My beloved friend died of brain cancer last Tuesday. I’d been trying to reach her for months; no one would answer the phone. I assumed she was in hospice care and didn’t want anyone to see her, since she’d told me she wasn’t thrilled about the possible dementia. By the time I found out (on Facebook), it was after the funeral. Another old friend who attended told me the church was “packed.” Well, of course it was. Eunice was smart, witty and talented. She was always volunteering for things, always putting everyone else first. She was an incredibly gifted artist, but put it on hold to raise her kids. She just sparkled. And God, did she have that Irish gift of gab! (Also for holding grudges, which I loved about her.)
She was always trying to talk me into running, like she did. “Eun, I’m a Libra,” I told her. “We don’t run. We lounge.”
The youngest was settled in college, and Eun was finally on her way to her first painting trip when she had a grand mal seizure on the plane. That’s when she was diagnosed. “Ironic, huh?” She told me she’d known something was off for the previous year, “but I thought I was going crazy, so I didn’t want to tell anybody.”
She had a wild side that I suspect most people in her suburban life never saw. She used to be a waitress at Frog, which was then the cutting edge of the Philadelphia restaurant scene. It closed down after Eunice tried to organize a union. Hah!
She was really something, our Eunie. I miss her something fierce.