I lost a good friend recently, Deb Pecis, to pancreatic cancer. Diagnosed in January, gone before the end of March. She was 49.
I met Deb when I joined a writers critique group here in Michigan some years back. We floated in and out of each other’s circles - our monthly writers critique sessions, plus Zooms for one or the other’s other endeavors, or to attend local writers events together and help each other with work and dreams and family.
Last summer, I sat next to her at the Van Hoosen Farm in Rochester Hills for a Rochester Writers event, and we traipsed along the maze of wildflowers and farm gear outside on a warm, lazy summer night. I have a picture somewhere of Deb posing in a chicken coop, and I remember laughing and feeling so light in the company of a kind friend.
When Deb emailed our writers group in January to let us know of her diagnosis, I was shocked. What do you mean pancreatic cancer? Her funny, snarky, tender voice came through in the email. I sent an email telling her how much she meant to me, how sorry I was to hear of her diagnosis, letting her know I loved her.
At the memorial a few weeks ago, her mother, brothers, daughter and husband spoke. I sat beside my husband and three of our writer friends, tissue-blotting our tears. Her daughter spoke of a bluebird on the trampoline behind their house in the days after Deb passed, suggesting that the bluebird was Deb, come to watch over them, to show she’d always be there.
Her loved ones told such beautiful stories. They talked about how talented she was as a writer and I thought about how they, too, were telling riveting stories with gorgeous words and tender hearts, just like Deb did. There were so many lines I wanted to write down to remember, to save, to remind me that life goes fast, that we don’t often take time to notice and appreciate and feel the love all around us.
But I sniffled as my husband snaked his arm around my back, taking no notes.
Here’s what I remember:
Deb was hopeful, which bolstered her children, her husband, her siblings.
Deb was beloved, in a close family with memories funny and piercing and vibrant.
Deb lived a life of meaning and connection and love, even if it wasn’t long enough.
Deb was thoughtful, kind, noticing, giving. Which we could all be more of.
On a picture frame showcasing pics of Deb, these words were painted in the wood: Love is not a matter of counting the years, but making the years count. Every time I looked at it, I welled up again.
We are each of us merely ordinary, you know. We wake and rub our eyes clear and pull on clothes that might have holes from wear and we make the coffee and toast the bread and read the emails that came in overnight and get to work. We kiss our kids and our partners and go about our days, assuming, taking for granted, that we will return to each other that night, to repeat the routine over and over and over.
And then one day, we are old, if we’re lucky, and more years have passed behind us than remain ahead of us, and we wonder if it was all worth it, if we did it right, if we screwed up too many times, or complained too much or wished for different details of our lives.
Deb was the kind of person who really lived in each day. Each ordinary day. She loved a good man and had good kids and focused on them in the good moments and the bad. Everyone who knew her liked her and enjoyed being with her and stayed connected to her. And she wrote beautiful, funny, compelling stories that I loved reading. I hoped one day she’d publish a book.
I am 51 years old, and I’ve done a lot of things in my one little life. But I am no one special. I’ll never be famous nor important.
I write to linger in the moments. To connect with someone I can’t see or know. To start a conversation that is bigger than me. To leave a note that I was here.
Deb’s passing reminds me that I need to look longer at these lovely people who've given me their hearts and their trust. To notice more. To stop working or cleaning or grocery-shopping and sit on the couch with my daughter or listen to my son or return my husband’s smile or laugh late into the night playing board games with my favorite people no matter how tired I get.
I am grateful that Deb was a part of my life for a time.
With love, Lynne
Please consider making a donation to a worthy cause of your choosing. If there isn’t one that is meaningful to you, let me suggest the Leukemia Lymphoma Society or the Lustgarten Foundation for Pancreatic Cancer Research.