[DMcCunney]

There are days it doesn't pay to go online, and this has been one of them. A contact on a newsgroup I read posted a link to a death notice for a woman named Amy. It might just be the worst news I've gotten.

I first met Amy decades ago. I'm a science fiction fan, so was she, and we met in the context of SF fan gatherings. I lived in Philadelphia, and she lived in DC, so our paths crossed too rarely for my preferences.

I later moved to NYC where Amy was then living, one thing led to another, and we became involved. She affected me on levels I wasn't aware I had. She was the shining star in my firmament. If I'd been a young noble fool in the middle ages, I'd have donned my armor, mounted my charger, and rose off to battle with her kerchief tucked against my breast as a talisman. I loved her more than anything.

The relationship didn't work out. The breakup was too painful to confront directly. All I could do was lock it away in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind, and concentrate hard on what I was doing. As long as I was occupied and busy, I could keep it at bay. I spent years not sure which terrified me more: that I wouldn't see her again, or that I would. I wound up changing residences, careers, and lifestyles in consequence.

I described Amy on occasion as the Ex I didn't get over. Normally, when you're in a relationship and it doesn't work out, you're heartbroken, you cry, but sooner or later, you get over it, put it behind you, and get on with your life. That was not the case for me. I put it behind me and got on with my life, but I didn't get over it. I never stopped loving her more than anything, and I don't think a day has passed that I didn't think about her and wish things had turned out differently. I realized we would not have been a good long term combination, and it's as well we parted when we did, but the intellectual knowledge isn't a shield against deep regret.

She later married a chap named Jim I also knew from back then, and they were together for 17 years. She was what I wanted, but he could be what she needed. He made her happy when I could not, and since I wanted her to be happy beyond anything else, I was glad he was there. Jim died in 2008, as a consequence of metastasized melanoma, in her arms at her family home in Michigan. I was horrified, and dropped her email simply to tell her I loved her and was sorry. We stayed in irregular contact. She was living in the family home and providing elder care for her father and mother who were in their 90s (and are both now gone.)

A couple of years ago, she was diagnosed with colon cancer. She went through chemo and then surgery, and was left with a right foot she couldn't feel as a side effect of chemo nerve damage. She's from a large family - one of ten children - and various sisters rallied around to assist, for which I was grateful. She had a lively sense of humor, and her emails describing the process are classic. More recently, she had a hysterectomy, as part of a continuing effort to keep her cancer free. That it was found necessary did not bode well, and I dreaded the possibility of learning she was gone.

Today I found out she was gone. All of the efforts to keep cancer at bay had delayed the end but not prevented it. One of the things on my to-do list was email to Amy to see how she was doing, but I delayed too long.

I'm stunned. Part of me wants to do something I simply don't do, and get blind stinking drunk. Another part wants to curl up in a fetal ball in the corner and cry helplessly. Instead, I have the Strawbs "Hero and Heroine" album on. It dates from the period, and the title track pretty well sums up my feelings.

Farewell, Amy. If there is another phase of existence beyond this one, perhaps you and Jim are together again. That would make you happy, and that was all I ever wanted for you. I'll simply do what I've done every day since we parted, and take it one day at a time. And if there is another phase beyond this one, perhaps I'll see you again too. I'd like to think so.

In the meantime, a star has gone out in my sky.
______
Dennis