That Voice You Don't Hear Anymore ...

Despite not having written much about her here since her death, I think of my friend Karen daily. Miss her daily. Wish she were here every day. Wonder "what the hell ..." and "why the hell" and all those things.

Karen and I, CU, 1990 (oh the hair ...)

Tonight, I called her husband, Eric. Since school ended, I've only seen Karen's girls once or twice and I miss them. For those who don't know, Eric has worked his tail off since Karen's death to ready their house for selling so that he, Reagan and Peyton can be closer to his parents and other family. He put the house on the market in early June — it sold in five days. He'll soon be closing and moving, to where I don't know yet. But though he and R&P will still be close enough to visit often, they won't be quite as close. Reagan certainly won't be going to 1st grade five minutes from my house.

Anyway, I called to invite E and the girls over, or to have him drop them off here if he needed some time alone or wanted to do some packing, etc. It's the first time I've called Karen and Eric's home phone since she died. I figured Eric probably wouldn't answer (I screen most of my calls and kind of figure everyone else does, too) ... ... ... and yet ...

I wasn't prepared at all to hear Karen's voice still on the answering machine. Her warm "Hey ..." right at the beginning there.

It socked me right in the gut. To be able to pretend, for a millisecond even, that she's not gone. That I won't ever hear that voice again they way that I want to. When she said, Hey ...," I wanted to say "Hi, how are you? Where have you been? What happened? Why can't you just come back?"

Grief is like that for me. It pretty much reduces me to the mentality and questions of a 5-year-old. Can't you just COME BACK, dammit?

Anyway, I left a message, but not after having to pause for a long time to try to collect myself. I didn't want to hang up, although I almost did. Instead, I left a message, my voice wavering and tears on the ends of my words. Hung up and lost it.

Then it's always to the keyboard. Must type to deal. Must share to deal.

When I sat down, it occurred to me that I never posted the eulogy I spoke at Karen's memorial. I almost did at the time, but it didn't feel right. Karen was a very private person, and it felt too soon and too raw and too something I probably can't define.

But I want to post it now because it speaks so much to how I felt about that girl. I hated writing it, I hated getting up in front of people to say it through tears, I hated that it took that damn occasion to say those things about her, as opposed to to her, while she was still here.

But when I wrote it, I wrote it with so much love and laughter and yes, probably a quart or so of tears.

Anyway, here it is. For you, K, again. Miss you so much.

I met Karen when she was Karen Nalezinek — the new girl at McPhee Elementary, in Lincoln, Nebraska, in the spring of 1979. We were 7 years old. On her first day of school, I was assigned the task of showing her around, pointing out where the library was, helping her navigate the lunchroom, that sort of thing.

I’m pretty sure that was the last time it was ever me showing Karen how things worked in the world.

From then on, it was so often the other way around. Karen was my North Star of a friend. She was dependable. She was constant and consistent. Always there, whether it was for guidance, for advice or just to listen. Karen was a really good listener.

In college, we sometimes jokingly referred to her as “mom.” And I think she sometimes secretly loved it.

But I don’t want to give the impression that Karen couldn’t have fun. She could be a serious person, someone who sat back and observed what went on around her — but she could also, in a big way, let loose. And when it happened, it was like being given a gift. When I think about some of the most fun I’ve had in my life, Karen was usually right there beside me. There will never be a time that I’ll be able to hear the song “Baby Got Back” and not thing of Karen, with her huge smile, cutting a major rug.

Her presence and her friendship are so deeply woven into the details of my life that I find myself wondering how I’ll go on without her … we were going to celebrate our 40th birthdays together in Palm Springs in March, along with these girls beside me. I can’t yet fathom that she won’t be there.

Karen was, to put it quite simply, just like a sister to me. I loved her with my whole heart, my whole life. And I know, because of Eric and the girls, that she was so incredibly happy when she died. There was nothing more she wanted from this life than to be with them, and I want them to know that they are not alone — that they are loved by so many people and that we will walk beside them through this.

That Karen was so happy and blessed when she left us gives me so much comfort. We should all be so lucky, and we should all have the good fortune to have had a friend like Karen Emily Nalezinek Mraz in our lives.