Apart, we drifted
If you’ve looked at the SiteMeter here lately, you saw a number upward of 1.8 million.
Today I want to mention someone who was visitor #2492, in the last week of 1997. And this quote seems frighteningly prescient:
This page is now on semi-permanent hiatus.
I leave the web to those who are stonger and heartier than I am.
Thank you for your interest.
Followed by this: Last updated on May 30, 2003.
Well, she didn’t disappear forever: she moved to a LiveJournal. But “forever” is apparently closing in on her:
I felt very weepy after the nurse left. It wasn’t like I didn’t already feel that the end is getting closer, it was the first time I had asked her what she thought and she confirmed that it could be soon. Still a bit of a shock, I guess. I took a xanax to calm down and that seemed to help. I wish I were more prepared but I don’t know if I’ll ever be. I think I’ve done the best I could. There are things I wish I had more time for but I don’t want to think about a lot regrets at this point.
I’ve had a fair life, I suppose. I was unhappy for many years, dealing with an estranged family that was torn apart by alcohol. I often felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, being overweight and feeling unloved. I never married or had children so there was much of life I never experienced in that department. I think I grew more content as I got older and settled in to my solitary life that I created and maintained by my own hard work over the years. I had the love and companionship of many sweet feline creatures who I liked better than people in many instances. Things could have been much worse. I am proud of what I was able to accomplish even if it was just a simple, quiet life. I had my books and my cats and a few good friends and looking back now, I cannot complain.
And actually, she took a turn for the better shortly thereafter:
I think I still have some time left but I know in my heart that it can’t be very much longer. But I’m feeling better for now and perhaps it’s for a reason. I still have some things to wrap up here.
We never met in person; we crossed paths occasionally on the old Prodigy service — no, I don’t remember her user ID, and I’m not going to try to reload the old P* mail client — and I offered her some HTML help, on the dubious basis that I’d already been doing this stuff for a whole year already. She went on the blogroll before I realized it was a blogroll; she’s never been off it.
I have no idea where I’m going with this, except to note that there seems to be a certain eloquence that falls upon us as we reach the end of our days. Scant comfort, perhaps, but most of us will take what we can get. And try as we may, we can never stop the bell from tolling for us all.
fillyjonk »
10 July 2009 · 7:57 am
And for all the ink, electrons, and breath that are spilled about how “isolating” the internet is, how it somehow prevents people from “actual” interaction, I have in fact found the reverse to be true…you come to care about people you would never otherwise meet because of distance or differences in life circumstances.
Lisa Paul »
10 July 2009 · 10:32 am
Amen, fillyjonk.
I recently had a CyberFriend die, one I’d never met in person. When she died, my grief was as real as if she’d lived down the block.
Jeffro »
10 July 2009 · 5:25 pm
Knowing my internet friends had my back during my surgery and recovery made a huge difference in my outlook on life. I’ll never forget it, either.
CGHill »
24 July 2009 · 10:31 am
The next world has beckoned, and she has departed.
Fare thee well, sweet lady.