Gina

13 years ago, on my first day at The Grange, Mr. Buckley sat me next to you in form room. I remained an awkward attachment to the table for the rest of the year, never quite getting a proper seat. I liked you immediately. My first memory of you is tipping your head back and laughing freely at someone’s joke. We became fast friends. You were witty and quick to laugh - a welcome compliment to my newbie American-ness getting used to my green and gray uniform and British life in general. 

We emailed constantly that next summer, me in the states, you in England. We were so prolific that you turned our emails into a book for my 16th birthday. 

You bravely came with me two summers in a row into the perpetually chaotic adventure that is my extended family. You joined the herd as we all dressed as cows to get free Chik Fil A. We went thrift store shopping with my grandma where you got T-shirts stamped with random states and summer camp names - you still have them. My family constantly asked you to speak so they could listen to your accent. We showed you malls, Sonic, and drive through movies. We road tripped to Branson, Utah, Chicago, you were part of the cousin cohort.

Back at school we would chat over the phone for hours. You would tell me about a funny video I should watch on Youtube, and I’d share Taylor Swift’s newest song with you. Sometimes you would play a song on the keyboard to me that you had been working on. We even watched whole films with each other over the phone.

Through our GCSE and A-Level years we stayed close. You, me, and Beth, the inseparable trio. Your love of languages developing, Beth checking the boxes to get into veterinary school, me looking into colleges in the USA. Our uniforms changed to suits as we learned to grow into our skin.

We had countless movie nights, silly games, Disney songs, Pizza Hut dates, too much sugar, and sometimes Johnny Glockenspiel. We MSN messaged at night and learned how to use Facebook together. We survived Duke of Edinburgh expeditions, high school cliques, weekend trips to Leeds and Birmingham. My half-American nature would sometimes embarrass you, as I continued to learn the nuances of British culture (“I didn’t hear that punch line, what did they say?”). We performed together at the leavers concert, Walking in Memphis. I accompanied you on the piano. You sang beautifully.

You headed to Chile, Beth to Liverpool, me to Oregon. We made triple continent communication work with WhatsApp and Skype sessions. When we would come together after months of being apart, we picked right back up where we left off. 

One spring, you made the long journey from England to Oregon. I got a call from you 11 hours and 30 minutes earlier than I expected from an unknown number asking where I was. I had mixed up the times… I’ve never driven to the Portland airport so quickly. I took you to see Grease, an ultimate frisbee game, my college campus, then down to Ashland. We stayed with Brian’s family and you completely charmed them. My now mother-in-law would ask about you every time Brian and I visited after that trip.

During the summer of 2015, we all coordinated to meet you in Sevilla where you were doing a work placement as part of your university study abroad course. We had grown from awkward middle school students to professional young adults. During the weeks leading up to it, it seemed like you were getting ill more than usual. Minor things - a cold here, a toothache there.

When we arrived, we had the time of our lives. Beth and I tried to navigate the city center on the 10 Spanish words that we knew. But when we were with you, we relaxed and watched in awe as you walked around like a local. We drank Tintos and soaked up everything Seville and Madrid had to offer. I remember you had a bad tooth ache while we visited you but you tried not to let it bother you.

When we left to carry on with life, you found out that your constant toothaches and colds you were experiencing was cancer. Leukemia. You were 22.

The next several months were a blur of hospitals, nurses, doctors, poking and prodding, tests, treatments, trial and error, drugs, side effects. Fear. I watched from far away, feeling helpless but encouraged by your army of support. You shaved your hair off and got a gorgeous wig. You told me about how amazing your hickman line was and who your nurses were.

When you got a bone marrow transplant, things got better. With the cancer deemed in remission you were able to do things again - you found a new normal. You were able to go on holiday, finish your degree, get a cool job, meet and fall in love with Ben. Things were different, but they were good.

Last October, you arranged a Skype session with me. Your messages about how things were going health-wise had taken a different tone recently. In a cruel twist of fate your cancer came back, and it was practically untreatable. Terminal, you said.

I can’t express how much I treasure the last few times we were all together. Those memories are full of so much joy and when there was clear hope for staying in remission. 

Our trip to Portugal where we sipped Port and showed my fiancé how to do a Euro trip.

My sister’s wedding in Scotland where you both dressed up beautifully, and we laughed, danced, and chatted all night.

My wedding, where you and Beth were the most amazing maids of honor. I could write a book on that alone.

That was less than a year ago.

When things got really bad, I flew home to see you. I had a full week of being by your side and spending time with you and your family. Your eye rolls and humor still coming through, despite the tubes, drugs, and difficulty speaking. The morphine was taking its toll, but you still expressed how grateful you were that I came.

You were wearing the, “Keep Calm I’m the Maid of Honor” T-shirt I got for you the last time I saw you. We sat with you all day, helping you get comfortable, fetching ice packs, water, and tea as needed. You were sleeping for some of it, your breathing getting more laborious.

When it was time to go, I held your hands as I said goodbye knowing in my heart that it was the last time we would all be together. It couldn’t continue like this for much longer.

Now you have angel wings. 

It doesn’t hurt any less knowing it was coming. Knowing I can’t make any more memories with you. Hear your laugh, make a quietly sarcastic comment, or plans about your next adventure. 

You’ll be remembered and treasured always. 

3.2.1993 - 20.3.2019

RIP