In Memory Of

Sad, but not Afraid

“We cannot shame ourselves into change, we can only love ourselves into evolution”--author unknown.

I’ll never forget her: Martine Pyram. My dear friend. My work crush. Gone way too soon. (But I Know In My Heart, We’ll Meet Again.)

“Martine You better not be drinking,” I heard her momma say to her on the phone as we sat at Mill House Tavern, strip steaks, and margaritas, in front of us. “Okay, okay,” she said sheepishly, “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.” Did she ever? I don’t know. She died not long after.

I don’t judge people for their use. If you use substances, that’s fine by me. This life is a lot to handle. If you’re sober, “Cali” or Completely, great, we have a lot to talk about.

Martine and I worked together at 230 North Road. It was a little mental health clinic that could not, despite trying, keep up with a population of—and I say this as a part of the community—crazies. The work was not easy in the slightest. I worked the front desk, as a scheduler, and Martine worked as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner.

We were the office cigarette smokers. Before and after work, we’d meet up in Pulaski Park, her with her menthols and me with American Spirits. Smoking, for us, was a ritual, a time to escape and just talk about the bullshit of the day. She drove this very distinctive Jeep, a tan/beige color that I don’t see around much. When I do see it on the road, I send a little love to her spirit. She had an apartment, but also stored a lot of shit in her car. We have that in common.

My grandmother lost her best friend Patricia to smoking. In Pat’s final moments, my grandma witnessed her gasping for air, and decided, her life was more precious, so she quit. I, too, decided to quit cigs after Martine died. It’s been hard, but hard things don’t scare me. And neither does death. But I know there is more than this physical realm. When I see Martine again, she’ll have a pack of Parliaments for her, and the Spirits for me, waiting on the back porch of her home in Poughkeepsie. Because of course, there will be smoking in Heaven.

***

I don’t fear death. I am convinced I have already died…many times. I believe the whole samsara, death and rebirth, has a lot of validity to it. There were times on the freeway when my car came too close to another, God saved me. There have been moments of despair when I stood too close to the subway track, Goddesses pulled me back. They got me to a bench until the train arrived.

Yesterday I laid in bed for many hours. I had excruciating back pain. It was a Saturday, my options were face the chaos that is the ER, maybe take an X-ray, be given an NSAID that I had access to at home, or relax in bed. It didn’t seem worth it to risk COVID at the ER, so I took my heating pad and set up my nest. I put on Bob’s Burgers to lighten the mood—comedy has consistently been the thing to get me through chronic pain—and chuckled (though it hurt to) until 8. When I put my sleepy meditation on, I pictured my Great Grandmother lying next to me in the bed. Cuddles with granny. She, like me, had crippling back pain. I asked her for strength. I asked her if it hurt after death. I didn’t get an immediate answer, though I expect if I keep asking she’ll turn up in my dreams and let me know.

***