My Skissy Deb
by “Skissy” Suzanne Molino Singleton
My best friend, Debbie McLemore McCoy, friends since 1966, died on November 11, 2014. It feels as if we are quite too young to say that we've been friends for almost 50 years. It definitely feels like we are too young to say she died. And yet, both statements are true.
Our moms, Marie and Gina, introduced us in 1966 after they had formed a friendship as coworkers during their career at Western Electric. I remember the day we visited the McLemores' house for the first time with my parents, my brother Danny, and my sister Paula. (See the photo of us kids at that time in the banner photos above.) It wasn't long before Debbie, Danny, Paula and I were running and hopping all around their basement in fits of giggles. We had a ball altogeher, indicative of the MANY fun times that were to be part of our futures.
When someone is such a constant in your life, saying farewell to the person is an incredibly surreal experience. Besides my first seven years of life, Debbie had always been in my life. And then, POOF! One day she was gone. Just like that. If I was emotionally prepared or not. Two months later, I’m still in disbelief. I stood over her lifeless body in a coffin in the funeral home and just stared at her. She looked so peaceful. Finally so out of pain. She’d had a very rough 2014 and a tough road leading up to that for eight years living with cancer.
"Deb, I can't believe you're dead," I said. "I'm expecting you to open your eyes and look at me and laugh. But wait - don't do that because that would really wig me out! And yet, I want you to wake up." And then silently in our hearts, we laughed together, because if she was alive right then and there, standing next to me watching me talk to a dead friend, laughing is what we would have done.
But Deb couldn't wake up and I wasn't laughing. She had already moved on to the next plane in the universe. Closed her eyes in this world and opened her eyes to exist in the next phase for her soul.
I was holding Debbie's hand when she died. That single gesture of my love for her was one of the most honoring experiences of my life, having been with only one other person on her deathbed in 2011 - my sweet amusing mother-in-law, Lucille.
Death itself is ugly - watching a human body deteriorate is ugly as it pulls in its last breaths; especially a body riddled with cancer. But did you know also, there are beautiful parts of death? My eulogy honoring Ma Lucille was titled that: "The Beautiful Parts of Death."
On her last day on earth, Debbie was green with jaundice and she had been bald for a while (save for some gray peach fuzz). She was skinnier than she'd been – by about 50 pounds – and her fingernails were gray. I noticed that last detail when I held her right hand in both of mine. I stroked her arm and talked to her until she died. She died about 25 minutes after I rushed to her side when her husband, Bruce, called me to say, “come now.” I even joked with her; told her she looked like Shrek. Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t conscious, but she heard me, I know she did.
Bruce had been worried that day about allowing me to come over to "see her like this" but I said, "Bruce, Debbie and I have 50 years of wonderful memories growing up together. I promise you, this won’t be my lasting memory of her. Besides, no matter what she looks like now, Debbie will be always beautiful to me." Inside out. Outside in. And yes, even in death, Debbie was beautiful to me.
But enough about Debbie's death – I'd prefer to focus on her LIFE ... because she was full of verve, energy and JOYFUL living! That "dash" in between her birth date and death date was a long, full, abundant time. A dash signifying a vibrant, sweet, lovable and giving woman, a person who was very good at being a very good friend, a fantastic mother and a caring, wonderful wife. Selfless Debbie. Laughing Deb. Kind Debbie. Nurturing Deb. Golden-hearted Debbie. Could God ask for any better characteristics in His angels?
We were in each other's weddings. We are in a home video together – as kids standing in the sprinkler and giggling endlessly as the water splashes us. It was in Debbie’s backyard. We have each other's high school photos in long forgotten albums. We signed each other's yearbooks. Here is her “autograph” to me in our 1975 yearbook:
"Suz, Well we have been friends since 3rd grade I believe, maybe younger. I have some wonderful memories of our friendship. Never forget ‘the fort’ and all the times we played ‘monsters.’ Remember Timmy and Kenny. ‘Spin the bottle’ and paper dolls. Kemp’s fort and his tractor on the 4th of July. Boy, I could write on and on but there’s no time or space. I hope you have a great junior year and luck on Varsity! I only wish I would have been on J.V. I know it would have been great! I know it was for you. Keep in touch over the summer and I’ll call you up so we can go shopping. Okay? I only wish we could have spent more time together. Maybe we will next year. Don’t ever forget all the wonderful times in the 'old neighborhood.' I know I won’t. Hey, I almost left this one out. Remember 'the mansion.' Well, Suz, I can only wish you the best of luck in all that you do. I can assure you that you deserve only the best! I hope all of your future years are filled with love and happiness! Please call once in a while.
Love Always, Debbie. (256-4023 - use it please.)"
As kids, we played a plethora of crazy games, collected things, rode bicycles, played in our forts, and hung out with our "Foxhill Road neighborhood gang." Our brother Danny, neighbors Timmy and Stevie Kline, Brian Starr, Kenny & Christy Kelly, Don Tyrie, Leah Polek, Ronnie & Barry Wallace, the Mick girls, and more. We were always into something.
And we shared young girl secrets. Debbie once "taught" me (standing and whispering in my parents' walk-in hall closet) that a girl could get pregnant with a guy’s middle finger. I still chuckle at that one. And I know Debbie figured out later that was incorrect because she and Bruce had two kids.
School bus rides and camping trips. Wedding and baby showers. Burying her parents. Welcoming our babies. Giving gifts and writing notes. Phone calls and outings. Meeting for meals and putting our big feet in the sand. Flying to Florida and sharing margaritas. Vacations and weekends away. Sharing my sister, Paula, another "skissy." Laughing at, and with, our childhood friend Stevie (aka "Wee-Wee" – he’s so fun to tease.) Planting giant flowerpots at my house (well, Debbie did, and I watched). Loving each other's children and grandchildren and husbands. Talking and sharing and venting and crying and supporting - through everything. There was nothing I couldn't tell Debbie. THAT is the definition of a sister.
Here's to you, Skissy. I'll see you in heaven.
