The Istoriaphile’s Corner

A friend of mine died this week. A brain aneurysm no one knew she had ruptured without warning.  She lost consciousness and passed away days later without ever regaining it.  She was only 51. The morning after she passed away, I kept checking her Facebook page, hoping someone would post a retraction. Oh God, I wanted someone  to post a retraction. But they didn’t.  They can’t. My friend is gone and she isn’t coming back. Emotional pain on this level leaves me barely able to function at first.  I spent the first day wandering around in shock and crying.  I wanted to tell someone but I couldn’t decide who to call.   There were  colleagues we had worked with years ago but how do you call someone, out of the blue, and say, “By the way, a woman you haven’t seen in years died yesterday.  Thought you’d like to know.”  I wanted to buttonhole strangers and say they’d missed knowing someone wonderful.  I wanted to share the pain. I couldn’t. After I came home, frustrated and grieving, I looked up an essay William Allen White wrote when his sixteen year old daughter, Mary, died unexpectedly.  Like my friend, Mary White…