Spartan Daily - Serving San Jose State University since 1934

Issue date: 10/21/09 Section: Opinion

Hey girl,

I saw they tagged you in a photo on Facebook again. You always have this big grin in all your pictures, but this one was different.

Someone took a picture of the program from your funeral.

And there you were, happy as you've ever been, a photocopied image on the cover of a folded piece of paper that oversimplified your 27 years of life.

I only got to see you once a year at best, so I understood when I only found out about your death through Facebook.

One status update led to another, until my feed was flooded with one-line tributes to your lively spirit.

I know I wasn't a close enough friend to warrant a phone call. I don't even think your family has my phone number.

So instead of being upset by the impersonal nature of it all, I am blessed by this collective way to grieve.

I can see strangers write occasional messages on your wall. Each time I'm wondering what incident in their lives prompted them to post a simple "Thank you" or "Love you."

It hurt us all to see such a lively character suffer. Just to know you're finally at peace is the only comfort we've got in all this.

Remember that first time I met you? It was at a retreat in spring 2002. You shared your poetry, I played piano, we talked about the mysteries of life and all that sappy touchy-feely stuff I'm too busy to think about anymore.

The second time I met you, you had lost your left eye.

They told you in July 2002 that you had melanoma - cancer of the skin - and by May 2003 it had spread to your eye. It continued to spread to your brain and your spine, and each time you and your doctors fought back.

But those aren't the memories I have of you.

I don't remember your illness.  I don't think you let me.

I just remember your stories.

Like the time you were telling me about a particularly tough day. You composed one of your famous e-mail updates and casually mentioned how the only thing that would brighten your day was a visit from Matt Damon.

And then a few weeks later, Damon showed up.

If I didn't know you better, girl, I would have pegged you as a liar, but you're not the kind of person who would make up a crazy story like that.

So many people adored you, I didn't doubt for a second that someone would bend over backwards to make Damon show up at your house.

(Plus, not only is that photo of the both of you too good to be Photoshopped, you're also listed on the Internet Movie Database Web site as an extra in "Stuck on You." You didn't tell me that part! When did he invite you to do that?)

You must have had an incredible amount of spunk to pull that off through your illness.

I'm flipping through your albums on Facebook right now and I can just see it.

You're holding a koala in one picture, you're on the coastline in Ireland in another.

All with that same gigantic grin. All taken after your diagnosis.

You know, Leslie, I still think of you as a survivor. Pesky details like your death do not change that.

During all the years you've been sick, you refused to be defined by your mortality, and even after death, I refuse to define you by your mortality too.

Because every time I want to see you, there you are, smiling back at me from the front page of your funeral program, only one of the hundreds of photos you're smiling in, still alive and joyous.

All I have to do is visit your Facebook profile, and there you are. And there I am. And there are the throngs of friends who loved you.

And we are collectively blessed.

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