Grande Dames

Any of you who are friends with me on Facebook know I recently ran a 5K, in costume, for Hardy Girls Healthy Women. I set a lofty goal and, in an attempt to provide some incentive, offered whoever bid $250 the chance to choose our (Jared, Sullivan and my) costumes. When a donation came through from my sister-in-law with a note saying how interested my brother was in costume selection, I was a little bit nervous (he's clever) and a little bit excited (he's clever). After a text came through with a photo of a costume I won't describe here, he told me I should dress up as Grandma.

I'll be honest, dressing as a golfer wasn't what I was expecting him to choose. I thought of the two big work events I would be at in costume, putting the pressure on myself to be something elaborate and creative. I thought about making other costumes for my family. I thought about asking my brother if I could back out of my promise.

I don't remember what changed my mind or when, but at some point, it (finally) occurred to me what an incredible choice that was. It was my brother (and most likely sister-in-law had a hand in it, too) paying attention to the work I do and making a very thoughtful decision. It didn't matter that a golfer costume wasn't going to take a ton of sewing, makeup, feathers or brightly-colored fabric. Instead, I got to wear the cross my grandmother gave me when I graduated college, the thin, gold T with the tiniest of diamonds my grandfather had given her before he could "afford a real diamond." I got to wear the rosary bracelet with wrapped pewter rosebuds from a childhood of Catholic school. And when my cousin saw my picture on Facebook and said I looked like her, my eyes spilled over.

My grandmother was one of my favorite people ever.  She was funny and smart and fair and colorful. She was exceptional at math. She wore coral-orange nail polish on her toes. No one, not even my culinary-ily talented husband, will ever cook like her - even her toast tasted amazing. At her funeral, when I was in the beginning of my pregnancy with Henry, I spoke about all these little things I loved about Gram. But what I miss the most are her stories. How she grew up on a farm and used to eat tomato sandwiches in a field so often that she hated tomatoes as an adult. How her brothers made her hold targets while they shot BB guns. How she found out french kissing didn't cause pregnancy.

Thinking about the costume the past couple of weeks, I found myself thinking of her stories and telling Henry about her. I underestimated my brother. He didn't just give me a silly costume he could laugh at, he thought of a hardy woman from our life and reminded me to remember her.

Then, two days ago, another hardy woman from my San Diego life passed away. Dru was my board

president in my first executive director position and we'd spent a lot of time together. As I learned about her life, her stories fascinated me as well. 15 or so years younger than Gram, Dru talked about living in Australia, teaching in England and adventures with her husband and sons, the loves of her life.  I met her gianormous dogs. She wore lime green like no other.She shared a pomegranate with me. And she trusted me. While I was younger than her children, she treated me like an adult and listened to me thoughtfully. She respected when I advocated for myself and allowed herself to be influenced, which is a strength many don't have. Dru cared about me, my children and my husband, even adding his name as a character in one of her books. I read four of her books and marveled at her character development and plot abilities.

When I applied for my current job, I listed Dru as a reference. Over Facebook, she sent me a note saying she'd said good things about me. She ended the note with "Let me know when you get it." It was a few months after that I read on Facebook her diagnosis of Stage 4 lung cancer. Through treatment, she continued to write and I craved her blogs. She wrote about being pissed off about dying. The disorientation, the disbelief, the refocusing that happens. Kinship. Towards the end, she was dictating her blogs to her husband, even stories of barely being able to breathe. Never stopping writing. Never losing her voice.

And even though our relationship was through Facebook since I moved, I feel Dru's influence, like Gram's, in my structure. The walls of my veins, the marrow of bones, the cartilage of my ears. These women, the grande dames of my life, are ever-present reminders of my worth. Their stories make my stories important. Through them I see adventures and strength and family. Their passings leave many people behind who will mourn them in millions of tiny, blinking moments of memory as long as we are around writing our own adventures.  And when I talk with girls and women through my job, they will be the stories I share of "I knew a woman who..."