Helen

I'm ashamed to say I don't remember the exact date my friend died. It had to have been in 2008. Maybe someone will correct me. Another family member died a week after her, and it all became a blur. Helen was eighteen years older than I and we met when I was in my early twenties singing professionally at Trinity Cathedral, E. 22d Street in Cleveland. I had hosted a choir party at the house I shared with other students. At that party I got to know Helen and her amazing husband, George (more on that later). Primarily, aside from her honest, direct, passionate personality, I found out that, like me, she was addicted to chocolate. She personally conquered the bowl of M & M's in the living room. She laughingly referred to that event many times, especially when she resorted to Macrobiotics for her Tic Douloureux later. For Helen suffered mercilessly from this little-known neurological illness almost from the day I met her.

Helen, George, Ridge (my husband) and I began socializing, as well as singing together on such projects as The Coronation of Poppea, by Monteverdi, in the lobby of the Palace Theatre in Cleveland's theater district. We continued to sing as soloists at Trinity, and ate miraculous meals at Helen's table. She was an avid Julia Child cook, then, introducing me to making salad dressing directly in the bowl with the greens, using herbs I'd never heard of before. For a while she worked in a greenhouse, and taught me how to care for houseplants ("perlite, NOT vermiculite, Gail. Potting soil must have perlite!") We had many frank discussions about everything imaginable. Even though I was only a year older than her eldest daughter, we became close friends.

When Ridge landed a job in Washington, D.C., I tearfully left everyone I loved behind, including Helen and George. We found a church where we were instantly hired as baritone and alto soloist. I drove back to Cleveland frequently that first year to see all of my loved ones, family and friends, and I stayed in Helen's house once, despite my mother's protests--she wanted me at her house. George continued to make French Horns for King Instruments  (George is a genius, self-educated and internationally known for his beautiful horns). But not all that long after we'd moved, the two of them pulled up roots and moved to the Williamsburg, Virginia area to start over. Helen had been enamored with Williamsburg for years, and George wanted to make his own horns, unencumbered by having to give King Instruments all of his patents.

So we took up the friendship again, driving down to them for holidays, bringing our children there when they were born. Helen and George became my eldest, Katie's, godparents. Several visits were made during Helen's episodes of Tic, when she felt like an electric shock was going through her head. At one point, she told me that she understood the desire to commit suicide. I felt so helpless. George took her for several surgeries that helped for some time, and I believe, at the time of her death, Tic was the least of her problems.

As our children grew and no longer wanted to drive to Williamsburg with us, we didn't visit as often, and phone calls were more common than visits. The last call I remember having with her she wanted me to visit, but we couldn't swing the drive down. She always wanted us to stay the whole weekend which was difficult since we sang at our own church. I know she was hurt that we didn't visit more often, and it makes me sad to this day that we didn't. But the last time we talked, she said I love you. I said that I loved her, too, and she seemed happier. Even though we weren't driving down anymore, we had a bond of love that was always going to be there. 

I thought we had more time. She was not "old" to me. She was always Helen: Alive, vital, opinionated, musical, and loving. She died of an aneurysm in her abdomen, at home with her life-long love, George.

Even though Helen was my friend I did feel that, even though she was Katie's godmother, she was also mine. I dreamed of her, a while before she died, as a Godmother to me. I look at her picture now and feel her love. The love she demonstrated made me feel cherished and strong. How do you give back what someone like this gave to you, when she is not with you anymore? How can I?

You can't, I guess, but you can be grateful for such a wonderful gift of a shared life with someone who touched everyone she met. Thank you, Helen, for your gift of love.