The terrible circumstances of my friend Stacy’s death was splashed across the front page on February 5th. Her estranged husband had shot her 3 times and took his own life a few minutes later.
For a few days the facts of her life made a story for the local papers. The tragedy of a young mother’s death must have struck a chord with the reporter. A respectful attempt was made to find out more about Stacy and to report why her life had ended so tragically.
The fact I can call Stacy my friend IS her story. Stacy was a friend to everyone she met or ever knew. She celebrated her life as if we were all parts of her personal puzzle. Once she fit you in - you couldn’t leave. Weather you were part of the main picture or a piece in the frame you were important to Stacy.
The last time I saw Stacy was at our doctors office. I was there for a BP check and had to wait in the hallway for the nurse. Stacy was waiting for the same nurse to come and draw blood. We talked to one another around the open doors of our cubicles. We caught up in the way women do. She had just started to tell me about her two boys when the nurse came in to take my BP.
Stacy couldn’t have avoided hearing me remind the nurse to use my right arm. “right, she said, your mastectomy was on the left wasn’t it?” In a moment I was done and stepped into the hallway. Stacy was standing there waiting to give me a hug. She told me how sorry she was. She hadn’t heard I had had cancer. She would have been by my side if she had known. We hugged for a second time and promised to keep in touch.
To my everlasting sorrow I only found out her life was a nightmare after she was shot. The news stories told about the restraining order. The job she lost because her husband would not leave her alone. The numerous times she moved to get away from the man she had learned to fear.
There in that hallway at the doctor’s office she told me none of this. Just the good stuff. The happy parts.
The day she died a friend who was riding with her in the car held on to Stacy, begging her to hang on to her life. Two women, one a nurse, left the safety of their homes and came out on the street to help her. Three angels of mercy ministering to one who had been an angel to many of us.
The devil who shot her drove away, but on this day moments later the hugeness of his terrible deed caught up to him. He shot himself, drove off the road into a stubbly cornfield and died alone. A fitting end for a wretched man.
It has been said, angels cry when a good person dies and this time it took several days to assuage the angels sorrow. It began to rain the afternoon Stacy died and continued raining for three more days.
One last thing, Stacy would never have said what I just wrote about her husband.
Stacy, happy, smiling, puppy dog friendly, always believing things would be OK. Her legacy is that smile - I’ll never think of her without seeing her smile.
rest forever in peace my friend
