Sad. Angry. Remembering.

When I was about 11 years old, I spotted my cousin Paul out the window of the school bus as it pulled up to the corner of my street at the end of the day. I was surprised and thrilled to see him there -- I didn't know he'd come for a visit -- and we hugged at the corner, and then he yelled, "Race ya!!" and took off like lightning up the hill to the house.

"Paulie" was my very favorite cousin. He and his seven siblings -- the kids of my mom's oldest brother -- were all much older than me, and they were all built sort of like Mack trucks. They all had easy smiles, mischievous gleams in their eyes, and big, raspy, infectious laughs. The others all had sort of mousy hair, but Paul was the golden boy of the bunch, literally. Like our Pop -- my mom's dad -- he had blond hair and bright, sparkling, clear blue eyes. As one of my friends once said, when we were much older, "Paulie's kind of a fox."

That day back in 1989 or so, it wasn't just a celebration that my favorite cousin had come for a visit; it was that he could actually run. That he could even walk. A couple of years before, while he was working at a summer camp, he learned he had a massive tumor on his spine, which left him paralyzed. He had a miraculous and seemingly full recovery, but a few years later, the tumor was back, and the surgery that time was unsuccessful, and he was paralyzed permanently.

Paulie wallowed for a little while -- he was angry, he was depressed, he was, in his own words, "a miserable bastard" for a while. And then he turned it around. He ran a local foundation (initially founded by his friends in his name to cover his medical expenses) that helped families who were struggling to get by. He was featured as a People magazine "angel." He wheeled himself in the New York marathon, and my sister and I went and cheered him on. He was Pop's most faithful visitor for the last five years of Pop's life.

And he was a wonderful friend to me. We has always had a special place for each other, but during my teens and early 20s, he was a cool, avuncular, overprotective soul, grilling my boyfriends about their intentions, listening to my adolescent angst, reminding me to get over myself and taking me to visit our grandparents' graves, something my parents never did, for some reason. We were thick as thieves for a stretch.

We grew apart a bit as I got older; part of it was me growing up; part of it was him continuing to change, and I think feeling a little less positive as time wore on. I'd invited him to my high school graduation, but he never showed (although we'd made arrangements, when he drove up, he couldn't find a wheelchair-accessible entrance, and just turned around and left -- he was too proud to ask for help, which I understood, and still do, although it saddens me). He didn't come to our wedding. I kind of stopped trying, because that's sometimes what I do.

This Sunday, Paul died.

We all knew it was coming -- the tumor was back, he had another in his brain. He'd been at Hopkins for four months, and there was finally nothing more to be done. He went back home about three weeks ago, everyone knowing the end was near.

I wrote to him while he was in the hospital, but it was for the first time in years. I didn't get any replies, which isn't surprising -- these last months, he was in almost constant, all-consuming pain -- but it's made it harder to come to terms with his death. We asked if we could visit once he was back home, but he didn't want visitors.

In a lot of ways, it's a blessing that he's finally done suffering. His immediate family rallied around him during those last months, and he knew how much he was loved. His siblings took leaves of absence from work; they traded shifts at the hospital -- hours away from all of their homes and families -- so he was never alone. It would have made Pop so proud. (Although I imagine he also is up there saying, "Where were you clowns when I was dying?! Never came to see me once in that godawful home, you ingrates!" Pop was a true curmudgeon.)

But that "he's in a better place" stuff is always a bit hard for me to swallow. I have to believe that that's true, but I also just feel so angry that such a good, bright person, so full of promise, so filled with love, was taken away so soon. That he suffered so much while he was still here.

So I'm trying to remember, to remember the good times. Of all the images that keep flashing through my head, it's the one of us running up the street together that afternoon in the sun. When we both knew how fragile life can be, how quickly the things we take for granted can disappear. And now I'm reminded of it again.

What a weird day

First, it's a very happy day, because the Paperboy and his lovely wife are proud parents of a baby girl, so huge congrats to them! And to all of the gazillion other people I know who are new and expectant parents. Someone at work the other day described pregnancy as "an epidemic" in our office, which seems a little negative, but perhaps not all that off: of the 15 people occupying the offices in my little wing of the building, no fewer than five are expecting babies. That's a lot.

Anyway, I don't know if it's the Friday the 13th thing, or the nearly-full moon (isn't that over, though?), or that I'm working from home, but there's just been weird stuff happening today:

-- I am now Facebook friends with someone I knew in elementary school, and vaguely in high school, who is a year older than me. And she now has six kids. SIX! How the heck does someone who's basically my age have six kids?! This person also is a member of a Facebook group called something like, "Pray for the conversion of Barack Obama." I'm not sure to what, but I sense that this acquaintance and I don't have much in common.

-- I have trouble self-identifying as a "Communications Professional," but that's basically what my job is. I'm part of one group at work in which I'm the only communications person on the team, and just got an agenda for a meeting next week on which one of the items is "internal and external communications." I thought, "Okay, I can talk about that," and went about my business, but then one of the non-communications people on the team -- I guess in CYA mode, because he'd not asked me about this before the agenda went out -- sent me a note, helpfully explaining that internal communications should be about our own staff know about and understand what's happening, and external communications is about how we talk about it with other audiences. No way! Thank goodness he cleared that up, but now I'm worried that he's after my job. I've drafted about 12 different versions of a smart-ass reply, but have decided that silence will be golden in this case.

-- A very senior person at work sent around this picture:



for...Valentine's Day? I think? It was sent as a slide with some notes that were filled with health-care type puns, but the whole thing was just completely bizarre, and I am still processing what to think about it, and hoping that I wasn't somehow complicit in it.

-- Finally (I hope! I realize the day isn't over yet), my parents are in Australia and New Zealand for three weeks, seemingly having the time of their lives. My mom has been emailing us every couple of days with brief updates about what they're seeing and doing, always with a cute Aussie/Kiwi colloquialism (like "no worries!") as the subject line. But just now, I got an email from my dad, a forward warning me not to boil water in the microwave. Not a hello, nohing about the trip, not even a "g'day!" Just the forward. I guess I get my Communications Professional gene from my mom.

A theory

In these difficult economic times, people must figure that, if they have paid for a gym membership, they'd better actually use it.

That is the only reason I can think of that the gym is still packed with New Year's Resolutioners on February 1st.

But I did manage to get the last free treadmill, and I had a great run, at least. So now, I will spend the rest of the day sitting on my ass and eating bad-for-me food, because that's the best part of Super Bowl Sunday.

(Next year, I must remember that going grocery shopping the day before Super Bowl Sunday is a terrible idea. Although I enjoyed that another patron, sincerely complimented my shopping cart-maneuvering skills as I navigated the narrow, crowded aisles in Wegman's yesterday.)