For as long as I can remember, I have longed for a best friend; someone who would love me, no matter what. For most of my adult life, this dream had eluded me. Sure, I had best friends off and on, but none retained the title for longer than a year or two. Either I got to know the person intimately and ran, or vice versa. Something always happened, eventually, to burst my best friend bubble.
When I first met Amy over 20 years ago, I was not impressed. During Sunday school we exchanged not-so-pleasant words. I decided I could cross her off, not only my potential best friend list, but also my friend on any level list.
A few years later, Amy and I were "thrown together" at a women's retreat our church was sponsoring. After spending time with her, I became captivated. She was different from anyone I had ever met. Suddenly, the harsh words we shared when we first met no longer mattered; it's like they vanished into thin air. I discovered Amy was a joy to be around; she was unbelievably funny and amazingly refreshing. And she had a depth that I had never experienced in another human. We became friends.
I hesitated to even think that Amy and I could become best friends one day. I still had the longing in my heart, yet unfulfilled, but I was fearful that I would have my heart broken again. Amy was so dynamic and larger than life. Why would she want to hang out with me?
Soon it became impossible to think of Amy in any other way. I finally had my long-awaited best friend. There was just one rather large problem: she lived her life from a wheelchair.
Don't misunderstand me. There is nothing wrong with wheelchair-bound individuals. It's just that when I dreamed about life with a best friend, I took a rather selfish approach. I fantasized about the wonderful ways in which a best friend could be there for ME. She would baby-sit MY three children when I needed a break. She could run a 5K race with ME. WE could take vacations together, walking long stretches of beach, side by side. Together we would live a carefree existence. When I thought about life with Amy, short of a miracle, we would never be able to do these things. That broke my heart.
But we would do even greater things than these.
Eventually my sadness disappeared, and I began to focus on the amazing, authentic, unique person Amy was. I began to realize that Amy would give ME so much more than I ever dreamed of, only in different ways than I had originally envisioned. During the years of our friendship, she indeed gave me so much more than I gave to her.
At that time, Amy was the only person in my life who consistently challenged me to write. A writer herself, she knew how important encouragement was in our line of work. Sometimes only writers understand writers. Amy realized this and she urged me to embrace that side of myself, even when it was terrifying and difficult. On more than one occasion, we went to book signings and she introduced me to many great books and authors, not to mention great wine! She had a flair for just about everything and I was blessed to hang out with someone who much in the know!
Having Amy as a friend challenged me to give of myself in ways for which I could never be repaid. It was also good for my three young children to be around her. They had no fear or discomfort around her and her chair; they simply saw it as part of who she was. She told me once that most children felt uncomfortable around her and she also with them, but she felt complete ease with my three. She felt loved by them, especially my daughter, Alessandra. They were best buddies. All of us were blessed to have each other. It was truly a magical time; one I will treasure forever.
Amy was more capable and alive than most people I have ever known. That sounds so trite, but it's true. I must smile, even now, when I remember how she referred to herself: Amy Able. I could swear it was once her email address: amyable@aol.com or something to that affect. She explained to me that she never saw herself as disabled (as some people referred to her or others like her); in fact, she despised the term. She saw herself as overcoming the odds and that she was "able" to do many things. This always stuck with me. She didn't allow her handicap to dampen her faith, nor did she let it stand in the way of living her dreams. She traveled, she danced. She went to concerts. She had more friends than I could count. She lived life.
People SAW Amy. They looked upon her with great awe and admiration, seeing her joyful countenance. They saw her in such a way that it made me envious. People laughed with her and at her. She was a free-spirit, quick-witted and a spontaneous extrovert. I was a reserved, serious, no sense of humor introvert. Yet we worked. If I were a person that was wheelchair-bound, being around her would have given me hope and encouragement.
Amy and I had many adventures together. Whenever we went out, I felt awkward about stowing her chair in the back seat of her specially made car. I never quite got the hang of it and always had to mention the fact that I felt inadequate in that area. I struggled with that wheelchair; it was as if we were in a boxing match and I was always being sucker-punched. Every time, she would say I was doing just fine, and she didn't want to hear me say those words ever again. Yet I always did, being so caught up in my own inferiority. When I think of that now, it makes me angry at myself. She didn't want to be reminded of that chair being a pain to me; she was reminded of that every day in her own life. I get that now.
We went to Las Vegas once. Amy drove and I flew. We had the best weekend together; it was so much fun. She loved Celine Dion; she was just one more thing that Amy turned me on to. We saw her in concert in Vegas and it is still, hands down, the best concert I have ever seen. Pushing Amy around the Vegas strip is still one of my favorite memories, hearing her ramble on about how it is not so pleasant having to look at people's butts all night long. And her infamous, "It's all about you, pal," comment when a jackass stole our parking place at the casino, right as we were getting ready to pull into it.
We had many adventures in our friendship. One night she treated me to a night on the town. We did this for each other often. Another gift she had: the gift of giving. We both needed to get out and let our hair down. We talked, laughed and stuffed our faces for hours. On the way out of the restaurant, we were both giddy from our girl's night out. As we exited the restaurant, I opened the door for her as she struggled to balance our leftovers on her lap AND maneuver her wheelchair. It all proved to be too much for her, and our pricy leftovers went flying. There we stood, in the doorway of an upscale restaurant, laughing so hard other patrons must have thought we were drunk. We didn't care. We were embracing life. In that moment I was so grateful to God for giving me the gift of Amy, my friend. My best friend.
Lest you think Amy's life was always sunshine and roses, it was not. Did Amy sometimes imagine a world in which she could walk? She did. She dreamed of heaven where she would no longer be confined to a wheelchair. Did she sometimes give into bitterness? You bet. It was not easy being in a wheelchair. Most of the time she lived with such grace, dignity and flair it was hard for me to remember she was in one. When I did, it was only because I was the moron who couldn't figure out how to load and unload her chair into the back of her car.
Many, many years ago I wrote this story in the present tense because Amy was alive and well and we were doing great. Things have changed. When I went through my divorce, Amy and I became estranged. I'm not even sure why now. Whatever it was, obviously it was so insignificant I have no recollection of what it was. And that doesn't matter anymore anyway.
What matters is she passed away several years ago due to complications of pneumonia. I didn't get the chance to say good-bye. I will regret that for the rest of my life. What makes the situation harder is that, a few weeks before she passed away, God brought her to my mind. I remember that moment so clearly. I drove past her house, probably the very next day. I thought about calling her, but I didn't.
When I got the news, I was in Canada on a training gig for Oracle. I was in a room full of people and I remember telling myself, "Hold it together. Just hold it together for a few more hours." After work, I couldn't get to my hotel room fast enough. I ran, slammed the door, and sobbed and sobbed, probably for hours. I was devastated, more so because I knew I should have contacted her. And I knew just how much precious time we wasted.
Because I was in Canada for a month, I missed her memorial service. I heard it was fantastic. She always said she wanted the song, "Spirit in the Sky" played at her funeral. I always cracked up when she told me that. According to other friends who attended, it was played. I'm so glad. It was so her.
I will forever be grateful for the times I had with Amy. I had never met anyone quite like her. And I know I never will. I have many regrets in my life; having things end the way they did with her is one of my greatest.
The only saving grace is that someday, hopefully not too soon, I will see her again. For now, it is enough to know she is dancing with Jesus. WITHOUT her wheelchair.