White Coat

Well, I had been wondering how to transition in this blog from the utter sadness of losing Debi to more mundane topics. But what has arisen is another big moment in my life: watching my partner Alan graduate from the academic portion of his P.A. program to the clinical rotations segment.

To mark this transition, the school holds a White Coat Ceremony where the students actually receive their white coats for the first time. Over the last year and a half, I have watched Alan work harder than I have EVER SEEN ANYONE WORK IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.

My heart was full to bursting to think of him successfully negotiating this insanely hard program… and doing it with a great GPA and earning the support of everyone around him. His classmates voted him the class speaker, and sitting in the audience with his parents watching him deliver this speech was so moving that I had to bite my fist and control the little rags of breath that were threatening to push me over into full-bore sobbing. (As it was, I wept very discreetly and in the photograph here of me with him—in his coat!—and his parents, my mascara hadn’t run… and it wasn’t even waterproof! A miracle.) 

His speech was perfect: laugh-out-loud funny, surprising, and of course with a thoughtful message and all the poignancy that such a situation demands. As a writer, I loved it that part of his “thoughtful” part was about the power of words… how someone in the medical field can build up or destroy someone with just a few words. Patients lay their hearts in their hands and present them up to their health care providers, hoping that the news back will be something they can handle. 

Another main theme was how everyone around the students wants them to succeed, and he told an anecdote about volunteering at a diabetes screening in the Fruitvale neighborhood where people gladly offered up their fingers for clumsy and multiple stabbings, knowing that they were helping PA students learn how to do it. 

Man, was that ever an impressive speech, and of course peppered with Alanisms that made everyone laugh (I saw one guy half-rise out of his chair and bury his head in his neighbor’s shoulder, he was laughing so hard). And afterwards, he got a huge and extended standing ovation. 

As many people told him, and I wholeheartedly agree, that was the best speech they’d ever seen. He was just so real, as one person said. In fact, one of his jokes was to mock the speechiness people usually deliver. Leaning into the mic, he lowered his voice and talked about how we are leaving behind the past (pointing behind him with his finger), and moving into the future (again, gesturing) and that this was the “equinox of our education.” (Alan said he was really proud of this equinox line and originally intended to use it seriously, but at 2 a.m. in the café the night before graduation while he was pounding out the speech on his laptop, he realized how ridiculous it was.) 

I have never felt so proud of someone that it actually felt painful. I wonder what it feels like to be a parent and watch those graduations. Someday I’ll need a big prescription of Valium – and I know just the person to prescribe it!

. . . . .

Debi's infectious grin

Here's a better photo of Debi, showing her in the grip of her seismic grin. This is what ran in the Chronicle and is in the front window of the bookstore.

Unexpected goodbye

Here’s a post I never, ever expected to make: my dear friend Debi Echlin has died unexpectedly.

I first met Debi in 2000 or 2001. She was doing the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk, and I met with her to interview her for a Montclarion story. I went on a hike with her and her dog Molly—and soon enough we were hopelessly lost. I didn’t mind a bit: the conversation was wonderful, Debi was incredible, and it was a great excuse not to go back to the office. After finally plummaging through the woods, we found a trail that finally led us back to the car, rueful and laughing. We had a meeting of the minds that day and became fast friends.

Debi was the owner of Second Edition at the time, a new and used bookstore. Later, she bought out her two partners and changed the format of the store to stock only new books, changing the name to A Great Good Place for Books. The name apparently harks to a book that provides a model for “great good” meeting places for community—something Debi took seriously with her store. It wasn’t just a bookstore; it was a place for people to come together. It’s no surprise that the store launched and supports dozen of book clubs. 

When my Oakland Hills book came out, Debi staunchly supported me, giving the book prime placement in the store, on the front left corner of the table as you first enter. It was also on the cashier’s counter. What an amazing, supportive friend she was.

I confided in Debi things that many of my friends don’t know. As a mentoring, loving personality, with wisdom and depth from years of being on this planet as a good person, Debi encouraged my confidences and in turn shared with me some of her battles and hopes. I loved her and can’t believe she’s gone, so irreparably taken from us. And when I say us, I mean myself in my own selfish craving for my sweet, fiery-haired friend again, and us: Montclair, Oakland, the community, the booklovers. 

I wish I had the chance to take just one more hike with her. I had been thinking of calling her for just that purpose earlier on the day I got the news. And we had talked of going to Ireland in the new year together: a gift of her time I will never get to enjoy. How great to have one last ramble over the hills with her, with Molly jingling away in her dog collar. I miss you, Debi.