It’s so weird.

I got up this morning and did my morning things, and after a little while started getting ready for Karen’s funeral. It was oddly ritualistic – ironing my shirt, making sure the water was on in back while I got ready, having breakfast.

I was listening to Patty Griffin as I got ready, and as I drove to the funeral home. I ended up running late and so the drive was a bit stressful. I was only a couple minutes late, however, and ended up walking in with a guy with whom I knew a bit at the Gazette.

I felt embarassed coming in so late and slouched down in my pew. The service started.

I always feel detached during funerals. I am not sure if this is some kind of psychological defense mechanism. I listened to the stories that her family told, and recited Psalm 23 along with the minister. It was rote, like the ironing.

I have only known Karen for nine months or so, and in that time I have grown to really love her, but it occurred to me at the funeral that what I know of her is dwarfed by the experiences of her family, and our other co-workers, and her good friends.

I wasn’t sure what to do when they opened the coffin and everyone filed toward the front. Karen’s daughter Jill works at the Gazette as well, and I hugged her and felt myself beginning to tear up. I snuck a look at Karen; she didn’t look like herself. She has worn a wig as long as I have known her – the price of chemo. But she didn’t have her glasses on, and her face was drawn into a kind of frown. I hate that about open caskets; people never look like themselves, and it is hard to say goodbye.

In the front room of the funeral home I hugged our editor and we made small talk for a couple seconds, but I felt myself getting claustrophobic and stepped outside. I wanted to ask for a cigarette, but I thought it would be in bad taste, as Karen had died of lung cancer.

I elected not to go to the burial; I always thought that was more of a thing for the family and close, close friends; also, I am a coward.

I drove from the funeral home to Laurie and Jaye’s house; I needed someone to talk to, and Brian was at work. I got to Laurie’s at 11:30 and made myself a Jack and Coke, and she and I talked until Jaye got home from class. We all went to Chelino’s for Mexican food. I came home and crashed on the couch for awhile; checked email, watched TiVo, vegged out.

Brian got his hair cut in Norman after work, then went to Chickasha to visit his parents. Twice I got in the car to go get food, and each time got freaked out and turned around and came back home. I wasn’t sure what freaked me out, exactly; I just couldn’t really countenance eating, though I was famished.

Then my dad called, and I started talking to him, and I found myself in the car, then driving, then at Sonic. I felt calmer. We got off the phone and I ordered food, and called Dylan, who is coming to visit in time for K.C.’s next show on August 19.

I felt calmer for awhile, with waves of sad panic rising up in my chest, then falling.

I hate death. I hate cancer.  

Back when I kept office hours at the Gazette I worked with a wonderful woman named Karen. She was funny and snarky, intelligent and immensely helpful in helping me to find my legs in the editorial basement. While I loved almost everything about my internship, and really enjoy everyone with whom I worked, I liked Karen especially.

Karen was battling lung cancer from the moment I met her. Every day I would ask her about her doctor’s appointments and her treatments, and she and I would agree that in some way, George W. Bush was absolutely to blame for her illness. I like that in a girl. While I was working in the editorial department Karen had surgery to remove a large section of her lung that had been overcome with tumors. She was out for six weeks, and in her absence I was trained in a big part of her job, which was typing in the entertainment listings for which the Gazette is locally revered and sought out. I liked the work, but missed Karen. When she came back – weakened but excited to get out of bed and back to work – I was ecstatic.

One day I went to lunch at my favorite place, Galileo, and while there I walked across the street to a little boutique in the Paseo Arts District. As I walked around the boutique I saw a little blue ceramic hippo. He was this beautiful shade of blue – the color of peace for me – and he had some beautiful carved lines on him. He fit in my palm, and I bought him, because I felt I needed something to hang on to.

I named him Zippy the Hippy Hippo.

When I got back to the office Karen was over the moon about Zippy, and as she was set to go on leave for her operation the next day, I sat him on her desk for the rest of the day. I thought of telling her to take Zippy with her while she was gone, but for some reason I didn’t. I’m not sure why – it’s not like I was so married to Zippy that I wanted him all to myself. I just thought, "What a feeble gesture."

Karen died last night, almost exactly 24 hours prior to my writing of this post. I had only seen her once since my internship was over, and I was rushing into a meeting with my editor and couldn’t talk to her for very long. I gave her a big hug on my way out.

Now she is gone and all I can think is how much I wish I’d have given Zippy to her.

Her funeral is on Monday. Erica’s wedding is on Saturday. This next week of my life is going to be like some horrible British film.

At a wedding I went to in 2004 I asked a friend, "Is it weird that funerals make me think of sex, and weddings make me think of death?" 

She replied, "I thought I was the only one who felt that way." 

Brian and I are going camping tomorrow. I think it will do me good to get out of my thinky thoughts for a couple days, to relax with a beer in one hand and a book in the other. We drove to Chickasha today so Brian could fill up his car with free gas from his dad’s convenience store. It started to storm on the way down, and the plains looked like this:

It’s not much, but it’s all I got. 

Karen’s my friend, and I’m going to miss her a whole lot.

The whole drive down I kept listening to Patty Griffin’s song "Long Ride Home" and watching the rain and lightning and sunset; it looked like the storm was trying to wrap itself around something that wanted to explode out – a shaft of light shooting straight upward here, a Jacob’s ladder there.

The plains are good for that kind of reflection, for reminding you how much bigger the sky is than just anything at all.

I don’t care whether you’re the praying kind or not. I once considered myself far too couth for prayer; but please send a quick one up for Karen’s family. Her daughter works at the Gazette as well and is going to miss her mother a lot.

Death sucks.