You Can Call Me Al

Tonight before dinner, Baylor asked me to go downstairs with him to listen to music and play.  I was happy to oblige, so we started the juke box up and got the trains going.  After listening to the standards (Billy Joel's "Innocent Man" and "All I Wanna Do" by Sheryl Crow), he let me punch in a couple.  I looked over my options and picked an old favorite chock-full of memories.

The records switched, the needle hit, and the familiar strains of Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al" played loud and clear.  Memories of lip syncing this song with my high school friends came flooding back; each of us would take an instrument to play and pretend we were jamming out to the plucky tune.  My friend Nichole was the one who introduced us to this magical song; it was her favorite.  She and I had been friends since the seventh grade when we were both new to the school; she was bold enough to introduce herself to me on the bus, and we were friends from that moment on.

All these memories and sharing this song with my sweet son was incredibly bittersweet because Nichole passed away our freshman year of high school.  She had two heart attacks as she stepped onto the bus we both rode to school; by the time she reached our seat just behind the bus driver she was gone.  That day rocked my world; it changed everything.  Our little group of friends went from five to four and we had no idea how to deal with her being gone.

On top of missing Nichole and grieving her, I personally felt an enormous amount of guilt.  The morning she passed, my mom had driven me to the bus stop because of inclement weather.  As we sat there waiting and waiting, Mom realized the bus was going to be too late to get to school on time.  She told me she'd drive me to school and then she asked me if I thought we should stop to see if Nichole wanted a ride; Nichole lived just up the road - we could see each other's houses just by looking out our windows.  I thought about it briefly and upon seeing the bus at her house, I told my mom that we should just go; I thought I saw Nichole's mom down at the stop and figured she'd drive Nichole if need be.  But in all honesty, I was so anxious over possibly being late to school that I didn't want to stop to pick up my friend.  And, in making this decision, I missed her death.

My heart still aches at the thought.

My heart aches as if there was something I could possibly have done to stop it; as if my being there would have prevented her passing from ever happening.  I obviously know there is nothing I could have done; the paramedics couldn't save her and neither could the doctors at the hospital.  She had an undiagnosed condition that caused her heart to enlarge; my presence would not have kept her heart from giving out.  And had I been there, had I seen her dying, I would not be who I am today.  I don't know what it would have done to me to be there, but I know you don't witness something like that at such a young age without changing entirely.

The guilt I hold over why I didn't stop still grips me; it stops me in my tracks at the oddest times.  And it helps me to remember to let go, to be kinder, and to embrace life.  In the end, maybe that's the best anyone can hope to gain out of losing a friend so young.

"You Can Call Me Al" is wonderful and joyful, full of trumpets and drums and guitars, and as my son and I listened and danced my heart healed a little bit.  I miss my friend, I think of her often - I have to drive past her old house on the way to my parents' house, so it's difficult not to - and I mourn the life she didn't get to live.  But I love my life and try very hard to live it to the fullest ... and that is the best tribute to her I think I can give.

Nichole, I dance for you, I dance for life, and I dance for the joy I know you'd want me to live with.