We called ourselves the three amigas.
Diana, the passionate Puerto Rican public defender.
Nancy, the fiery Italian political consultant.
And me, the nerdy French law professor.
Bonds forged together in the crucible of law school.,
We thought those days would never end.
Through thick and thin, we remained the best of friends. We celebrated marriages, births, and promotions from Boston to the Bronx to Honolulu. We mourned breakups, divorces, and deaths of parents.
We were together when Diana got selected to serve as the first Latina judge and when Nancy became the first female counsel to the Boston Police Department. They cheered me on when I was awarded tenure.
We thought those heady days would never end. When we retired from our careers, we thought there would be plenty of time to get together. A couple of years went by, and COVID-19 sidelined any travel. Life filled up with doctors’ appointments, volunteer work, and new endeavors.
Last October, Nancy called me with a proposal. How about celebrating an early Thanksgiving together?
“It will be such fun to cook and hang out together,” she said. “I will make my famous stuffed shells, and Diana can make pernil (a Puerto Rican slow-roasted pork).” Diana’s father used to make it in a barbecue pit behind his apartment building in the Bronx and deliver it to the law school when Diana felt lonely.
We made plans to gather at my house in North Carolina, ½ way between their homes in Boston and Florida. When Nancy arrived, she could barely walk to the car. She hobbled on an ivory cane while Diana collected her luggage. We nearly pushed her up the three steps to reach the front porch when we got home.
Food was Nancy’s love language, but it was clear she could not make stuffed shells. Diana and I rushed into action, roasting a turkey and the famous pernil, making Nancy’s favorite apple pie, and setting a cornucopia of food and flowers on the dining room table.
The weekend was bittersweet. Diana and I knew this was probably the last time we would spend with Nancy. She was fading before our eyes.
We weren’t sure she enjoyed our time together, but when she returned to Florida, she told her sister it was the best weekend ever. Fast forward a few months, I got a call from her sister that Nan was in the hospital with a stroke, and Monica was on her way to Paris.
I drove 13 hours nonstop to get to her hospital bed. By the time I got there, she had suffered another massive stroke. The doctors said the prognosis was dire. They could do more tests, but too much damage had been done.
I teleconferenced Nancy’s sister from Paris so the doctor could explain the situation. We made the difficult decision to stop life support and take Nancy to hospice.
They gave her a couple of days to live, but she remained in hospice for six whole days, long enough for her sister to return from Paris. She had moments of consciousness where we were able to say goodbye and tell her we loved her. Diana talked to her on Facetime, and we all cried together one last time.
One of Nancy’s proudest moments was helping Obama carry Palm Beach County, Florida. Her local Democratic party honored her contributions with a full-page ad in Boca Magazine.
In two weeks, the two remaining amigas will join Nancy’s sister on Sanibel Island for a celebration of life. We will scatter Nancy’s ashes over the ocean, where we had many wonderful vacations, collecting shells and chasing sunsets.
Celebrating forty years of friendships through all of life’s ups and downs. A poignant reminder that nobody lives forever, but love never dies.
