Crushing Losses

When classmates leave us too soon.

Last week I heard that a friend from school died.

It’s unsettling to lose classmates and childhood friends. The grief is different than losing a family member or a friend made as an adult.

Mourning the passing of a childhood friend or classmate is complex. It’s not just the person, but the era of my life they belonged to. These are the people I grew up with who knew me before I really knew myself.

Gone Too Soon

Now in my mid-fifties, hearing about the deaths of classmates is becoming more common. Kids I knew as far back as grade school are gone — Alissa, Sean, Amy, Teresa, Shannon, Jeff, and others. They lost battles with cancer, died in car accidents, from surgical complications, disease, or took their lives. Some were close friends in and out of school; others I barely knew.

Alissa had gorgeous red hair and sat next to me in the third grade. We were learning cursive, and I had trouble writing the lowercase d. So, I would pass my paper to her, and she would write the letter for me.

Sean and I were in third-, fourth-, and fifth-grade classes together. With his blond bowl cut and wire-rimmed glasses, he was a rambunctious cross between Cousin Oliver and John Denver.

Amy wore long, light blonde pigtails and grew up to be a school administrator. She was extremely handy around the house and impressively repaired a washing machine. “I just read the manual,” she said.

Teresa and I met in seventh grade. We saw the movie, The Outsiders, together at the theater. I always think of her when I see the movie on TV.

Shannon was funny. We were friendly throughout middle and high school.

Jeff and I were only classmates, not friends, yet I clearly remember him.

Three classmates from fifth grade have died (that I am aware of) – Amy, Teresa, and Sean. Their losses stung more because I have a special affinity for that class. Our teacher made me feel like we were a family and often told us that we would never share that type of space again. He wanted us to cherish and respect one another. That still sticks with me. So, when someone from that class leaves this world, it profoundly touches me.

However, sometimes the news of a classmate’s death is crushing.

Crushed

I found out about Tim’s death on his birthday. I started a text and stopped because I had a feeling he might not receive it. I hadn’t heard from him or seen any social media activity in months. Looking at his Facebook feed, there were many birthday wishes – until there weren’t. There it was: the RIP message. I skipped over to his brother’s page and found a confirmation in his obituary. He died two months earlier.

Tim and I met in eighth grade. He sat behind me in English class and next to me in social studies. I was smitten!

My diaries between the ages of 13 and 15 are full of my musings about Tim – things he said to me, how cute he was in his navy Members Only jacket, lots of unrequited puppy love. He was the most significant crush I had to that point. Everyone else paled in comparison. He was the first crush after puberty, and my raging hormones kicked in.

We socialized only in school. Though I did work up the courage once and called him. I’m sure a record of that phone conversation is in my diary, which I am too embarrassed to look up.

My crush continued on and off for a few years. During the rest of high school and throughout the decades, we bumped into each other from time to time. We’d catch up a bit and go our separate ways.

Then we reconnected.

Hello, Again

A few years ago, Tim suffered serious injuries in an accident. Hearing that he could use some good cheer, I visited him while he was recovering in rehab. There, I told him and his dad about my schoolgirl crush, which gave us a good laugh.

We stayed in touch via a few visits, texts, and occasional phone calls. We chatted about books, movies, jobs, stupid things we did in our teens – nothing deep or anything that really gave me a sense of the man he grew up to become.

He left a voicemail in February. I called back a few times. The last call was a month to the day before he died. No response. And there never will be.

Relationships created in childhood or teenhood create a special bond, even after we part ways. The memories and the roles we played in each other’s lives can trigger feelings after they are gone. I have felt that with all of my classmates who left too soon. Though some losses hurt more and resonate longer.

Tim was a significant part of my early teenage years. He will always be the boy in the navy Members Only jacket who captured my teenage heart and filled pages of prose.

Moving On

After Tim and a few mini-crushes in between, a boy named James filled the pages of my diaries from the ages of 15 to 17.

Today, my diaries are journals. James shows up again at age 24. I still write about him. This time it is requited love. It’s our story of growing up and growing together, which I hope we continue to do for a very long time. We have been married for 30 years.

James wasn’t enthusiastic about my friendship with Tim. If it were the other way around, I may not have been either. But, witnessing my sadness, he graciously gave me the space I needed to process my feelings. I am grateful for that.

It’s hard to comprehend that Tim, like my other classmates, is no longer here. As the older Rose in Titanic said of her beloved, Jack, “He exists now only in my memory.”

They all do.