In Memory of Leslie O’Hanen

I don’t recall my exact age when Leslie and I became bosom buddies. Somewhere in the vicinity of thirteen? We attended the same Christian school, which her Mom enrolled her in for the sake of ” hopefully doing her some good.” She was younger than me, but had the more dominant personality. She was also stronger than me (and every other girl), physically. She was a brute, actually, for her age and gender. A bona fide tomboy and a jolly hoot, combined.

Somehow, she found it pleasing to make me her pet, to which I submitted, joyfully.

Leslie and I were polar opposites. I was 5’2″. She was 5’7″. I weighed about 110 pounds. She weighed … well, I don’t know. Much more. I dressed conservatively and wasn’t much into pop culture. She was into leather, open fingered gloves, thick blue eye shadow, Cyndi Lauper, and Madonna. Oh, at school she had to dress “right” and tone down her hair and makeup. But get that girl home on the weekend and her hair grew by twelve inches and her skirts shrunk by six. She loved to dress up as the music icons she adored and dance around the house, MTV rock star style.

Meanwhile, I’d sit on the couch and munch on caramel corn and other deliciously sinful snacks her mom had whipped up, content to watch her imitate the pros.

Leslie was the star, I was the spectator. And we liked it that way.

My love for Leslie was great, but her mom (Jane) and I may have had a greater emotional connection. Jane and Ralph were Leslie’s parents, but Jane had an older daughter, Laurie, from a previous marriage, who was killed in a car wreck years before, and was “my twin”, as Jane would say.

Not only do you look like Laurie. You act like her, she’d say with tears in her eyes.

So Jane took a liking to me hanging around, as it eased a deep longing for Laurie, who she loved so deeply but couldn’t have. And I was happy to oblige, as I was the sort to enjoy easing loneliness.

Truth be told, I had a heart condition that was growing increasingly problematic, and I often wondered whether my own Mom would have to go through the loneliness of having lost a daughter, and I was curious to know what grief might look like for her.

Morbid, maybe. But it was what it was.

Turned out my heart condition is what would be the glue that bonded Leslie and I together, as hard times often have that effect on two people. One Friday, I stayed the weekend at her house. Picture it: conservative, play by the rules cardiac patient and hyper-jolly punk rocker in a huge house, alone. With a pan of fudge. Rock music. Movies I wasn’t allowed to watch. A gallon of AquaNet. Curling irons. And a stack of huge, round bristle brushes, waiting to help us create some wicked 80’s hair.

By the time midnight rolled around and the neighbors were adequately annoyed at Leslie’s boom box, this heart patient was pooped, ready to sleep the regular 12-13 hours that was so often required just to be functional the next day. But Leslie kept on tickin’. She had the sense to quit dancing, lower her music, and put the brushes away, but her mouth opened and never did close until 8:00 the next morning. We had stayed up all night. Her talking. Me listening to her dramatic stories of public school that horrified me and made me rejoice that I was a nobody living in Nothing Town, attending Podunk Christian School. Obscurity obtained by being born in a small town and attending a school of 20 high school students, I concluded, was a blessing.

So morning arrived and Leslie was ready to rock and roll. I was ready to roll, too — right back into bed. Tired could not even begin to describe my plight. We made breakfast and I ate. Picked, mainly. All that egg and bacon protein didn’t look very appetizing and promised very little to a fatigued brain and body.

Just. Need. Some carbs.

Then I remembered the fudge. My cardiologist had me on a strict diet of no caffeine, which meant no chocolate. But I was desperate for even a smidgen of energy and popped two squares into my mouth.

That oughtta do it!

Twenty minutes later, the caffeine-sugar buzz kicked in. I climbed the stairs, thinking I’d shower and carpe diem, but found myself stuck at the fourth stair from the top landing, unable to climb, panting, short of breath, suffering from a severe episode of supraventricular tachycardia.

Almost nothing freaked Leslie out, but one look at my ghostly face and her normally ruddy cheeks mirrored mine. 911 was called, my Mom was called, and soon, a Sheriff was slapping oxygen on me, paramedics were strapping a heart monitor on my chest, and we were flying down the highway, sirens blaring.

Leslie was the queen of drama, but it turned out she wasn’t too keen on real life drama.

“You scared the crap outta me!” she yelled at me once I was home from the hospital.

“Yeah sorry about that. I guess I can’t be like most kids and skip a full night’s rest and eat whatever I want.”

From then on, Leslie let me sleep whenever I needed. Chocolate was deemed as fatal as a nuclear weapon and altogether disappeared from her house. And I gained a bodyguard. If you messed with me, you messed with her.

The trip to the ER via ambulance was never forgotten in Leslie’s mind, and though her tomboyish-ness made it difficult for her to express her concern, she managed in her own way. A Hallmark card and a bouquet of pink roses would have sufficed, but assuming the role of bodyguard worked, too, as did growling at me like a vicious dog whenever I got a caffeine craving and reached for an ice cold Pepsi or Hershey’s bar – her way of saying “don’t touch that.”

She became fiercely protective of me, even if the protection called for was against myself. Nobody was going to hurt her friend – not even her friend!

When I was fifteen, Leslie, Jane, and Ralph moved three hours away to a town that made Podunk seem as grand as New York City. We kept in touch. Then I married, and we lost touch. Last time I spoke with her was 1997, when she called me to shoot the breeze. She’d had a son. I’d had two daughters and a son. We chatted for a good hour, laughed, and unbeknownst to us, said goodbye for the last time.

We’d lost touch forever. Partly because time and space made it difficult for school chums stay tethered, partly because Leslie was killed in a logging accident six years ago. I learned this two weeks ago, and she’s been heavy on my mind since.

Jane, too. Jane, especially. Now she’s lost two daughters and a husband too, as Ralph died a short while after Leslie’s accident.

I don’t know the specifics and I don’t need to. All I know is that the world lost a unique, kind, crazy, protective soul. Thirty six years isn’t long to live, and had Leslie and I had to guess who would’ve lived the longest, well …. the guess would’ve been obvious. I would go first, whenever my ticker decided to stop ticking.

Life is strange and I don’t understand it. Rarely, nowadays, do I try and understand it, as I’ve come to realize God has His ways, I have mine, and the two hardly ever pair up nice and neat. Pieces of Leslie and Jane’s story will never make sense, perhaps not even in Heaven.

Unfathomable pain and sorrow are Jane’s to bear, and a part of me wants to just show up on her doorstep, embrace her, and ease her loneliness once more. Remind her all will be well someday. Assure her of God’s omniscience. Maybe say her sorrow is not for naught.

So Jane, if you’re out there, I’m sorry for your losses. I’m sorry I didn’t know, or I would’ve reached out long ago. Leslie was the best. You were the best. Thank you for making a difference in my life … more than you knew at the time, and probably more than you will ever know.

And Leslie, girl. I’m still shocked and rather appalled that you took outta here before me. Who would’ve thought, huh? If you’re wondering, to this day, I don’t eat chocolate. Or drink Pepsi. I don’t eat or drink much, in fact, but that’s a story I’ll tell you later, assuming you made the right decision about the most important choice in life.

Until then, I’ll tuck our memories away and enjoy them from time to time, just as I did before I learned of your untimely death. Forever etched in my mind is a picture of you walking into the classroom, wearing a skirt made of black sweater material that fell below your knees, paired with a black and yellow horizontally striped sweater that hung past your bum, dancing to music nobody but you heard. You looked like a gigantic jammin’ bumblebee, ready to take fight if you could only find your wings.

Your personality was one of a kind, and even though we lost touch years before your death, the news of your death has brought me sorrow. How does one grieve properly when a death has long passed, unbeknownst to the grieved? Well, one writes a blog and borrows a simple line from a swell book that sums up one’s friend best:

“You is smart, you is kind, you is important.”

Important enough to dedicate a blog in your name.

Rest in peace, girlfriend. You’ve probably got your wings now, so fly all night long, if you please. When I stop tickin’, we’ll go another round with that fudge.

And Jane, if this reaches you, hit me up. We’ll have tea and shoot the breeze about a couple of remarkable gals you call “daughter.”