By Jacquie Rath
My friend Paula and I began our friendship in an unusual way. Our love of animals brought us together many summers ago. The call I received that night was from her. At the time she was a stranger, and I viewed her call as a bit of an annoyance.
I had been feeding a stray cat in our neighborhood for a couple of years. I guess you could argue that after being fed for that long, he really wasn't a stray. I had him neutered and treated for an infection, to the tune of almost a thousand dollars. Again, you could argue that after benefiting from such an investment, he really wasn't a stray anymore. I finally committed to him, and put a collar and name tag on him with my phone number engraved on the tag.
Apparently, my home wasn't the only place the cat, named Grayson, went to eat and sleep. Paula was calling to complain that I had put a name tag on her cat. She had been feeding him for a few months, and her granddaughter had even named him Big Boy - a name he'd clearly earned, since he was eating meals at both of our homes on a regular basis. She demanded to know exactly how long I had been involved with him. Our relationship began as a custody battle over a feline with two names.
Paula told me that she had removed the collar I put on him because he might get it caught on something, and suggested that I come over to her house and pick up the collar. I told her she was welcome to bring the collar to me. She quickly replied that she was a senior citizen who never left her home.
I was taken aback. Suddenly this intimidating presence on the phone became much softer, and I realized the cat's significance to her. She gave me her address and I marched around the block to collect my cat and his collar.
When I arrived on her doorstep, I knew immediately that there would be no argument. In fact, we became fast friends. As I left her home that first evening, I remember thanking her for looking out for Big Boy/Grayson while I was gone. I also told her I'd be back in a week with photos and stories from my trip, and I promised to come by.
Over time, we found a way to share custody of Big Boy. We also shared the people in our lives. She became more than just a fellow animal lover with a heart of gold. She became a friend, a substitute mom and a psychotherapist rolled into one. She sent birthday cards, called to check in if I was sick, shared wonderful stories, and most of all just listened.
Then life just got in the way. I had a baby and went back to work. There were meetings, play dates and other commitments. I visited her less frequently but called when I could, which became sporadic at best.
Adding to the perpetual state of chaos that is our lives, my family recently put our house up for sale. Paula, who was a real estate agent many years ago, offered advice and suggestions. She was very supportive, and called constantly, asking about the process. It was wonderful to learn from her experience, and I think it made her happy to be so involved.
Suddenly our weekends were filled with open houses, mortgage applications and searches for our dream house. But it was beginning to feel like we would never find a buyer for our home. In early February I called Paula to see if we could celebrate the holidays ... much too late. As soon as she answered the phone, I knew something was wrong. She told me that she was very ill and on her way to the hospital.
I spent some time in Franklin General Hospital at her bedside a few weeks ago. It was a Sunday night. She wasn't expected to make it through the night. She was one of those people who was always there for her friends and family, so it was up to those of us standing by her in the hospital to somehow help her get through the last few hours of her life. As I hugged her and told her how much I loved her, she looked up at me and said, "I have no more tears to cry." I went home that night not knowing if I would ever see my friend again.
I woke up the next morning wondering what had happened. Was she still alive? I cringed every time the phone rang that day. At dinnertime I began to feel optimistic about Paula - after all, no news is supposed to be good news.
Then, during dinner that evening, the phone rang. I answered, and heard news I had been waiting for. We had sold our house. I was thrilled. As I hung up and ran to tell my husband and daughter, the phone rang again. I was sure it was my real estate agent, having forgotten to tell me something. It wasn't. It was a friend, calling to tell me that Paula had just died. I stood there in shock and disbelief.
I couldn't believe she was gone. I couldn't believe I wouldn't see her again. I couldn't believe I wouldn't be able to tell her the news about our house.
Then, for a minute, I couldn't help but think the events were somehow cosmically connected. And that as a final gift to my family, my dear friend Paula had coaxed some form of divine intervention on my family's behalf and found a buyer for our home.
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