Susie
By Stephanie Kemp
Susie died on Tuesday. Her daughter posted it on FB. It was heartbreaking and absolutely shocking, despite the fucker of a cancer that busted through her door so violently and out of the blue last year.
Shocking because she was such a force, and because she thought she was finally on the other side of it. She thought she did it. Her family thought she did it. The doctors thought she did it. In classic Susie style and strength, she posted pictures of herself laughing in a field with her family picking berries on the 4th of July, less than two weeks ago. We all got to think she did it.
We never met in person, only on writing Zooms and a couple of FaceTimes, starting at the beginning of the pandemic.
Before the sudden impossibility of her diagnosis.
She was older than me, but seemed younger in the best ways: Curious. Half Full. Optimistic. Vulnerable. She bragged about her daughters and adored her husband. She held and was held by her faith. I loved talking to her. She was always doing or planning or looking forward to something fun. Doing something, or anything, with her family. (She also said she was trying to love doing nothing, but that it wasn’t going very well.)
She made me feel like I was the most interesting person on the planet, even on the days when I knew this couldn’t possibly be true. She was funny and self deprecating, but I could tell through her posture and smile and twinkling eyes that she was rock solid in her boots. I could tell by the ownership and readiness of her laugh that she Loved and was Loved with capital Ls.
She’d had a bad ass job (emergency helicopter nurse even though she was terrified of flying -can this possibly be right?) but wanted to write about other things. Everything, but not anything. She was grateful for and excited about all the things she wanted to write (and still do or try). She was always the first to share her stories with the group, always visibly nervous but very bravely open to feedback.
She always had a trillion questions about:
…the process of writing.
…someone else’s story.
…something you may have said in passing that gave her a hint about your life.
…the Expert of the Week’s experience or back story.
…her own word choices, character detail, story structure, ending.
She always Zoomed or FaceTimed from what looked like her bed, sitting up against some sort of rustic wood headboard, amused by and describing what was happening outside her windows, full of nature’s mischief and majesty. She excitedly told stories about her grandkids. Her friends. Her family. Her plans. She phoned nothing in and scribbled down lots of notes out of frame.
I remember we were in a breakout room once and started talking about our daughters. There were other people in there with us and we were supposed to be thinking up questions for The Expert. We were running out of time so we secretly exchanged numbers in the chat but never made a call happen. I wish we had. I wanted to ask her about her helicopter nursing days and hear more about what she saw outside her window. I had and still have so many questions for her.
Plus, I want to thank her for reminding me to laugh and inspiring me to be brave.
RIP, Susie. I am grateful for you.
cc: Heather and Devon
Shocking because she was such a force, and because she thought she was finally on the other side of it. She thought she did it. Her family thought she did it. The doctors thought she did it. In classic Susie style and strength, she posted pictures of herself laughing in a field with her family picking berries on the 4th of July, less than two weeks ago. We all got to think she did it.
We never met in person, only on writing Zooms and a couple of FaceTimes, starting at the beginning of the pandemic.
Before the sudden impossibility of her diagnosis.
She was older than me, but seemed younger in the best ways: Curious. Half Full. Optimistic. Vulnerable. She bragged about her daughters and adored her husband. She held and was held by her faith. I loved talking to her. She was always doing or planning or looking forward to something fun. Doing something, or anything, with her family. (She also said she was trying to love doing nothing, but that it wasn’t going very well.)
She made me feel like I was the most interesting person on the planet, even on the days when I knew this couldn’t possibly be true. She was funny and self deprecating, but I could tell through her posture and smile and twinkling eyes that she was rock solid in her boots. I could tell by the ownership and readiness of her laugh that she Loved and was Loved with capital Ls.
She’d had a bad ass job (emergency helicopter nurse even though she was terrified of flying -can this possibly be right?) but wanted to write about other things. Everything, but not anything. She was grateful for and excited about all the things she wanted to write (and still do or try). She was always the first to share her stories with the group, always visibly nervous but very bravely open to feedback.
She always had a trillion questions about:
…the process of writing.
…someone else’s story.
…something you may have said in passing that gave her a hint about your life.
…the Expert of the Week’s experience or back story.
…her own word choices, character detail, story structure, ending.
She always Zoomed or FaceTimed from what looked like her bed, sitting up against some sort of rustic wood headboard, amused by and describing what was happening outside her windows, full of nature’s mischief and majesty. She excitedly told stories about her grandkids. Her friends. Her family. Her plans. She phoned nothing in and scribbled down lots of notes out of frame.
I remember we were in a breakout room once and started talking about our daughters. There were other people in there with us and we were supposed to be thinking up questions for The Expert. We were running out of time so we secretly exchanged numbers in the chat but never made a call happen. I wish we had. I wanted to ask her about her helicopter nursing days and hear more about what she saw outside her window. I had and still have so many questions for her.
Plus, I want to thank her for reminding me to laugh and inspiring me to be brave.
RIP, Susie. I am grateful for you.
cc: Heather and Devon