One Last Waffle

Dear Reader, I've spent some time questioning my motives for publicly posting what could be considered a personal farewell to a friend who recently passed away. There is no doubt that writing offers up a kind of consolation in grief, helping the bereaved to sort through the associated waves of shock, sadness, anger, guilt and memories that flood their mind when they lose someone dear. But then surely the mere act of writing should suffice, no? An entry in one's personal journal should do the trick, no? Well, yes, perhaps. But, to get a bit philosophical on our collective arses for a second here, what is writing if not read? Perhaps upon reading this, those who knew Wendy will have their own memories reignited, or recognise similar experiences, or, one can hope, momentarily see her brought back to life in their mind's eye. And for those who did not know her, well, many will still be able to relate, for Life will cruelly snatch loved ones from us all sooner or later. Perhaps it all boils down to the simple fact that it brings me comfort to know that those who knew her are in a way reading this for her by proxy, as she is no longer able to read it herself. If any of these be the case, this post's existence is ratified. Of course, one can justify reasons for anything and everything, but if I start second-guessing myself now, I will never stop. So, here it is. One last waffle to Wendy.

Hello my Wend,

Annie's name unexpectedly lit up my phone, early in the evening of Wednesday 6 May, and dread instantly filled my body like ice cream and syrup fill the geometric grooves of a freshly toasted waffle. There is no other reason for her to be calling than to tell me the worst, and yet, as she says the words I've been dreading since your diagnosis four and a half years ago, I blurt out the word "no" a dozen times in some desperate and futile attempt to negate what she is telling me. 

I had a feeling it was coming soon. Our final texts were sent with what I imagine to be a kind of unspoken—well, unwritten—mutual understanding in which we told each other the things one tells someone they won't be seeing again. I think—hope—you left this world knowing how much you mean to me, and those texts, together with the video your nieces lovingly put together for your 51st birthday, served as our final goodbye, and for that I will always be grateful. But I'm not finished yet. I have a bit more to waffle on about and, this time, it's all about you, my friend, and there's nothing you can do or say about it. 

We met almost 13 years ago, at the Queen's Park offices of a company that has created so many lifelong friendships for so many of us, ITE. You pulled the short straw, you poor sod, and had to take the new girl to lunch on her first day. I was a tad nervous as you had been described to me, albeit fondly, as a "battle axe" but, happiest of happenstances, the seeds of one of the truest friendships I've had the good fortune to have in my life were sown over that forced lunch at The Corrib Rest. I'm glad I didn't report to you though! Man, you were a tough one to work for, being the all-knowing, hardworking, deadline-meeting, no-nonsense perfectionist that you were—a real hard taskmaster! But you were loved by all and respected throughout the company, from the bottom all the way to the top, and couldn't leave quietly—as you'd have liked to have done—for you were awarded the Finance Employee of the Year award at your last Christmas party with us. I remember well how awkward having to go up on that stage in front of everyone was for you. And in 1920s getup too! You absolutely hated attention but it was hard not to take notice of a force of nature like you.

Over the past few weeks since your passing, so many memories of you and our time together have been running through my head, skipping from one scene to another, and then to another; a long, jumpy, silent cine 8 film screening in my mind's eye. Many flashbacks are of us in your car, or in your van—so many that it makes me wonder that if a pie chart of our time spent together were to be drawn up it would certainly contain a sizable slice sporting the legend "Time spent in car". Our journeys back and forth along the North Circular were the setting for many of our deepest conversations, but also for catching up on news and, well, your teaching me a thing or two. Like the time you, in utter astonishment, found yourself having to enlighten me with the fact that the North Circular and the M25 are not, indeed, one and the same. I can still see the flabbergasted expression on your face as you looked sideways at me, using the speaking voice of yours that held not-so-undertones of "I'm currently talking to a very stupid human right now." Another time, you taught me how to read licence plates, an ability which lasted about the duration of that very journey, pretty much immediately dissipating the moment I got out of the car. You did try. Then there was time we got stuck in a traffic jam one Sunday night during which we were sat behind a lorry for what seemed like hours—the two of us whiled away the time making as many words as we could out of whatever company name was plastered on the back of it. Or how about those maddeningly slow journeys, inching towards the Blackwall Tunnel of an evening—I remember with fondness the time Luis was in the car with us and we played alphabet games to distract ourselves from the sheer bumper-to-bumper tedium. I now look back and realise these car journeys were symbolic of how you lived your life. You were astoundingly generous with your time, with no journey too long, no destination too far (and no traffic jam too annoying), for you always filled them with exercises of the mind, distractions, games, conversation, planning, decision-making, the sharing of knowledge and of experiences. Where others stuck in traffic would curse and moan, you would use that time to the full. That's an analogy of your life right there.

You were a good friend to me, Wendy. No one understood the complexities of Lara better than you. OK, maybe you didn't quite understand, but it didn't take you too long to work out I don't want to be fixed, just accepted for who I am—and that you did, albeit with the occasional eyeballs rolled heavenwards and arms firmly held akimbo. You soon became something akin to a fierce guardian angel standing at the periphery of my world, ready to step in to pull me up should I fall into the abyss, and then step back again should I be ready to pull myself up and do it all on my own. Your texts saying "Just a sign, please" when I was deep within myself, unable to face talking or texting, were like a little beam of light being shone through the heavyset curtains of my mind, carrying the gentle message of "I know you can't talk but I need to know you're alive—I'll leave you be but just give me that, please." I would send you literally one of the road-sign emojis and you'd text a "Thank you" back. You'd come and check my fridge now and then, marvelling at the fact that I had about fifty bottles of nail polish, milk and butter in there and not much else. Oh, not to mention all the packets of rice cakes in my kitchen cupboard... I did momentarily regret having set up your Facebook profile upon finding out that everyone got to know about my sad diet of rice cakes with photographic evidence ever-so-kindly provided. Oh well, there are worse things, I guess. 

You were always there to help me with my moves. Moving house, I mean, not dance moves or chess moves or anything of that ilk. From West Hampstead to Hainault, from Hainault to Northwood, you—Robbie and Luis too—were always there to help me load and unload boxes as I zigzagged across London and back again. I should have left Hainault years before I did—you knew it and I knew it, but I've always had a penchant for procrastination and an aversion to swift decision-making, and so the years passed by until my landlord finally made that decision for me. You helped me push through the tremendous stress and anxiety I experienced trying to find a place to rent with three cats in tow. More miles were racked up on that good old speedometer as we travelled northwest to Hertfordshire and Middlesex, looking at one place after another after another. Ironically, I found this place in Northwood on my own—even took the tube to visit it!—but your patience and company as I slowly worked out what I wanted and where I wanted to be was invaluable. When the time came to dismantle Hainault and move into Northwood, just under a year and a half ago, you told me that your plan was to get me settled into a nice home before stepping back to deal with your own battles. You did so much, carried so many boxes, made so many trips to the tip—I kept insisting that you not pick anything up but not once would you listen to me, utterly unshakable. I think I came close to breaking your spirit when the two of us dismantled that famous outdoor cat enclosure of mine. I laugh when I think about it now, but, man, that was a tough couple of hours out there on that back porch, in the cold and the drizzle, covered in tangled net and fighting with unrelenting screws. One of the proudest moments of my life was when you told me how impressed you were at how I'd handled a little dispute my landlord and I were having when I left Hainault. It wasn't very often that you told anybody you were "impressed" by their actions, so it was as if I'd received a knighthood from the Queen herself. Several times during this crazy COVID-19 lockdown, I have silently thanked you while looking out at the garden in which my cats are contentedly sprawled about, basking in the sunshine. Sans cat enclosure. 

You were godmother to these cats of mine, driving all the way out to Mayhew animal rescue with me over 9 years ago now to pick up first Jack and Luna, and later, Lexi, the latter whom you were insistent I name "Scholesy" on account of his being ginger. Er, no. You supported and advised me when I rescued Levi and had to fumble my way through the slow  process of introduction and integration of a very frightened, almost feral young cat to a household with two other rescues. You were the voice of calm and reason when I fretted over them, and mocked me for years when I kept them in that outdoor enclosure when I wasn't home for fear of what happened to Jack befalling the others. Again, moving to this place has been the best thing ever for them—they have the freedom to come and go as they please (thanks to your saying "no" to my having a cat fence put in so they wouldn't be able to climb out...) and seem really content. I wouldn't have been able to fulfil my dream of being a mother of cats without you, Wend, and the four of us are the happiest we've ever been here. Thank you.

Your generosity to your friends extended beyond them to their families, for not only did you help me out with my moves, but with my sister's too, back when she relocated to Edinburgh. We drove up there one Saturday in your van; Shadow meowing—and weeing—away in the back for most of the seven-hour trip. We talked and laughed, maybe cried—more than likely—but you also put me to work. Well, of course you did. A wasted car journey? Nuh-uh. You told me to make myself useful, count the coins from your vending machine takings, and put them in bags ready for depositing at the post office. Oh, how many times you used the words "make yourself useful" on me I'll never know. We also made the most of the trip up there to tick another thing off your bucket list, stopping in Gateshead to admire Antony Gormley's Angel of the North in the cold and blustery wind. I took a photo of you, standing at the foot of the massive sculpture, striking the same pose, arms outstretched, embracing everything in front of you. Little did we know how symbolic that would become.

You bullied and teased me relentlessly, which at times annoyed the shit out of me, but I knew it was done out of affection, much like a kid would bully and tease another whom he fancies. Not that you fancied me! Although...when you were in your Silver Fox phase after your first bout of chemo, I did like to joke that we looked like an old lesbian couple walking around together. We've never exactly been the girly types, you and I, have we? You gave me the nickname "Lazy Lara" back when I lived in West Hampstead and would hitch a ride home from the office with you on your way to picking Luis up from his nearby nursery school. In fact, that's exactly how your son was introduced to me, on the first of many such trips: "Luis, meet Lazy Lara". Great. Thanks for that. You would say "you smell" to me nearly every single time you saw me, so much so I had to ask another friend if I did indeed smell (I didn't, I don't!). I myself had opened the door oh-so-wide for that whole "you smell" thing by telling everyone taking part in the Finance Secret Santa one particular year not to buy soap for people, but rather to use their imaginations because, "who wants soap for Christmas?" Thanks to you, I proceeded to receive soap from everyone in Finance and went home that evening with two bags' full of soaps of all shapes and sizes, enough to last me a full year! Ah, you did like to stretch out a joke, didn't you, Wend? 

You invited me round for Christmas a couple of times, concerned about my being on my own during what was a festive season for others, but not so much for me. God, you made the best roast potatoes (after my mother's, of course). I remember staying overnight in the spare room (this was obviously B.C.—Before Cats—as sleeping over is not a very common thing for me to do at all, getting home to them being priority numero uno) and waking up on Christmas morning to find that psycho cat of yours, Bella, sleeping fully stretched out along my back. I was delighted—and wheezy due to my oh-so-ironic allergy to cats—and turned to stroke her hoping I'd be the recipient of some lovely Christmas-morning kitty-cuddles. Bad move. Let's just say I went home that day with a couple of presents in my backpack and several scratches about my person. I remember Olive too, and how I cried when you told me she was looking for a place to die, and then cried again when you told me you'd had to have her put to sleep. And Willow and Aspen, your two beautiful kitties who chose to pack up and move the hell outta there into the neighbour's house when Betty the dog moved in. Going through photos on my phone the other day, I came across a couple of Betty that you'd taken as she lay on your bed, happily snoozing against your leg. She absolutely adored you—it breaks my heart to think she will never lie there like that with her mom again. But back to those Christmasses. Thank you for taking me in, the human stray that I am, making me feel welcome in your home, and allowing me to spend fun times with your family, whether they be Christmasses, or Luis's birthday parties, or days out at museums or playing mini golf. I remember them all and am grateful.

That day. That day, you knocked at my door wanting to tell me something in person, worried about how I'd react—even then, thinking of others and not yourself. Breast cancer, stage 2, a year or so of hell, and then you'd be OK, you told me. How I wish that diagnosis hadn't been revised a month or two later when they realised, no, wait, there's more to it than that. A chance scan they never really thought of giving you showed that the cancer had spread to your lymph nodes, lung, spine, and then later, your brain. Terminal with maybe 3-5 years to live came the new and merciless update. You were 47 years old, a year younger than I am as I write this. 

A diagnosis of terminal cancer is brutal news to receive by any account, but then add to that a deep betrayal of love and trust leading to a painful separation, and then add to that the loss of one's mother. I watched in horror as this desperately unfair chain of events unfolded, one after the other, in relentless succession. You were on the receiving end of three of the most difficult events Life can throw at a human being, and there you stood, getting pelted by one, then another and then another, like a soldier being kept upright by the sheer force of the machine gun bullets hitting his body. I'm clearly channelling that famous scene from Platoon here, but unlike Willem Dafoe's character, you remained standing, tall and defiant.

What you went through, what you did and what you achieved in the years that followed only served to prove what an astonishingly strong, stoic, determined fighter I always knew you were. At times, yes, it all got too much for you—how on earth could it not? But after a day or two of what you called "moping", you'd pull yourself out of yourself and get back to living life. You ticked a gazillion things off your bucket list, travelling to so many amazing—and sometimes weird—places with Luis and building wonderful memories of your journeys together. You dated again, putting yourself out there, warts and all, and experiencing all the good and bad that comes with dating men at our age. You went to gigs and your beloved Car Fests, visited your dad in Norfolk and your brothers in Brighton, spent quality time with your sister, Lindsay, during her visits to the UK, went on retreats, went camping rain or shine, got pampered at spas, attended cancer groups, played bridge, saw friends for coffees, lunches and dinners, got stuff done around the house—honestly, scrolling through the past four years of your posts on Facebook, you did more in that time than I've done in a lifetime (but I'm probably not the best person to use as a baseline for this...). You brought all your family and friends together for your 50th birthday, the one solitary time you let something be all "about you", an extremely rare occurrence. Chemotherapy, kidney stones, infections, a mastectomy, radiotherapy, strep, pulmonary edema, scans, tests, nausea, diarrhoea, pain, discomfort, limping, needles, IVs, ports, tablets, ambulances, doctors, nurses, paramedics, counsellors, all the "cancer admin", and the crushing fear that came with the knowledge you would soon have to leave your son—you heroically endured all this relentless physical and mental torture, pushing yourself from one day to the next, fighting hard to steal as much time as you could from, essentially, an unknown amount of time.

November 2019—and so began the downhill journey, at least, as far I could tell. I visited you on what I think was your first very lengthy stint in hospital and, boy, did I struggle to keep a panic attack at bay. It was the first time I'd seen you so weak, struggling to breathe but still talking with me and another friend of yours who was visiting at the same time. It was the first moment during your illness that I thought, shit, shit, shit, is it happening? Is this it? Is this the beginning of the end? Another visit in December 2019 afforded me yet another shock—you had lost so much weight and were bedridden with a broken pelvis, something the surgeons said they would be unable to operate on as so much bone had been eaten away by the cancer. In February 2020, I accompanied you home from the Royal Marsden in Chelsea after you'd had a new port put in—watching you laughing, joking and, yes, even flirting with the hospital staff, never once letting on how much pain you were in, just blew my mind. Even then you wouldn't let me help you put your socks and shoes on; "let me do what I can do," you said with your idiosyncratic gritted-teeth smile every time I tried to assist. The long ambulance ride back to your house only served to shame me even more—it was one of (hyperbole alert) the most uncomfortable journeys of my life, with the worst road-ragey, stoppy-starty driver ever, and I moaned every time I adjusted myself in that tiny, slippy seat like a whiny little bitch. You, however, looked as if you were having the time of your life, and you absolutely loved that batshit crazy driver.

I know the worst thing for you was the thought of having to depend on others. Being the strong, independent warrior that you were, more used to helping others than accepting help, it was something that filled you with so much dread. The news of having to be confined to a wheelchair the rest of your days hit you hard, but after a couple of days, and in your usual stoic manner, you took it all in your stride (well, you know what I mean) and started making plans to accommodate this new way of life. In our final texts you were telling me about taking the time to recover a bit after the last bout of chemo, which didn't prove successful, and that you'd be accepting a home-visit package from the hospice that would allow Luis, Allys and Annie to step back from having to provide care. Right until the end, you were thinking of others before yourself, and fighting so hard to maintain that which was so important to you, your independence and not being a burden to others.

There are a multitude of things about you that were "so you" and that I will never forget. How about a list? You always liked a good list.

Your giraffes
To say you loved them is a most ridiculous understatement. You practically were one. All your family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, strangers you passed on the street—they all knew you loved giraffes. None of us will ever look at a giraffe without thinking of you for the rest of our lives.  

Your Tottenham Hotspurs
My god, were you a fan. Again, an outrageous understatement. You were worse than the blokes at work when it came to football—how you loved it. For me, the ultimate example of your love for your team was when you travelled all on your own, by coach, to Madrid (with an overnight stay in Bilbao) to see the Spurs v Liverpool Champion's League Final last year. Not even cancer was going to stop you from that experience.

Your vending machine business
When you left ITE, it was a shock to the system, both yours and ours. But watching you build your own little business was thrilling. You really came into your own then. Driving around in your Mars van, with Betty obediently sitting in the passenger seat, you sporting your dark blue Mars uniform and work boots, building relationships with customers, being your own boss—man, it was perfect for you. I know it broke your heart when it became physically too much, and you had no choice but to give it up. It's amazing to think that you retired in June, two years ago now, and equally amazing to think how much living you did in those two years.

Your colour palette
Orange, mustard, maroon, purple, brown, turquoise, and in the last couple of years, bright red hair. Just this past month, there are only purple flowers in my garden, which I like to think have come out especially for you.

Your nails
Not the most common thing to remember of a person, but the one luxury you afforded yourself was having your nails done by your "nail lady" every Saturday morning. You always had the most beautiful, well-kept hands and, for some reason, I remember the sparkly-glittery bronze colour on your nails the most.

Your laugh
You had the best, loudest, dirtiest and most wicked of laughs. I loved hearing it from across the office at work. If I listen carefully, I can still hear it.

Your honesty and integrity
I think you were one of the most honest people I've ever known and the personification of integrity, hands down. Nothing more to be said.

Your tenacity
Oh you were a Taurus for sure. Once you'd made up your mind about something, you dug your heels in and that was that. But you were pretty much always right, goddammit!

Your generosity
You were so generous of your time and support, whether to family, friends, acquaintances, colleagues or people whose lives you were just passing through. How fortunate we have all been to have known you, no matter the duration. You'd always plan an outing with my mother when she was over from Spain, and even took friends of mine from the States—who you'd never met—out to Chartwell for the day when they were visiting. Who does that? The Browns, it seems. For not only were you generous, but so was Lindsay, for never failing to bring me a bunch of Top Decks from South Africa every time she visited the UK. 

Your fierce independence
Right until the end, you fought for your independence. Getting into your car and speeding off to wherever you pleased, whenever you pleased—that was the ultimate for you, wasn't it, Wend? 

Your intelligence, general knowledge and common sense
You were so smart, so business savvy, and you knew so much about all sorts of things. You had a curious, inquisitive mind and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Visiting museums or art galleries with you was a real treat as you were my own personal guide—in fact, you'd taken a London tour guide exam back in the day, hadn't you! I shall miss our visits to the theatre or comedy shows—well, back when I wasn't a hermit.

You did not suffer fools gladly
Sweet baby Jesus, you did not. Again, a scroll through your Facebook profile and a read of your posts is evidence enough to come to such a conclusion. "Common sense is not so common," you'd often say in our conversations. How I was allowed the honour of having you as my friend, I'll never know, but will always be grateful for it. 

OK, enough with the list now. It's freaking me out because I feel like I should put everything down, but that is impossible. Scouts, the school mums, needlework, being vegetarian, your love of speeding, your hatred of narrow streets, how you always made pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, our lunches at the Indian restaurant or Hugo's, your hugs, how you could fall asleep at will, how you never cleaned your bloody glasses, how you would always, without fail, ask about everyone at work years after you'd left, your facial expressions, your gestures, everything, all of it, for ever. 

For years I imagined what your funeral would be like, and for years we talked about it. Logistically, thanks to COVID-19, it was not at all what I had envisaged, but in terms of content, it was everything I thought it would be. Of course, I didn't attend in person. Lara leaving the house during a pandemic lockdown? Lara, who has only left the house 4 times since 23 March? Lara, with all her anxieties and complexes? Oh Wendy, it's sad to think that's exactly and entirely what you would have expected of me. But enough about me; I was talking about your funeral (now there's a sentence I've never said before). I think you would have approved. It was a lovely service, which most of us watched via webcast (I defer once again to COVID-19). Two little giraffes stood at the corners of the stage upon which your coffin sat, like little angels donned in purple ribbon, standing guard at your feet. The officiator read Lindsay's lovely tribute to you, John read "If" by Rudyard Kipling, and Allys read "The Dash Poem" by Linda Ellis, both poems utterly perfect choices and both stoically read by people who love you so dearly. Annie had a tough gig reading the letter from you, but did so beautifully, and the fact that you made her smile a couple of times with your words is testimony to who you are. The music you chose was perfect too: Gary Jules's version of "Mad World" as your coffin was brought in, Ralph McTell's "Streets of London" during which we sat in quiet contemplation of you and your life (and which I'm listening to as I write this), and, your guilty pleasure, one which you always said you'd get them to play, Barry Manilow's rendition of "Copacabana", bringing the service to an end. From each of those songs I have taken something for me, personally. The first, well, that's my song too; the second, your trying once again to show me that, hey, my life is OK; the third, to your ITE family, you were and always will be our showgirl. On the other side of this lockdown, we shall all get together to celebrate you and your life, girl. And, you'd better believe it, there'll be considerably more than ten of us!   

I am so desperately sorry that you were taken from your son so soon, Wendy. It breaks my heart as he was your whole world and reason for living. The image of Luis, head down and back towards us in the foreground, with your coffin in the background, caused a sob to escape from the very depths of my being as I watched the service. You were dealt a cruel blow, as was he. But, rest assured—and in peace—that the village you envisioned around him is indeed there, and it is strong and fierce, just as you were. More importantly, Luis was brought up by you, by your example; you are part of him. That is the greatest gift you could ever give him, the greatest legacy.

I miss you, Wendy. I miss our conversations, our texts, that mutual understanding we had. That rather out-of-place waffle simile in my opening paragraph felt like it came out of nowhere when I wrote it, but I realised upon reading and re-reading this that, of course, it didn't. The Whatsapp thread that we've had for years is called "Wendy and Lara's Waffle", a safe space in which each of us were able to share our deepest feelings, rant, vent, catch up, and just be. That thread has been quiet for over a month now and its silence is deafening, for you are no longer there on the other side, tapping "Morning" to me or telling me I smell. There have been times I've wanted to send you a message and I have had to catch myself... Our waffle is no more. How I wish there was an internet connection to the afterlife. 

I just bent down to feed Luna and said "Hello Wendy" to her. This is so hard. 

My life has a gaping hole where you once were, and there are times when I feel like I can't bear it, but I will try to fill it with memories of you, what you stood for and who you were. I will try to be like you, for you were everything a human being should be, Wendy, the best humanity has to offer. Thank you for being you and for being in my life. I will never ever forget you.

RIP 

Wendy Brown

26/04/1969 - 06/05/2020

Epilogue

I just received the following ratification in a message from Lindsay, Wendy's sister, without her knowledge of the opening paragraph and all its hand wringing: "The verbal word will die as we do, but the written word will always be here." Thank you, Lindsay.

To those who knew Wendy, if any of this triggers a memory or two, please do share in the Comments section below. Thank you.