Mary Clark entered ALDA about eight months after we started a self-help support group in Chicago for people who became deaf as adults. One of Mary’s friends who had heard about the group had harassed her for months to go to a meeting. But Mary resisted--she was young, in her early 30s, and didn’t know anyone else who had become deaf in the prime of life. She envisioned the self-help group as a bunch of old people sitting around trying to hear one another talk about their grandchildren. But her friend kept at her, and partly to shut her up Mary came to a meeting.
That first night Mary had obvious anxiety and tiptoed into the room, sitting down near the door if she needed to flee. The rest of us were actually about her age, which must have given her some comfort, but she didn’t say much at the meeting. We tried to make her feel welcome and encouraged her to come back the next week. She did, and then the next week and the next. In a month or two she had become a fixture of the group and was well on her way to becoming the charming, talkative, and fun-seeking person ALDA came to know and love.
There are many enchanting anecdotes involving Mary from the early years of ALDA. She helped define the organization as not only a place to find personal support but also a place to have fun socially. For most of us, ALDA was the only place we could party and not feel on the periphery. We smiled and laughed together and laughed some more, and Mary was always near the center.
Those were good times--wondrously good--and I’m sure many of ALDA’s old guard will share their zany or poignant memories of Mary in the weeks and months to come. But the memories I hold dearest are more recent and personal.
Over the last few years, Mary communicated most frequently and expressively by email. She shared her life with many friends, and for whatever reason I was one of her mainstays. Almost daily I received a stream-of-consciousness email from Mary chronicling her activities, thoughts, and feelings. She sometimes rambled but her writing was always elegant and evocative, and more than not sprinkled with humor and insight.
I (and I know others) received hundreds of engaging emails from Mary during this period. She didn’t text, so on some days the ancillary emails could amount to a dozen or more as well. And, as always with Mary, there was zaniness at times. Quite often Marylyn Howe, Larry Littleton, and I were all included on the same email thread from Mary. At one point Larry began to send me private messages wondering why I hadn’t responded to something Mary had written. “I never got it,” I replied. “Sure you did,” he said. The puzzle continued for at least a month until Larry noticed that Mary was addressing some of her emails to williamgraham@aol.com, whereas my email address was williamtgraham@gmail.com. In other words, another William Graham was receiving the uncommonly personal emails Mary had sent. We told Mary about the mistake but she continued to make it, occasionally sending AOL Bill chapter and verse about her daily activities, her bucket list, and her ALDA-centric views on life. I won’t be surprised if AOL Bill sends a donation to ALDA in Mary’s memory.
Mary deeply loved her family, and she shared that with us, too. She often forwarded long emails from her father that had stories about her when she was young. Her dad is an amazingly gifted and spontaneous writer, with an incredible memory. Although I had never personally met him, I did know him personally, if that makes sense. Mary’s writing, energy, and memory mirrored her dad’s, as anyone close to her can attest.
When her mother died Mary emailed saying that she remembered a piece I had written for ALDA News after my own mother’s death. She said she really connected with my words. I was surprised she remembered it 20 years later, and of course was greatly touched that she did. Mary asked me how long it was before I got over the loss of my mom. I told her that even five years later I’d regularly tear up. After I said that I momentarily wish I hadn’t because I thought it might make her disconsolate, but it had the opposite effect: It consoled her that the intense love she felt for her mom would endure in memory.
Mary and I had an email exchange the last day of her conscious life, apparently just a few hours before her accident. Our conversation was unremarkable, about mundane activities on what amounted to a bad hair day for her. But in the framework of what happened afterwards, her last words to me beautifully capture her perspective, acceptance, humor, and spirit, and contained the perfect exit line. She wrote:
So I take it day by day. Will get through today.....clean up the dog mess....put some pennies aside and let the rest go. Plenty of ice cream sandwiches in the freezer too. Be thankful for the little things....smile.
She left with a smile. I’m sure that’s how she’d like to be remembered. Just like we remember her.
