It's been over a month since I heard the news. Since then, I've thought a lot about Ms. Van Petegem, reading the obituary, news articles, comments from friends, looking at her pictures on Facebook of family events, business gatherings, vacation trips, and searching her articles on HuffPost, Elephant Journal, and others, including YouTube videos. My interest is curious; I hardly knew the woman. She blogged. I blogged. Sometime, seven or eight years ago, we rubbed shoulders on fellow blogger web sites. I read her stuff; she read my stuff, and occasionally, we commented on each other's stuff. At some point, we linked on social media, and for the past few years, we've liked and commented on each other's entries on Facebook and Twitter, sharing similar ideas about politics, life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. In the past eight or so years, we had only met twice face to face. In 2016, she was curious when she found out I lived in Toronto and arranged to meet me for lunch. A year later, she came and had coffee with me in the midst of one of her visits to the big city for family, friends, and business contacts.
In 2016, I published a first novel, and in 2017, Ms. Van Petegem generously offered her informal book club to read and critique my work. I humorously thought both of us were running a risk. What would I think if they hated it? But more importantly, how would her reputation suffer if her book club hated it? Fortunately, I had spent the time to work with numerous beta readers and then hired professionals to edit my work. While I'm not going to brag that I wrote a New York Times Best Seller, I think I can safely say I wrote a "competent" book. In the end, we both survived my novel.
In these past few years, I've seen the occasional Facebook picture in my feed: with her husband, with her children, with friends, business colleagues, talking at professional events, trips, vacations, her run for city council, and her co-hosting a radio show. It was a peek at someone living a full and meaningful life.
I discovered she and her husband owned and operated The Muskoka Factory in Bracebridge, Ontario, Canada. For at least a year, I mulled over driving up for a weekend to see a part of the country I hadn't seen in a long time. He who hesitates is lost. The obituary mentioned a memorial at some time in the future. Should I drive up for that? I repeat, I hardly knew the women.
I've heard it said that the death of someone makes us think about our own mortality. Life is a finite experience, and if there's one thing we can count on, it's that sooner or later the ride is going to be over. I watched my mother die from cancer over a six month period, from the moment she announced her diagnosis at a family dinner, to the moment she took her last gasp in her bed at home, and my father had me use his stethoscope to check for a heart beat. I witnessed my father die in the Intensive Care Unit two days after suffering a massive heart attack. In each case, I felt a sense of panic. This was my last chance to say something to them before they were gone forever. My chance to drive to Bracebridge is also gone.
In looking at Audrey's Facebook (She last posted on September 12, 2020.), it occurred to me her family may not know her password. Should they know? If they did, what would they do? This reminded me of outstanding issues in my own life.
My niece is the executor of my will. I called my lawyer to ensure everything is in order for the execution of my will and my power of attorney.
I live alone. I arranged with the landlord of my apartment complex for my niece to be an emergency contact. If my niece can't get a hold of me, she can authorise the landlord to enter my unit to verify my status. Amusingly and or morbidly, I've recognised for a long time, living alone, that if I dropped dead, I wouldn't be found for weeks, probably when somebody smelled something in the hall.
I passed all this information to my niece so that she can have on record information about her uncle. The issue I thought of about Facebook, is to create a document I can give to my lawyer to be released to my niece in the event of my death, containing details of my life: bank accounts, PIN numbers, retirement funds, investments, and of course, the password to my Facebook account. Leave it up or delete the whole thing.
I see in Ms. Van Petegem's Facebook photos what I see in my own family photos, a reminder of life. Other times, other places, other events, a record of a life well lived, now gone, alive only in my memory of those pictures. The day after, life goes on. People get up and go to work. They live new moments, and they post new photos on Facebook. The rest of us speed into the future as the deceased recedes into the past. However, for me, her passing is a reminder that my turn is coming. Not today. Not tomorrow. But sometime.
I occasionally post on Facebook and Twitter. I no longer see the name Audrey van Petegem in the list of Likes or in the comments. I see that everyone is busy with today, and yesterday is gone, remembered but no longer a priority. Audrey died too young. She left behind a husband of over thirty years, three children, all in their teens I believe, and a number of friends, colleagues, business contacts, and Internet acquaintances who knew her through social media, her writing, and her radio work.
Life is a finite experience. Carpe diem.
References
Obituary:
Audrey van PetegemGoogle search:
"Audrey van Petegem"
Google image search:
"Audrey van Petegem"
Facebook:
Audrey van Petegem
Twitter:
Audrey van Petegem
Instagram:
Audrey van Petegem
HuffPost:
Audrey van Petegem
2020-10-14
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