when God closes a door, he opens a window

It was winter. It was January. It was cold and windy, like most winter days in South Dakota. It was 2003. I was spending hours and hours at the hospital. St. Mary’s, in Pierre, to be exact.

She was 50. She was an agent. I met her through work and she was gone way too soon. She was a really, really good friend.

I wrote her obituary.

On my way to the studio today I thought about her all the way down Euclid. The Eagles song, Peaceful Easy Feeling was playing. One of her favorite songs. That song was played at her funeral.

I can still hear her voice. I can still smell her perfume, Donna Karan, Cashmere Mist. I miss her. She always called me Peg.

She had cancer. It started in her mouth. A local Pierre dentist, Dr. Monty Bechtold, found it on her tongue during a routine checkup. (side note – his daughter, Cori, is one of my favorite people and she has been in my life for only five years—life is ironic for sure). It was melanoma. She had to have part of her tongue removed and had to have a lot of speech therapy afterwards. It seemed as though everything was good. It wasn’t. More cancer in her lungs. She had several surgeries to remove cancer spots in her lungs. Man, she was a fighter. She always said it was just a speed bump and that it was going to be okay. It spread from there. It was in her brain and in her bones. She didn’t have long. She had to go into the hospital before Christmas and then she was moved to sub-acute. She said that was the place where people go to die. She was a realist. I loved that about her.

She was ready to retire. In fact, the party had been planned and the date had been set. In the best interests of her federal benefits, it was decided that leave donation until the end would serve her best.

We had so much fun at work. Most people aren’t lucky enough to be able to have fun at work. We did every day. That’s how we coped with the awfulness of the job. She had the perfect Pee Wee Herman laugh. She nailed it every.single.time. We played Star Trek on the radio. Whenever she left for the day, she always said, “minyana.” Translation: tomorrow.

One of the times I was at her house before she went in the hospital, I asked her if there was anything she needed. She whispered, “courage.” That was a slap of truth right in the face. I bought her a necklace with a little charm that said, “courage.” To see someone so full of life and then to see them connecting the dots that they aren’t going to make it kind of changes the way you look at things.

Her favorite holiday was the 4th of July. Her least favorite holiday was Halloween. Her sister had died then. She loved good food and good scotch. The more it tasted like dirt the better. Yuck! We have a picture of her at the hospital in her bed, bald head, wearing her glasses and holding a bottle of scotch. She made everything fun. That’s how she was.

She had the most beautiful blue eyes and an engaging smile. She was fun-loving and would do anything for anybody. She was in the service business and she served well. She was not very fond of kids, but when I had Tayler, she loved her. She held her and talked to her and just stared at her. Tayler is named after her.

She had a friend named Nancy. I met Nancy through her. We clicked. We spent the hours together at the hospital. Every day we could see the changes. She was becoming weaker and weaker. I remember one day so clearly. I walked in and I could just see the bones in her fingers and arms. She couldn’t wear her rings anymore. It was hard to look at. There was no way I wasn’t going to be there with her though. Same with Nancy. Thick and thin. Always.

Her step-daughter, Kathy, came a few weeks before the end. She was awesome. Nancy and I totally fell in love with her. We became very, very close with her. She was a riot. She was like our own kid.

Her husband was also there, spending the time with us at the hospital. It was weird and so surreal, just waiting for someone to die. Not knowing when it was going to happen. Not knowing how long it could take. Not knowing how long it would take. She grew weaker every day. Her breathing became more and more shallow. She still knew us though. Every time I hugged her when I went to leave, and I mean every time, she always said, “You always smell so nice.”

That day, the end, Nancy, Kathy, Bill and I were gathered around her bed. The hospice people told us it was time. It was just so weird. We didn’t know what to say. We just cried. She took a big deep breath. The hospice lady said, “and that was her last breath.” Really? Nah, just kidding. She wasn’t done yet. She got us all one last time. Did I forget to mention she had a really good sense of humor? It wasn’t long after though, I think it was just a few more breaths and she was gone. She was at peace. She was free. I remember thinking that I just had to get out of there. I went and started making phone calls. She had a lot of friends and a lot of people who loved her.

The day of the funeral was cold and windy. It was snowy too. People came from all over. See, my friend, Alexandra “Sandy” Asbury, was an FBI Agent. She was a law enforcement officer (LEO). She was amazing. She was well-respected and well-liked. She was going to be missed.

The church was packed. So many people. I remember meeting her parents for the first time and her brother. Her dad was also an agent and so was her brother. It was so sad to see that pain. I wasn’t sure her parents were going to be able to handle it.

It was a beautiful service. We were all just trying to hold it together. It was hard, but we were doing it. Then Amazing Grace, on the bagpipes… I still get goosebumps.

The saying, “When God closes a door, he opens a window” could not be more true in this situation. The window he opened was the friendship between Nancy and me. We became really, really good friends and I know Sandy loved that.

Continue to rest in peace Sandy. We all miss you.