My Dori

How to even begin this post....

I don't think a chronological story is what's in order here. The timeline of our love is not as relevant as the lessons I drew from that love, the things she taught me knowingly or not. I met her at the little diner I told you about. Her energy, mischievous sense of humor and easy bright smile swept me off my feet. She was beautiful, a small black woman, dark skinned, with shining brown eyes behind round glasses, her hair cut very short, nearly shaved.

I'm not going to canonize her here. She was no saint, but I wasn't either. In the parlance of today, Dori had issues. She'd been deeply hurt several times in her life by those close to her and harbored some deep anger that from time to time would manifest itself in bursts of temper. She suffered from bipolar disorder which sometimes would get the best of her. She was a recovering anorexic. Our relationship had it stormy moments when our "issues" collided. Technically, we probably had no business being together. We did it anyway. We were married in November 2001.

A week after our wedding, Dori was diagnosed with breast cancer. On the one month anniversaery of our marriage, she underwent a lumpectomy followed by six weeks of radiation therapy. Over the course of the next four years, she'd undergo three more surgeries including a mastectomy; chemotherapy; whole brain radiation treatments as she battled her cancer. She never complained.

Dori introduced me to the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. She allowed me to end my period of "white knuckle" sobriety and find healing through the help of a Higher Power who could and would help me, if only I asked.

It was through Dori that I turned back to the God I had abandoned. I learned that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob could comfort as a "mother comforts her child". Even when we don't understand what is happening to us, even when others have hurt us, even when hardship stalks us, we are not forgotten. We are more valuable to God than many sparows.

She taught me that suffering could be embraced, that a disease could be a way of living a full life. I learned that some crosses have a purpose. Quiet perseverance in the face of a losing battle can be a victory.

I learned from her that the love of others is the reason for our existence. As difficult as it is, we can and must love all, even those who we think have hurt us the most. Love isn't just an emotion, it's action. We can love through a quiet smile of reassurance, a small gift picked up as a whim at the thrift shop, a phone call to a lonely friend, or a short visit.

I owe her a great debt, but I can't go on. This is far more difficult than I thought and words fail me. I'm sorry. It was three years ago today that she died.

I have a framed copy of a letter by a man named Sullivan Ballou, a soldier in the Civil War. Just before he died at Bull Run, he wrote a farewell letter to his wife. Dori always thought it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard. When I think of her I always remember her reading these lines aloud:

"...if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen among those they love, I shall always be with you; in the gladdest days and the darkest nights..always, always. And if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by....Do not mourn me dead, think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again."