Memory by Amy's Dad
Jeff Caruso
What could have been... When someone is young, we think of their accomplishments as mostly belonging to their future. And when that future is taken away, like Amy's, we feel the sense of thwarted promise.
Amy never got to have her great career. She never got to be a great wife and mother, but she could have been. She never got to be a great nurse and healer, but she could have been. We feel this because of what she was already, because of her qualities which we celebrate.
Like her intelligence. She was very capable in school, in her college studies. But I also loved her curiosity--having breakfast with her or driving her in the car, conversing with her and trying (!) to answer her questions. She wanted to know how things worked--how the world got to be the way it is, and how it might be changed.
Her kindness. I loved her kindness. Amy didn't want anyone to be left behind. I remember how at restaurants she would scrutinize the tip to make sure it was up to par, even if the service hadn't been. Whether you were the wallflower at a dance, or a classmate that others ignored, or even an animal noone wanted--Amy was there.
Her courage. She was often quite fearless as a child. Sometimes too fearless! But there's another kind of courage -- when you are afraid but you go forward anyway because you have to, because it's the right thing. It took real bravery to say to us, the people closest to her, "I'm an addict and I need help." She was so afraid of losing our approval. But she did it, and began her journey to try to get better.
Her enthusiasm. I miss her enthusiasm. When she loved something, she really loved it. Like sitting for hours on 617-482-4SOX to get Red Sox tickets. Or when the Boston Celtics made the playoffs in 2008, and she found StubHub.com to get tickets so she and I could go to a playoff game. A good memory.
And her passion was overflowing--sometimes pushing or cajoling people to do things that in the end they were glad they did. Lifting people up. Inspiring them. Melissa and I have talked with Amy's friends who shared with us what an impact she had on them.
And on me -- I still have her last phone message to me, from the rehabilitation center, and one of the things she said:
"I hope you're getting to the gym over there at work! You've gotta keep active! I'm going to the gym every day!"
Yes, I've started going to the gym now. (Thank you, Amy!)
These are some of the qualities we loved. They're some of the things that made us proud of her. They're some of the things that show us the depth of our loss.