That was filmed in April 2011. Ann died on December 4th, 2019.
I know Ann would die laughing at the way she went out, at 32. A broken femur bone? Tripping over a boot? Ridiculous.
The coroner described a failing heart and the nurses mentioned a fat embolism (triggered by the broken femur). There’s nothing conclusive as of yet.
The truth is she and I knew she was dying the past five years. Her mom knew it too. Ann kept her state of health close to her chest, so others didn’t. But we talked about it every time we talked. Her body was failing her. And on December 4th it had had enough.
Ann was my first friend, and she set a precedent in my life: I do not have many friends, but the ones I do have are unflinchingly loyal. Ann was my friend the first day she met me, and no matter how many miles separated us, or how many years passed by, we stayed friends.
She had an insanely sharp memory matched by a sharp, dry sense of humor. One of my favorite things she said to me the past year or so was a little reminder about men–“He’s gotta want it, Megan. I’m a strong believer in that.”
I’m not sad Ann died. I know she would never have recovered from the break. But I am sad for my own future, that if I ever meet someone, he won’t be able to meet her. If I ever have kids, they won’t know her. She held my entire childhood in her memory. With her died a lot of me.
It’s strange how much people matter. It’s strange how there’s so much of matter itself that we can’t see–and I swear it’s all interwoven into people themselves. I don’t mind that we all dissolve into molecules one day. And I don’t mind Ann went on ahead of me. I can’t wait to catch up to her, though.
I know my Mansion With Many Rooms will be just down the street from hers. I know she’ll ask me to sleep over as soon as I walk through those pearly gates.
