A close colleague and dear friend passed away very suddenly the other day after a very short illness. Her name was Patty Zimmermann and she was a real presence and a force of nature.
She was a combination and contradiction of so many things.
Film scholar, intellectual, brilliant, challenging, hard working, determined and indefatigable.
A tough cookie yet a sensitive soul who could break out into tears if she trusted you. A pusher who never stopped pushing but, more importantly, never stopped pushing you or encouraging you with some project or notion or thought you might not have thought much of.
Oh, and a loving mom and wife and friend.
Very much so.
And no, of course, she wasn’t perfect.
At all.
But which of us are?
If you can think of anyone to put on that list, you’re lying.
Patty and I were about the same age and I’ve lived long enough to experience enough loss to know the drill.
In roughly this order there is shock, devastation, sadness, loneliness, love, healing, recovery and, finally, renewal.
But, well, you are never the same after you lose someone.
A piece of them is imprinted on you that shapes who you are and how you proceed with your life.
Maybe this sounds insightful but, truly, it doesn’t really scratch the surface of much of anything.
Especially since I keep coming back to one basic thought –
How can someone be told they’re sick one day and then, less than three weeks later, be dead?
How could I be talking or texting with them one day and then the next day, or a few days later, they’re gone?
Well, because they can – in three years, three weeks, three days or three seconds.
And none of us wants to think too much about that because, if we did, well, not much of anything would get accomplished.
So since Patty would have none of that, here’s what I want to share:
It’s not about her many essays, books, accolades, challenges, friends, families, anecdotes and philosophies.
I’ve been reading about them all over social media and if you google her name you can find out about them too.
It’s about her and me and human connection.
About seven years ago I was facing a very serious medical challenge that I don’t talk much about. I’m okay now, as far as we know. But it was difficult and tricky for me for a lot of reasons. And even though I never stated them, somehow she knew.
When you’re facing something big, if you’re lucky, you get a lot of support. But what you also get are a lot of surprises. People run away because they can’t deal with mess.
Actually, what they can’t deal with is their own mortality, but that’s another subject.
Just know, for all the people who are there, expectedly or unexpectedly, there are a whole lot of others who keep their distance because they can’t deal with being close.
This was not Patty.
We lived on different coasts and didn’t see each other all that often. We were in touch, but not constantly. She and my husband were closer friends and colleagues but he didn’t tell her everything.
And yet, she knew what I needed that I didn’t have.
Those handwritten notes on durable cream-colored note cards.
Words of encouragement and cheerleading and support and compliments and strength from an across-the-country one person cheering squad.
Not constantly but consistently. For years. Often turning up out of the blue just when I needed them.
This is not to say that I didn’t have incredible love and devotion from people right here in my daily life. And in other places.
But what writer doesn’t like to get handwritten missives, written with a good pen, in thoughtful, pithy, positive, passionate phrasing? Who doesn’t want that validation? Who doesn’t want to steal some strength?
I still have them. And there were many.
I once told her how much I appreciated them but I’m not sure how much she understood. I’d read them over if I suddenly got down. I’d keep them in my top drawer by my bed, alongside bills that had to be paid or lists of stuff I had to accomplish.
Just in case I needed a lift.
I didn’t even have to read them. In fact, I didn’t re-read them all that much.
It was more the feeling and the sight of them. The fact that they were there and that I could look at them or not look at them anytime I wanted to. I could use them to remember or to steady myself. Or ignore them and bury them under a mountain of paper I didn’t want to have to deal with if I was choosing to forget.
What I never did was file them away.
This might not seem like a lot but it meant a lot for reasons I can only now begin to understand.
Patty was a big supporter of this blog, reposting it frequently and talking it up to a voluminous list of her colleagues and friends.
She recommended me for writing assignments, helped me navigate the waters of academia when I segued into a new career and accepted me into her extended family soon after my husband and I met.
I have a lot to be appreciative for but it’s the notes that mean the most and taught me the most.
As I’ve told my students for years, you never know what effect your writing will have on someone else.
And yet somehow, the power of the notes, her notes, continue to endure and surprise me.
Rest in Power, dear comrade. I miss you already. So much.
John Lennon – “Power to the People”
notes from a chair 