New Year’s eve is just a few days away. Each year I list the things I want to acheive, and reflect back upon the last year. This year, I’m thrilled that, while financially I didn’t rock anyone’s world compared to my former corporate salary, I was able to build a business, help my clients grow their businesses, and publish a book–something I’ve dreamed about for years.
But it also takes me back to thoughts that haunt me, and that I don’t quite know how to digest. A few years ago I received a phone call, mid-afternoon from a dear friend from high school. Unusual for her to call me mid-day, I quickly answered my cell phone. “Honey, I’m so sorry to tell you this. Mike is dead.”
Stunned into silence, even with my little ones squawking in the back seat it took me a few minutes to regain my mental footing. How could this be?
Mike, my first true love–truly—was dead at age 32.
Like looking into a snowglobe, my thoughts grew snowy thinking about the hot summer days we spent together swimming at his pool, learning how to drive a stick-shift together, shamelessly kissing in the movie theater. He was the first boy to ever tell me he loved me, and at sixteen, I was naive enough to believe it. Although maybe it was really true.
In an attempt to release frustration and utter sadness, I sat down and put pen to paper, creating a thoughtful letter to Mike’s mom. He was her only child, and I knew that she must be completely lost. I included a few photos that I had kept, more than seventeen years later in a tiny photo album, and a few memories we had hanging out with Mike in our large circle of friends as high school juniors.
She quickly returned my letter with thoughts of her own. “Katie, you don’t know how much that meant to me. Mike was my life, and had worked so hard to clean up his life–he had quit drinking–he was really trying. Then he was killed instantly in a car accident. They promised me that he didn’t feel any pain. Now, I’m like a cork bobbing around in the ocean.” Looking at my own young sons, I couldn’t fathom what she was feeling; was frustrated that any mother should ever endure it. We still exchange Christmas cards, several years later.
In-between our sixteen-year-old puppy love and the time of his death, Mike had ventured into dangerous territory. He moved to Pittsburgh, a far cry from our sleepy-small-Pennsylvania village and into the city he was tempted by drugs, tattoos, and the hard life, and quickly became addicted to drugs. Luckily, he was the heir to a large fortune and his family had the means to send him into rehab, with some success (or so I was told). No one ever said if drinking or drugs were involved in the car accident, when he skidded into a telephone pole. Did it really matter?
Mike was a good, kind person, with a smile that could light up a room. Even though I hadn’t spoken to him in years, shared friends told me how much fun he was to be around, and that he never lost that charm. His memory will be cherished.
For some reason, even though he didn’t pass away around the holidays I always think of him, and how his life may have developed had he lived. Would he have had children of his own? That he doesn’t get a second chance is a tough pill to swallow. So, as I approach the new year and new goals and new visions of a bright future I remind myself that New Year’s day isn’t the only day we have to decide to start anew. Each day we wake up is second chance.
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