I lost one of my closest friends last week. Sara Sherman-Levine, nurse, healthcare advocate and powerful force of nature. She was someone who walked into a room and made everyone feel warmer. Someone you wanted to talk to. Someone who always had your back.
I miss her.
I met Sara when my daughter Rhia was eight. We traveled to Stanford to meet with a renowned neurologist seeking help for Rhia’s worsening ataxia. Sara was his assistant. Her no-nonsense honesty coupled with joyful dedication won my trust. After the doctor told me his opinion, Sara clearly explained that there was no cure for Rhia’s ataxia, or even a clear diagnosis, but that didn’t mean Rhia couldn’t thrive. I absolutely believed her.
When the neurologist moved to LA and Sara worked in a different clinic at Stanford, we still ran into each other. When Rhia was twelve, Sara discovered that I was sitting in the hospital waiting room while Rhia had surgery on her feet. Sara found me there, gave me a big hug, and sat with me for over an hour. I needed a little bit of her strength to conquer my fears about Rhia’s surgery and Sara gladly gave it.
Many years later, I was in the middle of a divorce when I needed to bring Rhia to Stanford yet again. Sara offered us her spare bedroom for the night. After Rhia went to sleep, she and I sat together in her backyard, sipping wine and catching up. I told her how lost I felt and how afraid I was that due to State budget cuts, Rhia was about to lose access to Stanford.
“You should move to the Bay Area,” Sara said.
“I can’t afford to move here!” I replied with a laugh. She watched me closely as I shook my head and said, “I can’t imagine being able to afford the Bay Area as a single mom with a disabled kid.”
“What if I told you a friend of mine is renting his house? Want to take a look?”
I laughed, told her it was impossible, but eventually agreed to look at the house.
Sara was right. Rhia and I moved into her friend’s beautiful home in San Mateo where we lived happily for seven years. I found a great job that paid all the bills and provided health insurance, a first in my working life. I had to stop thinking about all of the limitations and instead think more like Sara.
The question isn’t always, “How?” The question could be, “What if?”
That was Sara. She was an idealist with her feet firmly on the ground. She believed in me and because of her belief I felt safe enough to take a chance. She made my life better and in doing so, made Rhia’s life better.
Sara is gone now. It feels impossible that the brilliant force that was Sara is now quiet. She fought for the rights of women, the disabled and the people she loved, but she couldn’t fight cancer. Instead, she accepted it. She tried treatments that made her sicker until saying, “Enough.”
“I’ve had a wonderful life,” she told me the last time we met for dinner. “I have zero regrets. I’ve been very lucky. And when I’m ready, I’ll know it’s time to go.”
Two months later, we said goodbye through a text because she didn’t want company. I wish I could have hugged her one more time, but that was Sara’s choice and I had to respect it.
She was just a few years older than me, and of course it makes me look at my own life and mortality. At 58 I probably have about ten really good years left. A few more years when I’m not in chronic pain or suffering from some age-related illness. Or not. Cancer, a car accident, a heart attack… anything can happen, so I don’t take this life for granted. I’m not being morbid, I’m simply looking at the reality of life. Human beings are mortal creatures with a limited amount of time to enjoy our lives inside these fragile bodies.
As I sit here pondering my next move, I hear Sara in my head asking, “What if…?” What if I allowed myself to fully live my best life? What does that even look like? How can I be of service to others in a way that brings me joy? This is how Sara lived and I want to live by her example.
Thank you, Sara. I will love you forever.