After the concerts

Apologies in advance for the rambling/incoherent trajectory that this post might end up traversing, but I have no idea what I'll end up writing.

It's been one of those weeks. I'm last-minute cramming for a concert. I have friendly visitor ants who can't seem to understand how much I detest their presence in my house and keep stubbornly returning, despite my multiple killing rampages and threats. I've hurled imaginary incendiary emails at a friend whose email rubbed me the wrong way. I'm behind on my Chinese. I feel bad about not getting to talk to my mom this past weekend and I've been told that I'm "minimally qualified" for what might've been a dream job. Typical mundane snippets of life that as an aggregate can consume you. You think they are a big deal, because you expend so much energy dealing with these every day snippets.

And you use such snippets as an excuse to postpone those perhaps more important and less mundane things in life, like getting together with friends. Calling your parents. Visiting your friend in Sacramento or Vancouver.

But then you hear about people's real problems, and suddenly, your so-called problems seem so petty and insignificant.

One of my fellow choristers, DH Lawrence is dying of breast cancer. She joined the chorus around the same time I did. We toured Eastern Europe together. That was only 2 years ago. She is no longer singing in the choir, since her cancer has progressed to the point that she was told a few months ago that she has just a few months to live.

What does one do with such information? I haven't quite thought about What I'm Going to Do with the Last Three Months of My Life. Stay with my family? See a lot of my friends? Listen to lots of wonderful music? Eat gelato and pizza in Italy? Read Tolstoy? I don't know. But DH Lawrence has been planning her funeral, and at this past rehearsal, our director told us the list of pieces that she wanted sung at her services, and handed us the packet of music as if he were handing out concert repertoire for another season. DH and our director have had a few phone conversations about this. He says she's been very matter-of-fact about this whole thing and some people have even told me that she has been "having a blast" planning her funeral.

I'm happy for her that she can confront death and be so bold about it. I'm glad she's "having a blast". So if she's having a blast, why do the rest of us get teary-eyed when we look at this stack of music? Why am I reduced to a state of inaction and stupor when I look at the envelope that our director handed us during our last rehearsal?

I'm not ready to confront this music just yet. Somehow, just looking at this envelope is emotionally draining. It's music that I don't want to have to sing, or want to postpone singing for as long as I can.

If she can look death boldly in the face thus, why am I afraid to look at the contents of this manila envelope?

After the concerts. That's what I keep telling myself when I look away from the manila envelope; I'll deal with this later. When I have less things to "worry about"; when I'm done with my concerts and am no longer 4 weeks behind on my music. It's only 3 weeks away. 3 intense weeks. Not a whole lot of time, really.

But now I wonder, will there be an "after the concerts"? I thought I had an "after the concerts" for another friend of mine (also former chorister), Mary Contrary. She too, has been battling cancers, but has a longer life expectancy than DH--or so I thought. I have been thinking about her and have been wanting to go visit her and see how she's doing.

I've been remiss about keeping in touch with Mary Contrary. You know, the usual "life getting in the way" things I mentioned earlier-- Music. Job apps. Concerts. Press releases I need to write. Damn ants. Parents with problems. Siblings with problems. Friends with problems. But not cancer kind of problems. Problems with a very lowercase p.

So I planned to go see her after the concerts. Catch up over tea. I have a litany of "after the concerts" plans involving people I need to see and things I need to do, but MC was on the top of that ever-growing list.

Unfortunately, "after the concerts" will never come. She died this Tuesday. Before the concerts. On earth day. She didn't even make it to Shakespeare's birthday.

Sometimes you get so caught up in the pettiness that is life, that you forget that there is a "before the concerts". It doesn't occur to you to plan things "before the concerts", because you take for granted that there will always be an "after the concerts".

And yet, because of this arbitrary delineation that I decided to make, I never got to say my last goodbyes to her. I never got to tell her how much she's meant to me. Or tell her that I still think of her every time I write or edit something or read a style guide and agonize over commas. Or tell her how I think the world of her. Or that she's touched my life in indescribable ways.

It's not that I thought that my mundane life snippets were more important than these bigger things. I just thought I'd be able to focus more and give her and others more undivided attention after this; after that.
It never occurred to me that there might not be an "after".

Until today, that is, when I found out about her death.

Even MC bought into the notion of "after the concerts", because she too, had been planning a spring get-together for her closest friends. A mutual friend was helping her plan this little soiree and MC had just given her the first list of invitees late last week. They were supposed to talk again this week or soon, to finish going over the list, because it wasn't complete. Maybe she got tired before she could finish her list.

She never did finish her list and I never got to have tea with her.

But I was on her first list, as she was on the top of my own "after concerts plan to see friends" list.

Maybe this is some consolation.
Or not.

I'm not quite ready to say this, or close this thread, but may she rest in peace.