Goodbye My Friend


Goodbye My Friend


Maya Angelou


I’m thinking about the past 15 years, We’ve gabbed, laughed, shared rants and pieces of our lives together. I came to you with sore neck and shoulders and locked hips through the years and you healed me many times over with your magical healing hands and heart,


You’d always begin by asking what music we should listen to in the background while you worked on my aches, and shared your personal self with me as we exchanged stories. Your enthusiastic interest in everything I had to say, and your concern about my life went beyond the scope of a doctor’s care.


I’m remembering the time my husband and I renovated one of our homes until our bones could no longer move and you spontaneously called me to say hello and check up on us. You knew we were too busy to take care of ourselves and made a visit to our home, schlepping along with you, your equipment to fix us both. I’m also remembering another time my overly ambitious husband, then in his mid-sixties decided he must sod our half-acre backyard by himself, and as the morning grew late into night on his knees, determined to finish sodding before he’d stop, only to get pinned down by the last load of sod in a wheelbarrow that fell on his leg. No amount of physiotherapy or chiropractor relieved his pain, but one visit to your office, and hours later, you sent him home pain-free.


I’m remembering how we’d laugh about our crazy menopause symptoms together, and how we’d compare notes on outlandish relief methods.  And don’t think for a moment, some of the hurts you kept hidden inside, I didn’t recognize, but I allowed you your space.


Everyone who knew you, knew how special you were as a person, and as a magical healer. There was and will never be anybody to replace you,  No matter the struggle going on in your own life, you wore a smile and filled a room with good vibes.


I’m remembering the countless times I came to you to fix my aching bones and muscles, and the two and three-hour sessions you’d spend working on me without charging me an extra dime. And it didn’t matter if it was a weekday or a weekend day, you always accommodated a last-minute request to see you.  You always gave of yourself to others first and put your personal life second, too busy to take care of yourself, helping others.


How could this happen? How were you always there for us and suddenly you aren’t anymore? I’m pretending I will see you again in a few months. And when that few months comes, I will pretend I had to cancel my appointment and see you in another few months. Maybe, after all those ‘laters’ pass, I’ll begin to accept that I won’t be seeing you again. I can’t even think about what I’ll do the next time my hips lock, but one thing is certain, the pain in my heart when remembering you’re not here will surely overshadow whatever pain I will physically feel.


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Today I went for my routine checkup to my wonderful naturopath’s office – Dr. Eric. I almost dropped to the floor when he informed me our friend Dr. Shelly had passed over a month ago.

I met Shelly through Dr. Eric when they used to share office space together. We became fast friends. Shelly and I had so much in common, especially our taste in music. We both loved songs by some of the great R & B artists, our absolute favorite was Luther Vandross, whose passing we both mourned together.

Shelly was passionate about healing and often worked right through the weekend as an osteopath, well-versed in accupunture and natural remedies for healing. But it was her magical hands when placed on you that could instantly pinpoint exactly where the problems were rooted, and could heal you with just one treatment.

Shelly was the typical example of a professional caregiver who dedicated her time to fixing others, often neglecting her own ailments. Nobody knew that Shelly had cancer – not even Shelly until it was too late. She died only two weeks after her diagnosis.




Rest in peace my dear friend. I will never forget you for your friendship and all that you have done for me through the years. I’d like to think you’re grooving up there with Luther Vandross and I’ll think of you every time I hear him on the radio. I will always miss you❣