September 13
 
 
 

Indulge me, for just another entry or two, while I continue to talk about Jeff Schechner.  His funeral was on Thursday and for me to try and explain how heartbreaking it was wouldn't even do it justice.  For me to tell you how awful it was to watch grown men--heads of departments, deans of colleges, weep as they tried to describe the horribly short life of someone as truly amazing as Jeff wouldn't be doing it justice.  I could tell you that his four year old son, Evan, stood up and said "I love my Daddy, and he loved fast cars.  I miss my Daddy" makes it seem almost cheap, but in my own short life, I have never ever had to go to something so difficult and horrible.  Person after person got up and said almost the same exact thing as I wrote,  that Jeff was a funny human being and concerned doctor, who was good at everything he did, and most of all, he loved his family.  I am not enough of a writer to give you all a clear idea of what it was like to sit there with three hundred crying people, all who've been touched in some way or another by Jeff.
 

I realized that evening a small part of what is making this so difficult for me.  As I'd said, he and I weren't buddies, so in some ways I feel as though I don't have a right to feel grief as acutely as I am feeling.  That perhaps I am overreacting to what really amounts to the too-soon death of a nice person, but on Thursday night, as I stepped out of the shower and stared at myself in the mirror, I realized that since I have known Jeff, I have never looked in the mirror without thinking of him, in some small way.  That when I see my wet hair, spots and all, I think of how Jeff is responsible for making me feel better about myself and my stupid condition.  How his being in my life made the annoyance and embarrassment of alopecia not seem as important.  Every single time I see my reflection, and I am sure every time I ever see my reflection, I will always think of Jeff and how he gave me courage to deal with it, and move on, and the kind and funny way he's treated me over the years.

I have unfilled prescriptions from Jeff in my house, my pockets, my car.  I have an appointment card for next week.  I have stupid little things that I'm not sure I'm ready to get rid of or fill because with each passing day Jeff's ties to the living seem more tenuous, which is almost sadder than the thunderclap of his death.

My lab took up a collection to donate to the Dermatology Foundation in his name.  When the envelope came my way, I looked at the singles and fives stuffed in there and realized that I couldn't just hand over my five dollars of lunch money.  I mean, how can I put a price on someone's memory?  What is the appropriate monetary value to someone I truly care about and who cared about  me?  I wrote the check for $100, but honestly, a million wouldn't have even been enough.
 
 

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