Cara Birrittieri

It seemed like it might be an ordinary day, Wednesday, February 12. My friend Cara was at home in Lakewood, in the chair that had become her world, texting her friends since speaking had become impossible.

That’s the thing about ALS. The brain stays robust–in Cara’s case, a mighty brain that had allowed her to accomplish so much in life, to absorb the depth and the complexity of the world around her and then spit it back out in her writing and her news broadcasts. But the muscles defy their purpose in ALS and eventually breathing will fail.

I had written a long text to Cara that morning, giving her my opinion on an unconventional treatment plan the family was pursuing. I didn’t hear back–unusual, I thought, but I’d learn she wasn’t having a particularly good day.

Until the moment when she passed that Wednesday, she had been on an extraordinary journey, not just through her early life, her careers, and family life–but also in living with a pernicious disease. She seemed to see it as an obstacle that had to be overcome and with her husband Jackson, who has an aptitude for biology, they tried to break the disease down into mechanistic functions of physiology—something they could understand and fix. Conversations were often about the life of cells and misfolding proteins. They sought help from researchers and physicians from Miami to New York and Canada and were often on the road in search of a cure.

On these journeys, they drove through snow storms, watched wolves trot in the frozen tundra of Canada, sat in traffic on palm tree-lined roads in South Florida. They drove thousands of miles over hundreds of days, passing through international borders, small towns in rural America and the big cities of the interstate routes. It was a journey of love more than anything else–the two of them, racing the clock, hoping to defy the odds, side by side in the front seat of the family car, making their way to the next hill of hope.

I will carry that brave journey of theirs for the rest of my life. It was not a desperate search but a testament to hope. Because as long as there is hope, there is life to be lived, love to be conquered, time to be counted. They lived every single moment of the past two years wide-eyed and present and with urgency. It’s like being in the first seat of a roller coaster. You are never so alive as when the locks release the wheels of the coaster with a click and you start moving into the unknown.

Cara never mentioned death to me. Instead she focused on tomorrow–scuba diving again or doing great things with her children. I don’t think it occurred to her, at least on the face of it, that this life would end. There was too much left to do. Her whole life had gone her way. Born with a marvelous brain and incredible beauty, she had filled all of her years with accomplishment and friendship and family. She was a news broadcaster and a writer, a teacher, and a mentor to many. She was a mayor, a columnist, a tennis player, a cat lover, and a traveler

That’s why her death on that Wednesday seemed so out of place. It was unexpected. Surely, she woke up saying, “Not on this day.” If there had been signs, certain things would have been done–phone calls made, goodbyes said, bedside vigils. ALS is a thief, though. It steals without warning. People can slip the surly bonds of earth so suddenly that there is no time for goodbye.

Maybe it was best that way. One moment she was reviewing a new treatment plan, and the next she was gone. No time for her to lament what couldn’t be, what will not happen tomorrow or the next day.

So, here’s where the writer should tell you to cherish life, and make the most of every day—a predictable ending to an essay on the death of a friend. But I’m certain Cara would tell you that herself.

And she would tell you to be good to one another. Drop in and visit a friend who is ill. Bring the casserole. Or some tulips. Call. You are needed more than you will ever know. Your presence changes things up for someone whose days are starting to feel the same.

And we must say this to her: well done, Cara. Well done. You won’t be forgotten. We will remember your contribution to our community. We will miss your radiant smile and iconic laugh. We have lost someone special.

I will see your loss as if you have merely slipped into a great blue sea with your scuba gear for the final time. Your 101st dive. The ocean swells and you disappear into the vastness of the undersea, off to explore, off to see beyond what we can see.