Sarah Gormley is a writer and art gallery-owner living in Columbus, Ohio. Gormley's undergraduate degree from DePauw University reinforced her early love for literature and writing. She also holds an MBA from the University of Chicago Booth School of Business. In her corporate career, Gormley directed marketing efforts for global brands, including IMAX, Martha Stewart, Girl Scouts of the USA and Adobe.
Brooks and I flew to St. Louis from New York to attend the funeral for Tucker's 3-month-old baby boy who died of SIDS two days before. His name was Finbar, but in my head, he will always be "Finn," the nickname our crew assigned to him. We assured our friend Tucker that the nickname might help her son endure less teasing when he started school, something he never got to do.
The wall of heat hit us as soon as we landed. That specific kind of midwestern heat sticks to your skin, a visceral reminder you are nowhere near a coast, that no relief of a breeze is coming.
Our friend group includes 11 girls, and while women is the more accurate word, I still think of us as girls because we've known each other since college. And from the day we graduated from DePauw University and moved out of the Pi Beta Phi sorority house, we've stayed closely entwined in one another's lives.
At the time, most of us knew the grief of losing a grandparent, or an aging dog with gray chin hairs and bad hips. We were old enough to have children and important jobs. We were adults. Adults are supposed to understand things, but this grief was disorienting. This grief was foreign, something we only learned about in books and movies, or heard about from somebody else who knew somebody else who experienced this kind of loss.
An hour later, we were walking across the scorched pavement of the church parking lot like some type of sports team uniformed in black sheath dresses. An usher directed us to a pew toward the front of the church and I saw Nancy hesitate, indicating to him no, no that’s okay, we don’t need to sit up here with Tucker’s family.
“She asked us to make sure you ladies sit in front, together,” the usher said, bowing his head slightly. We did what Tucker wanted, of course. We were here for her, all ten of us lined up in a straight row, like reluctant, somber dignitaries, our hot shoulders bumping as we turned off phones, found tissues and wondered where to cast our eyes.
When she finally walked into the sanctuary from a side door with her husband, she mouthed, “You’re all here,” as if she was surprised to see us even though she reserved the pew for us and knew we were coming. I don’t recall what the pastor said or if there was any comfort in his words, but the love for Tucker - and each other - expanded in our bodies, a physical reaction to her pain. I suddenly felt the importance of us being seated together, a solid line Tucker could feel behind her.
I don’t recall hugging her after the service, although I’m sure we did, and I don’t recall driving away from the church to go to her house. I do recall the heat. There was a white tent over the driveway to shield us from the blazing sun, but the sweat ran down the inside of my dress, down my back and legs. I wondered if grief could trickle out of us the same way, through sweat and tears and snot and pure exhaustion. I drank Pinot Grigio and watched condensation form on the outside of the glass, pressing my palm to the coolness and then to the back of my neck.
As I stood under the tent, I could see Tucker through the kitchen window. I wasn't the only one. Everyone was watching her, studying her and wondering what a woman should look like two days after she's lost her baby boy. I imagined her opening her mouth to roar, the caged lioness so tired of being observed. Instead, Tucker went to the freezer to refill an ice bucket. She stood in front of the open door for several seconds and let the fog of cold air wash over her.
Brooks lifted up a folding chair to move to the other side of one of the long tables under the tent. The motion made me think about how you lift up a baby. I tried to push the image away, but couldn't stop thinking about who lifted Finn from the crib that day, who felt the weight of his 3-month-old body and the instinct to pull him in close, not knowing it would be the last time.
We're all here, I thought as I watched Tucker come outside again, trying to smile. I wondered if there was something I should say to her and whether she would ever really laugh again.
Later that night, the girls and I returned to the hotel. The next day we boarded early morning flights out of the heat and back to our respective homes. Tucker’s life changed forever, but we went back to the same lives we’d briefly interrupted to go to St. Louis. I feared Finn’s funeral might become blurry the way things often do in past tense, that we would become the “somebody else” group people referenced when they told the story about the awful thing that happened to somebody that somebody else knew.
But the girls continued to get together at least once every year, usually twice, planning trips for special occasions and big birthdays, and we were especially thankful when Tucker welcomed sons Joe and Abe into the world. From the day we graduated, we had a special bond people often asked about, usually praising our closeness with a mix of curiosity and envy, wondering how we managed to stay connected for so many years.
Depending on who was asking I usually said something quick in response like,“We’ve just always prioritized each other,” or “I don’t know,we just got lucky,”and while both things are true,neither explanation feels adequate;just like calling these girls “friends”continues to feel wildly insufficient.I secretly believe most of us are closer to one another than our own siblings,but we don’t say that aloud.
Seven years ago when my mom died,the girls flew in to be there with me without hesitation.I could feel the line of them behind me at church loaning me their strength.In months that followed as I learned to navigate that strange mix of grief and gratitude,I was surprised by how often my mind returned to that day in St.Louis.The memory of us in hotel room arriving at church oppressive heat.The order of things was same not blurry at all but significance shifted.Only then many years later did I begin to appreciate Finn’s death as an event that changed all of us without us even knowing.
I’ve read that during pregnancy some of fetus’s cells lodge in mother’s body becoming part of her.The presence of cells from one individual persisting in another person is called microchimerism.Somehow knowing that Tucker likely still had Finn’s unique cells in her body felt right,reassuring even.
This medical concept while complex makes sense to me now as I try to better explain our friendship too.While I understand intellectually that love between us is emotional,I swear I can feel girls in my body as if they are part of my DNA,spreading from heart out into limbs as I move through my day.
Recently my brother asked me the question we've all heard before: "How is it that all of you have stayed so close for so long?"
This time I hesitated,and for a second considered telling him about Finn's death.But I didn't.I didn't expect him to understand what it felt like to sit next to my friends in the church pew at Finn's funeral,and I didn't expect anyone else to understand what it feels like to carry them with me.Only years later,having learned to appreciate that their friendship lives inside my body,on a cellular level.
I now believe his funeral was the day I started carrying the girls with me.
“We just got lucky,” I said,and quietly thanked Finn for what he’d given us.