, it is a rare thing to hold our friends close and speak about respect and joy and sorrow. You know how it is, the family reunion that only happens at a funeral, the gratitude that only gets expressed in the brief moments of a holiday feast. And we all say ‘why is it so?’. And we all depart and carry on with our lives.
I know Kathleen, Joris and I will continue our friendship. We’ve been together and apart many times over the years, so this is nothing new. This time it has been a bit intense (understatement of the blog so far) and I hope we will remember it well.
I also hope that I can do better at holding fast to your hand. I hope that I can bring a little bit of that loving intensity to our relationship so that for the briefest of moments, we are present and reminded of our significance in each others’ lives.