The One Who Loved Me

The One Who Loved Me
By Jessica “Rain” Shear


I thought my boyfriend was asleep, so I looked at my cat and whispered, “Hi, Cheryl.”  From the far side of the king-size bed, my boyfriend said, “Who the hell are you talking to?”

You see, my cat’s name isn’t Cheryl – it’s Mika.  Cheryl is one of my best friends, who died over eight years ago.  Rather than explain what I was doing, I opted simply not to answer.  Steady snores began a few minutes later, so I resumed my conversation, this time silently, assuming that if Cheryl could in some way occupy my cat’s body, surely she could know my thoughts.

I met Cheryl when she and I worked as professional fundraisers for a business that raised money for a variety of “do-good” organizations.  She was a little obnoxious and annoyed a lot of people, but as is often the case with me, I’m drawn to underdogs – or they’re drawn to me.  I think my share of mean thoughts, but I have a rough time shunning the annoying or being one of the “mean girls.”  I’m a firm believer in Karma, and I felt that even Cheryl deserved some acceptance.

As the years passed, I appreciated more about Cheryl.  She was obese but one of the most unselfconscious, fearless people I knew.  She went white-water rafting, loved the beach, was addicted to college basketball and was game for just about anything.  She didn’t let her size or the fact that she was alone keep her from life’s pleasures.  She adored the theater – big-time productions, community and experimental theater.  She ate out alone, went on trips, and attended sporting events.  She was busy, because she was interested in so many things.  I admired her even as I sometimes avoided her.

We became good friends, although we didn’t socialize an awful lot.  It was more along the lines of – she’d call on me when she needed something that you normally call on a friend to help you with.  She was forced to move six times in a one and a half year period (her housemates didn’t share my views on karma, apparently).  I helped her move each time.  At one point I learned, after the fact, that she’d been forced to move into a women’s shelter.  I couldn’t believe that she hadn’t told me until after it occurred.  She finally confided in me when the rolls of quarters she’d hidden under her mattress were stolen, and she needed to borrow money for laundry.

Cheryl wasn’t only fearless, she was a survivor.  Her childhood in Kansas was sad and disturbing.  As an adult she moved to the Washington D.C. area to be far away from her family and her past.  Her father, with whom she’d had difficulties, passed away while I knew her, and that brought her great sadness, but I think it also brought some degree of freedom and relief.  After all, she’d already been alone for years. 

She survived her childhood.  She survived moving to a new state on her own.  She survived a marriage to a man from Jordan, with whom she’d had a baby that died – and a marriage that died shortly thereafter.  She survived the cruelty of the “hip” who think themselves superior to a sweet talking fat girl from the mid-west.  She survived robbing Peter to pay Paul. She survived her only means of transportation blowing up on the beltway.  She survived being homeless.  She manipulated.  She stretched the truth.  She simply did what was necessary to survive. 

And then she got cancer…which she would not survive.  But she also found happiness. 

In house number nine, she lived with an interesting, active, slightly older couple (Cheryl herself was in her early 40s).  This couple threw huge parties where Karaoke machines and a hot tub were focal points.  Always the first to jump in the hot tub, it didn’t take long for Cheryl to make friends; mostly attractive D.C. “mover and shaker” types.  When she first told me stories of her new home and new friends, I unkindly thought, “What must they think of her?”  I would later learn that they saw in her the same things I saw – a sometimes over-bearing but genuinely wonderful person who wanted to love and be loved.

One party attendee was another “misfit.”  Short, roly-poly and slightly socially awkward, Bill didn’t stand a chance once Cheryl decided he was hers.  It took him a bit more time to warm up to the idea, but Cheryl knew right away.  They began dating, and Cheryl was never happier.  Shortly after Cheryl met Bill, she underwent a full hysterectomy.  Shortly after that she was diagnosed with a rare cancer.  The prognosis was that it was inoperable – incurable.

Cheryl was a survivor – but she was also a realist.  She didn’t undergo any grueling cancer treatments.  She never got chemo; never experienced the loss of her hair.  She never endured the nausea of the drugs – the cancer alone made her sick enough.  Rather, she and Bill decided to get married and live their lives to the fullest, while they still had time together.  It was crazy, brave, impulsive…it was typical Cheryl.

She moved into Bill’s townhouse and set to work cleaning it up so he could have visitors during the mourning period after she died.  Bill was a pack rat; his home  worthy of an Oprah segment.  Once again, Cheryl called on me to help her bring order out of chaos.  It became her mission to make sure Bill’s life after her death wouldn’t be spent alone in a house too messy to allow company.  This goal kept her going. 

Cheryl’s wedding was, by far, the best I’ve ever attended.  She and Bill were married by the water on a small patch of beach on the Chesapeake Bay.  After so many years of being alone, Cheryl found herself surrounded by mostly new friends – friends who truly loved her.  Thankfully, her step-mother and sister were also part of the big day – as were my parents, who she had adopted as her own based on my stories of a happy childhood.  As Bill and Cheryl said their vows, the boats docked nearby all spontaneously blew their horns.  Tears and laughter were the music at this ceremony – and almost everybody contributed.  I think we all knew how important it was for these two souls to be joined together. 

I read one of the bride’s favorite poems, and I don’t know how I got through it without sobbing. And I danced at Cheryl’s wedding!  She made me promise to.  I’ve always been a self-conscious dancer, but she made me dance with my father, because she couldn’t dance with hers – and because she knew my father and I hadn’t always been close.  How grateful I am for that now.  What a gift she gave me.  It seemed that everybody in attendance knew they were a part of something life-changing – not just for Cheryl and Bill, but for us all.

Cheryl’s health deteriorated, but she still kept busy.  She took me to see “Rent” and “Titanic”, although she’d seen it three times already.  She continued to make plans for theater outings.  She, Bill and I saw old Mo-Town performers at Wolf Trap – an outside theater – where we ate a picnic dinner under the stars and sang Cheryl’s favorite songs. 

She insisted that Bill keep his annual ski trip plans and asked that I stay with her while he was gone.  She never lost her spirit and her determination, even as she’d shuffle to the bathroom to be sick.  We had some important conversations over the course of that week.  She talked about how angry she was that she wouldn’t be around to enjoy the life she’d finally found.  She was frightened that Bill would have to spend his time without her.  She was disappointed that she didn’t have the time to become a Child Advocate for the court system.  I complained that she wouldn’t be around for my wedding, and that I felt guilty for being selfish.  We cried. We laughed.  We cried some more.

She told me she worried about me.  She’d seen me try to save a ten-year relationship that was a mismatch from the start.  She’d witnessed me back out of plans too many times – often opting to take a quiet night at home rather than experiencing life.  She’d seen me settle time and time again.  She knew things about my character that were hard for me to confront head-on.

On one of the last nights I spent with her, Cheryl told me – quite seriously – that if I didn’t do things to bring happiness into my life – if I didn’t LIVE – she would haunt me.  She wanted me to think about the decisions I made and how they impacted my life, rather than basing decisions on the man in my life or on my family’s approval or disapproval.  She repeated that she’d be watching me and if she thought I was copping out or doing something stupid, she’d make her presence known.  She kept saying, “I’ll be there with you.  Look for me.  Look for me.”

A few months later I got a call from Bill and Cheryl’s friend, Nancy.  Cheryl had died.  Bill’s mom had arrived from out-of-town to spend a couple days with the newlyweds.  They were to go to the theater that night.  Bill’s mom knocked and knocked on the door.  No answer.  When Bill returned home, they found Cheryl upstairs.  While changing into her “night on the town” clothes, she had collapsed and died.  Although heartbroken, I was also comforted; Cheryl died preparing to do something she loved, with people who loved her.  How many of us will be that fortunate when our final moment comes?  And, finally -- the house was clean.

For reasons I never understood, Bill wanted Cheryl to undergo an autopsy.  I was called to a funeral home to identify her body after the procedure.  It was a painful day.  Then I was called on to help one more time when Bill asked if I would go through Cheryl’s many belongings and pack them up to be given to charity, as she’d requested. 

The hours I spent in her room were among the strangest I’ve experienced.  I felt profound grief and yet a sense of honor that I’d been called upon to carry out this deeply personal task.  I kept a few odds and ends – although I’ve never analyzed why I chose the items.  I kept some socks – a few pairs hadn’t been worn and I wore them for years after Cheryl’s death.  I kept a nightgown that had my name as the brand name.  I kept her appointment calendar, with her handwritten notes.  I kept a skirt she’d bought on one of our shopping outings; she’d been so thrilled to fit into it.  I made these selections, not realizing that the best part of her would never leave me.

Trying to live up to my promise to Cheryl to be brave and experience new things, a few years after her death, I left the safety of my friends, family and a job I loved and moved to Ohio to be with a man I met on the Internet.  I felt Cheryl would be proud.  But the first few years were difficult, and I often questioned my judgment in staying.  “What would Cheryl think?” or “Cheryl would be so angry with me!”  I often felt ashamed, because I heard Cheryl’s reprimands but didn’t always act to improve my circumstances.

One Ohio Winter, Mika came into my life.  A tiny stray cat with a snaggle-tooth grin, Mika came to our home during a snow storm.  Rather, she picked us as her family and manipulated herself into our lives. She was in the yard across the street and ran, full-speed, to our front door, demanding attention.  I fed her so she wouldn’t starve in the snow.  After she’d had her full, I picked her up and held her tiny body against my chest, inside my coat.  We already had a cat, so that night I left her outside, hoping she’d find a warm place to sleep. 

For days after, the little cat would run to greet us as we came home.  We fed her and I would hold her to my chest each night, giving her a few minutes of toasty warmth.  I talked to her quietly as she’d gaze up into my eyes.  I tried to make her a warm nest to sleep in by padding a cat carrier with old sheets and towels and lining the bottom with paper bags wrapped in plastic bags to keep out moisture. 

Eventually, she forced her way into the house…literally.  Every time we turned around we’d see her in one of the back rooms.  “How in the world is she getting inside?” we asked each other.  We finally noticed she’d pushed a hole into the bottom of the screen door and must have dashed past us without our noticing.  Before too long, we did as she’d intended and brought her into our family, and that was that.

Mika was over-bearing, annoying and manipulative.  But she worked her way into our hearts, and made herself at home.  She immediately reminded me of Cheryl – but it wasn’t until a particularly difficult time in my relationship that I realized Mika seemed to communicate with me.  Not in words, but in actions.  It’s not just that she’d comfort me when I was sad – many animals do that – it’s that she’d almost push me out the door when I needed to get away.  She seemed to call me outside to get fresh air or clear my head.  She sat on my lap when I felt at my lowest.  She kissed my face when I cried and she seemed to meow insistently when I was debating making some kind of change. 

Finally, one day, after a particularly prolonged “meowing” session – she seemed to give up and walk away from me disgustedly.  I called her name and she didn’t come back.  Then something made me softly say, “Cheryl.”  Mika immediately stopped, looked back at me and then ran straight into my arms.  I said aloud, “Okay – this is weird – but…if you know Cheryl, give me a sign.”  Mika meowed and pushed her head against mine.  “Okay – let’s try this.  If you know Cheryl – jump down.”  She jumped down and looked up at me.  I left it at that, because it was embarrassing, even for me.

Since that day, there have been many moments when I’ve turned to Mika hoping to find Cheryl’s wisdom and friendship.  Sometimes I just find a grateful, loving cat.  Other times, I find a hint of my grateful, loving friend. 

Who knows?  Maybe Cheryl does come visit me through my cat.  Or maybe…just maybe, Cheryl knew that by saying, “Look for me” she’d be giving me the freedom to imagine the improbable and find comfort through life’s difficulties.

On a final note – shortly after Cheryl died, I asked my mother why I felt such incredible sadness.  I said, “After all, it’s not like she and I socialized a lot.  I have other friends I have more in common with.  Why is it that losing Cheryl hurts this much?”

My mother hugged me and said, without having to think about it, “Because, Jessica, she’s the one who loved you.”