Unstoppable

It is 1990, the year of the Commonwealth Games in Auckland, amongst the cast of volunteers, my old and vivacious friend, Elizabeth. She’s an ardent volunteer, joining her family at the Mission for Christmas lunch, doing great things that make a difference. Generous with her time, her enthusiasm. She is unstoppable, I think.

I am newly arrived in Auckland, and have casual work for a crew who bring exchange students to NZ from my other home, Japan. I’m tasked with finding host families, securing a local venue, creating a programme, and delivering it to the 10 or so students, in a mix of English and Japanese.

Friday the 23rd of February, and the kids come to my house, a low-key party for one of the women who is celebrating her birthday, far from friends and family in a foreign land. Lizzy drops by, and true to form, she brings a gift for the guest of honour, even though this is the first time they have met. We take a photo on the bare deck with my tiny camera, long before mobile phones were a thing – it’s fuzzy and distant, but soon that won’t matter. 




Monday morning, and my life changes forever.  We’re in session, settled in the church hall we’re using for our classroom, when my husband and the co-ordinator  – a tall and strong woman named Robyn - drive up. They are pale, shaken, and I immediately know something is up.

“Lizzy’s had a car accident. She’s gone,” he cries, as I try desperately to comprehend this impossible situation. “Your sister, Lizette?” I ask, horrified that this could happen on such a sunny day in the middle of a perfect Kiwi summer. “No, Elizabeth,” he replies, his face contorted with anxiety and grief. I stumble back into the classroom, shock coursing through my body, struggling to explain to my students that I cannot stay, that Robyn will take over. “You met her on Friday, she came to the party” I stutter, and then I fall apart.

It is my first real encounter with death. I go to visit my friend at the funeral home, but she looks all wrong – it’s not the bruising, but the hair which is brushed up, not soft and curly like I remember. I’m too afraid to touch her, though that fear diminishes over the years as I meet more and more people after they have died. Many are beautiful in death, but I can’t say this about my friend – the truth is too harsh, I am not ready to accept it.

The next few days are a blur – baking muffins, visiting her stricken parents, attending the funeral. The church is packed on a scorching day, and amongst the disbelief, there is humour - the minister jokes that Lizzy was not a morning person, and we all laugh, as tears are still drying on our cheeks. Later, we head to Purewa, and I lift my friend out of the hearse, the dead weight a surprise and a shock. After the brief ritual, the casket drops on the catafalque, and a moan slips from my lips, the reality of her death staring me in the face. Her friend Robert and I are forever joined in love and in sorrow, two pallbearers who expected to attend her wedding. Not this. Not the loss of our precious Lizzy.

***

As her 36th anniversary rolls around, I ponder what life would have been like for my friend, with my friend. A life rich with great food and adventures and stories to share. Life with all the tough bits, the failures, and the heartbreak. I pledge to use her middle name for my child, but my sons escape being called Rose. I ponder on the unfairness of it all, how good people die, whether there is justice in the world.

But Barbara Kingsolver brings me back to earth, as I reread The Poisonwood Bible, a tale of hanging on to life tooth and nail in circumstances that we can only imagine. She reminds me:

“Don’t try to make life a mathematics problem with yourself in the centre and everything coming out equal. When you are good, bad things can still happen. And if you are bad, you can still be lucky.”


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