Among my most vivid childhood memories are
two: the day my friend Jenni Harris died and the following Monday when while
sitting in homeroom just one chair behind her empty one (Harrison always
immediately followed Harris), her death was announced over the PA system to the
entire school. The death of a loved one hurts. Losing a close friend at such a
young age leaves a scar. If you’re lucky, the death of someone close can also
leave an unexpected gift.
Like our names, my and Jenni’s birthdays
were also back to back, in this case hers two days after mine. For her 15th
birthday, I made a personalized box for her to keep trinkets and bought a
silver butterfly necklace that I placed inside. On May 23, 1981, my mom drove
me to Jenni’s house so I could leave the box and necklace for her as a belated birthday
gift. It was one month to the day after her birthday. She had been at CHOP for
an extended stay, and I was eager for her to know her birthday hadn’t been
forgotten. Unfortunately, I was too late. That embroidered personalized box and
necklace sit in a box of childhood keepsakes that has traveled with me
throughout my life.
At first, I didn’t understand. When I
arrived at the Harris home, Jenni’s mom came to the door and tried to explain to
me that she was gone, yet I kept pressing with questions: what do you mean
she’s gone? I know she’s at the hospital. I just want to leave this for
her? Looking back, I realize this must have been just hours after Jenni
passed. As an adult, as a mom, my heart breaks for Mrs. Harris who in those raw
hours was faced with me trying to understand what she herself was just starting
to process.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew Jenni had Cystic
Fibrosis (CF). We all did. She talked about it openly. She told us she was
lucky because she was only supposed to live to be 7 or 8 years old. According
to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, today over 50% of those with CF are over 18.
Many live into their 20’s and 30’s, but Jenni was born in 1966. I visited her during
many of her hospital stays. I saw the bad moments. I watched her treatments
where they beat her sides while she had to inhale that icky mist to loosen the
phlegm. I saw her hooked up to the IV that sustained her. I witnessed her taking
it in stride as she got poked and prodded by nurses. So, yeah, I knew she was
sick. Really sick. I knew it was serious. What I didn’t fully comprehend was that
my funny, vibrant friend would actually die – let alone without warning. I
thought I’d at least see it coming.
Luckily, I have many memories of Jenni’s
life to offset the ones surrounding her death. Her beaming smile and her sense of humor are
foremost. Cystic Fibrosis may have ravaged her body, but it didn’t consume her
spirit. Even when the illness would
flare up and hospitalization was required, as it too often was, she made fun out
of it. I’m surely not the only friend she’d engage in wheelchair races with up
and down the halls of the peds unit at Holy Redeemer Hospital. That’s how Jenni
approached life. With zest, eagerness,
and a desire to have fun no matter the circumstance.
Of course, as any kid would, Jenni hated the
CF. She couldn’t stand being sick. She couldn’t stand being so skinny and physically
childlike when everyone around her was growing up. And, she certainly couldn’t
understand one of her close friends doggedly refusing to eat, fighting against those
normal processes of puberty that she herself was so eager to embrace. Jenni, like
so many others, would implore me to eat. I didn’t, I couldn’t listen. Then
Jenni died. Jenni’s death was my wake-up call. I recall the very moment later during
that day her death was announced over the school’s PA system when I realized I
could choose what she couldn’t. How dare I waste that opportunity when she wanted
it so badly. I had a journey ahead of me for sure, but Jenni got me to the
start. I wish I could thank her for that.
Memory is an interesting phenomenon. Two
people can experience the same exact events while their memories of these
shared events can be diametrically opposed.
I could continue sharing personal memories of Jenni, but anyone who knew
her has their own unique and special memories of their time with her. Differing
and varied memories for sure. Some crystal
clear and others faded with the passage of time. All of us who knew Jennifer
Lynn Harris, though, can share in an incredibly important lesson from her life.
Jenni had 15 years in this world. That’s
it. She made the very best of those few
years facing each day with courage and all the joy she could muster, but she
only had 15. So many of us choose to
avoid talking about our age as if we should, or could for that matter, ignore
the passage of time simply by refusing to count. Why? Jenni’s life and death taught
me very early on to celebrate the very opportunity to have days and years to
count. Had she lived, who knows if my and Jenni’s friendship would have endured
the passage of time. Her death has made her memory indelible, eternally present
in my life as a gift. A reminder to savor growing old.
