If something is worth fixing, fix it. Now
Take the time to reconnect with old friends before it’s too late, writes a friend of shooting victim
After seeing me cry for my old friend Lisa McCully, one of the victims of the recent Nova Scotia massacre, my sevenyear-old daughter suggested I send her a text in heaven.
When I asked her what I should write, she told me: “Just tell her that you miss her.”
And she’s right, because I do. I miss her with a pain decades in the making that, in the wake of the horror, has cracked open wide. A snapped bone. A broken dam.
At the time of her death, Lisa was an elementary school teacher, a cherished church camp counsellor and a beloved single mom of two young children. But that’s not the Lisa I knew. Lisa and I met in 1990 as students at Mount Allison University while taking part in the Terry Fox Run, which is fitting because she was selfless.
She’d say, “Oh, my word!” and “Oh, my land!” instead of words other 18-yearolds would say.
We played on the university rugby team. (And by “played,” I mean we laughed a lot and ran around in aimless circles). We travelled to McGill for a weekend of debauchery, where we spontaneously entered a dance contest as a team at the student pub and won first place: The prize was a hefty bar tab intended to last one student for a full year. Only there for a weekend, we bought garbage cans full of Long Island Iced Tea and made friends with the Harvard men’s rugby team who were there that night. We saw the Tragically Hip when the price of admission was less than the price of a pint.
She talked about the power of prayer and meditation when neither were very cool concepts. She wrote endless letters the year she lived in France and I still have them in a shoebox. She encouraged me to audition for the university play — in French — and we both got parts. She could play piano, often songs she’d written herself, and she could lick Jamaica rum remnants off a plate after she’d lit fire to it. We loved Blue Rodeo and knew that if we were lost, then we were lost together. She was always singing.
In the mid-1990s, we had a falling out I never really understood. What I know is that it was over something insignificant. I disappointed her and didn’t possess the maturity or the bravery to mend it. We graduated. We lost touch. To say I thought of Lisa a thousand times over the years would not be an exaggeration. If anything, it would be an understatement. Each time, I would tell myself, “I really must reach out.” I believed we were one latté away from rekindling a more adult version of our union. But, as a West Coaster with roots on the East Coast, trips back home felt rushed, so I bought into the delusion of the refrain “Next time.”
On April 18, after an active day spent outdoors on the shores of the Bay of Fundy, my friend — who annually lit a candle for victims of the École Polytechnique killings — herself became one of 22 people whose lives were stolen in the worst massacre in Canadian history. With each life taken, infinite “next times” — deeds left undone, words left unsaid — died, too.
For those of us left behind, the toxic cocktail of grief and anger leaves a nasty hangover.
For my part, I’ve vacillated between remembering the years we shared, missing the years we didn’t and mourning the years we never will. In the darkness, what has emerged is an intense desire to grab the present moment by the lapels.
What I’ve learned in these sad days is this:
Mend it: If something is worth fixing — be it a favourite pair of socks or a special relationship — fix it. Now.
Pare down: If something is not worth fixing — from unwanted junk to an exhausting relationship — get rid of it. Now.
Connect: If you’re thinking of someone, and any version of “I really must get in touch” comes to mind, reach out. Now.
Speak up: If you have something to say, but feel you lack the courage or words to do so, just pretend you don’t and say it. Now. Know what matters, show up and listen: As stories of Lisa populate social media feeds, what is being shared are sentiments like, “Lisa lit up the room,” and “Lisa made people feel special.” No one is talking about her net worth, professional prestige or what she drove. Lisa knew what mattered. She showed up. She listened.
There’s an adage that people come into your life “for a reason, a season or a lifetime.” In 1990, Lisa came into mine for a reason — to help make my university years unforgettable — and a season (see reference to “university years”). Despite growing apart, I’ll carry Lisa and these lessons learned for a lifetime. I miss you, Lisa. Wherever you are right now, my daughter is sure you’ll get the message.