Rachel

Early this week, not long after I wrote a tongue-in-cheek post about how I wasn't going to say things about how you should hold your sweeties tight and tell them you love them, I received word that my college friend, Rachel Perlmeter, had died of a heart attack on Sunday. She was 38 years old. An absolutely brilliant artist and human being. I met her when she was a freshman at Northwestern and I was a sophomore - a place really just chock full of geniuses - and even so, she stood apart. She was kind and brilliant and funny as hell and one of only a handful of people I've ever met my whole life long who loved books even more than I did (do). She went on to have this amazing career full of artistry and beauty, filling the spaces between theater and literature and art with her own special vision, and married a man that she told me she adored. We hadn't talked in a couple of years but she came to mind at unexpected times and places. Her death has really rocked me. 

It might seem weird, I know. I've been thinking about mortality a lot and I've been living with the possibility of my own passing for almost a year and a half now. But for some reason, Rachel's unexpected death really has struck a visceral chord. In some ways, it comforts me. I love the idea of meeting up with Rachel in the afterlife. I can just see the two of us drinking wine, picnicking, talking about good books in a beautiful grassy field, the light just right, our every comment full of thoughtfulness or - even better (and let's face it, much more likely) - irony. 

But it also just scares the bejeezus out of me. I mean, shit. If Rachel can die, why not me? She was full of artistry and passion and love. She had so much more to give. For some reason, I thought an approach like that could save me. I adore my job and my students and my friends and, above all and everything, my family. I thought if I loved everyone and everything hard enough, if I made it known that I was full of days not yet lived and work not yet given, maybe that would somehow save me. And suddenly, I'm stripped of this crazy idea. Rachel was always gently teaching, I suppose. Why would her death be any different than her life? 

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I feel empty and scared and so very sad for her loved ones - her husband and her family and her close, close friends.  She made me laugh, and listened to me cry, and reminded me at a terrible time in my college career that I could do the thing I thought I could not do. (An excellent memory for me to remember, especially now.) She was a fierce and gentle soul, and so full of genius. Did I mention that we were friends because we did children's theater together? And during breaks in these crazy and hilarious rehearsals we would talk about Chekhov and Kafka and god only knows what else. I can't think of college without her. 

I guess the best I can say is, thank you, Rachel, for sharing yourself in so many ways, in life and in death. I'll be lifting my glass to you - as long as I'm drinking something classy, anyway - for quite some time to come. 

I'll close with a picture of a kid's book I found at Tattered Cover earlier this week. I'm pretty sure Rachel would have loved it as much as I do:

Isn't it the best? Thinking of you and off to read some Russian literature while I swill some wine, my dear!