Remembrance, and Moving On

A couple of years ago I wrote about the the end of a friendship — as slow as I was to acknowledge it, I finally had that moment of letting go.   Two months ago, Martha wrote me a long letter, something by way of apology/explanation, though in fact not quite either.  One phone call, one letter, thirteen years.  And this is how I know I have let go:  it did not really matter.  Not the letter, not the contents.  The questions I asked myself — was it something I did, why was I not worthy, could I have changed anything — those questions and the sadness were long gone, liberated two-and-a-half years ago by the simple act of “delete contact.”

We have our medical school reunion in a month.  Martha says we will see each other then; I think not.  My wonderful therapist has a different take on this: the meeting would be a closure for Martha — letting her know that it is OK for her to stop feeling guilty about me, to stop feeling guilty that I am not one of “her people.”  She too can let it be.

In the winter of our 4th year in medical school, one of The Amigas had her daughter.  The day Martha told me Caitlin had the baby was the day I found out that (1) she had been pregnant, and (2) she married the father of the baby many months ago.  On that day (yes, slow to catch on) I knew I was not a friend and had never been.   Today, from the sidelines of co-chairmanship, I am an observer of this group of middle-aged women who have managed to remain friends for almost 30 years.  They have known about all the major events in each other’s lives, they have bitched and shared and celebrated together through the years, and this fall, they will gather again to bitch and share and celebrate.   I wish them the best of times.

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The Three of Us

My medical school preceptors considered me a rather mediocre student; it was not necessarily a wrong assessment.  I kept my head down, I made no waves, I just wanted to be done . . . .  because being lower than whale dung really sucks.  Other students were much more savvy: look eager, ask lots of questions (especially ones you know the answers), flatter the attendings.  Get good evaluations, and you are on your way to the rest of your life.  

The rest of my life did not follow, but it is many years later now, and it is a reunion year.  The alumni reunion coordinator had no volunteers to be our class co-chairs, so I thought, “Why not?”  Why not, indeed.  This is not altruism, it is an experiment on myself:  I have time, I want to know if this could be my personal Creative Morning, and I am curious how my former classmates define success. 

I wrote a reunion letter so inspiring that am tempted to go to the reunion!  And then, the coordinator gets not one, not two, but three more volunteers:

The three of us are willing to be the co-chairs for the upcoming class of ’93 reunion. None of us have a whole lot of time . . .  blah blah blah . . . 

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Well gosh.  The Three of Us and Bisy Backson, all in one!  

The coordinator has sent my inspirational reunion letter on to The Three of Us, and is sure that they will “connect” with me.  She is so optimistic — but I suppose she has to be to deal with medical alumni. 

I am back remembering the day I realized that The Three of Us (or rather, The Six of Us, of which The Three of Us was a subset) and I had never been friends.  These women were a clique back then, and they remain a clique now.  And of course, the core truth of a clique is that while you-the-outsider can clearly identify them as the clique, they do not identify you as anything because they never think about you at all.  On that day I remember my truth: “How stupid am I?”

But there is hope yet for my inner Opie: the memories are vivid, but they no longer sting.  And that is very good news indeed because I am, of course, on tenterhooks waiting to see whether I will be noticed by The Three of Us Bisy Backsons!

Tenter_Frames,_Otterburn_Mill,_Northumberland (1)
Tenter frames, Otterburn Mill, Northumberland