A butterfly trapped in a spider’s web

One of my co-workers died the night before Thanksgiving.

That would have been sad enough. But what pushes this news into the tragic is that she wasn’t some wizened old librarian. She wasn’t someone who had been lucky enough to accumulate many decades. She wasn’t someone who was at the end of a good, long life. No…she was younger than me. She was barely thirty. And she died of advanced pancreatic cancer.

I didn’t know Carly well. She joined my library system as a children’s librarian a few years ago but worked in a different branch (the branch that I would eventually be transferred to), so for those first years, I only saw her at meetings and other gatherings for children’s department staff. And I can’t say she impressed me much. She was obviously smart but preternaturally self-contained; she seemed to hold herself aloof from the rest of us. She looked the part of a typical millennial, with her ironically geeky glasses and and ever-so-slightly mismatched wardrobe. She was a redhead though, so she had that going for her. I didn’t know what to make of her. Still, though she was still a stranger, I was shocked when another co-worker emailed me in the winter of 2016 (I think) with the news that Carly had been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer. How does that happen in someone so young?, we wondered. This type of cancer doles out survival rates in months; to manage to survive for years is rare. She had essentially been given a death sentence. I didn’t know her but my heart hurt for her.

When I relocated to my new library, I had the opportunity to work more closely with her during my brief time in the children’s department. She was still introverted and matter-of-fact, but kind with a wry sense of humor. I would come to find that she had suffered from chronic illness her whole life, an ordeal she detailed in her blog The Chronic Self (which I would read, but too late) – the cancer diagnosis was just the latest in what had already been a long, arduous journey. But the funny thing was, you would never have known just how sick she was. She worked hard and enjoyed what she did. She never complained, despite the fact that she must have been in incredible pain. The only thing that lent a whisper to her condition were her absences….and, as she progressed through chemo, the head wraps and wigs she’d wear to cover her baldness.

Once I switched departments, I saw less of her, as tends to happen in a building as large and spread out as that one. But we’d chat briefly when we passed each other in the hallways. She sent me a Facebook friend request, and though I had reservations (I prefer to keep my personal and professional lives separate), I accepted. Truth be told, because of my inability to get a good read on her, I was kind of honored that she apparently liked me enough to want to connect. This is how I discovered her blog, and also how she discovered mine. That’s what we talked about during our last conversation: our writing. It was her last day before going out on extended medical leave, in October. She had tried to juggle treatments and work and it had finally gotten to be too much. But it’s a testament to her projection of outward strength that, though I knew how sick she was, it never even occurred to me that she wouldn’t come back. So we talked about writing, and said that we’d keep tabs on each other’s work. I can’t even remember if I wished her luck.

Her memorial service was last weekend. I asked the husband if he’d accompany me to Baltimore, and he agreed, despite not knowing Carly at all. I think he knew that I’d not only need emotional support but that I might not be in the best condition to drive home. I’m sure I could have driven down other library staff, but even though Carly was a co-worker, this had gone beyond the professional and into the personal. It would have been natural to mourn with them; I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I don’t even know if they knew I was there.

You don’t know heartbreak until you’ve listened to a mother and father read from their deceased daughter’s favorite children’s book which (horribly, appropriately) uses the lyrics from The Police’s song “King of Pain”; until you’ve heard a grandfather eulogize his granddaughter; until you’ve watched a young husband attempt to compose himself as he remembers his wife. My teeth clenched and my jaw was locked tight for the duration of the service. We left as soon as it was over and sat in silence in the car for a few seconds, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I sobbed and sobbed. I cried for her, for her family and friends, for myself. I wasn’t close to her – we were acquaintances at best – but the potential for us to be friends was there. We were both writers, but I don’t know what inspired her. She went to Smith College, in one of my favorite Massachusetts towns, but I’ll never get to ask her if she’s ever been to the Montague Bookmill or if she prefers breakfast at Sylvester’s or Jake’s. She studied abroad for a year, but I’ll never know if her experience at the University of Cork was at all like mine at Kingston University. She was originally from Georgia, but we’ll never get to compare notes on the best way for pale redheads to shield ourselves from the sun. I’ll never know what she was like once she warmed up to you (or do I have it backwards? Should it be once I warmed up to her?). And I’m sorry for it.

So, because apparently the main theme of this blog is me staring down my own mortality, here’s your (and my) reminder to live fully. Do the thing that scares you. Tell that person what they mean to you. We are guaranteed nothing in this life, least of all time. You cannot take it for granted. Be bold, even through your fear, even through the pain. Live as Carly did.

From Carly’s Instagram