Sarah Ballard

Remarks by Bill Johnson: Sarah couldn’t be here today. She is in Seattle dismantling her home so she can move to New York with Gretchen to be with David and the girls through the coming year. 

Sarah asked me to read this for her. It’s a chapter in an autobiography Sally wrote when she was twelve. The title of the full work was Sal My Pal. The chapter is titled: My Appearance.

I am about 5 feet 6½ inches tall. I have medium-length blonde hair which will, unfortunately, get darker as I get older. I have blue eyes. My feet are awfully big for a girl, so I can’t seem to find girls’ shoes very often.

Luckily, I’m sort of a tomboy, so I barely ever wear girls’ shoes anyway.

I am sort of overweight. I have long legs but a short body. My legs are thin compared to my stomach, so when I try to find girls’ pants that fit in the waist, they have elephant legs. But I don’t let it get me down…

Tom Guard

Remarks by Bill Johnson: Her brother, Tom, 2½ years older, was close to Sally. He couldn’t be here and he sent this to read today.

We were in summer camp together and, in a teasing big brother moment, I gave her the name “Sal My Pal.” She took it for her own and soon everyone in camp knew her as Sal My Pal.

She was an irreverent comedian in those days. She liked to knock on doors and run. She had a nasty mouth and she enjoyed talking dirty– especially to her parents and her older siblings. 

As she matured, she responded beautifully to trying times as well as good times. We loved her for being there at the end of our father’s ordeal with cancer.

We loved her for her great relationship with David and their incredible girls.

We loved her when she displayed her great strength as she was coping with her illness. The letter she sent us announcing her diagnosis was calm and tactful: she told us not to panic.

Sally always had the bases covered. And that is what fuels the mystery of her early exit. Some day I may accept it, but there will always be an empty chair at the table. Love is no longer a strong enough word to describe our feelings for you, Sal My Pal.

Gretchen Guard

Even as a little girl, Sally surprised everyone with her intelligence, her courage, and her sense of humor. As she grew up, she developed integrity, loyalty, and grace and became a totally competent young woman with just a touch of diffidence – enough to remind us that she really wasn’t superhuman after all.

One of her great pleasures in life was making and keeping friends with countless phone calls, visits, and letters. She was a prolific letter-writer, and when she was traveling around Europe with her Middlebury classmates she sent wonderful postcards from France, England, and Italy. The last postcard of the tour was from Greece, and it was crammed with revelations in tiny writing from edge to edge and sideways in the margins. And at the bottom she squeezed in “P.S. Greece is now my favorite country.”

Her lifelong dream was to have a family of her own. And her dream came true. She and David taught Emma and Cameron to be honest and straight up, to listen carefully and answer thoughtfully, to love fun and books and music and art – to be city kids – to love travel and to cherish friends and family.

Emma and Cameron went to the hospital to visit Sally every day. Sally let them climb all over her bed and lie beside her – they were so happy to be together. Sally lost her hair and gradually lost all of her strength and was really thin, but no matter how much she changed physically, Emma and Cameron weren’t put off by it and wanted to visit every day. Pretty soon, Sally was sleeping most of the time and hardly knew they were there.

Some of her nurses advised us that it would be better for the children if they didn’t visit anymore in the last few days. So they went to day camp, to playdates, to the park or the beach – then home for dinner, bath time, PJ’s, and bedtime. But wait!! We haven’t said goodnight to Mom. So down the elevator, out to the street, into the cab, and up to the hospital to say goodnight. And so it went the last week of July. And so it was that Emma and Cameron said goodnight to Sally just six hours before she died.

There are so many memories through 38½ years that make me smile, it’s hard to choose just one or two to talk about. So instead I’ll talk about one evening a few weeks ago, a beautiful July evening, when several of Sally’s friends were sitting comfortably around her hospital bed, talking quietly, and watching the lights come on in the Empire State Building, and the Chrysler Building, and all around. Another friend arrived and sat beside her and said, “Sally, it’s so wonderful that you have so many friends who love you.” And Sally, who could barely speak, said, “Yes, I am blessed.”

Lisa Blades

I first met Sally when we were Emma’s age. Over time we formed a bond that will stay with me always. Memories between then and now number so many that they play like a movie reel in my mind. One scene in particular repeats:

It was 1993, nearly dusk, when Sally and I set out on our second hike through Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. The trip was a spontaneous one. When we realized the sun was going to beat us to the horizon if we didn’t hurry, Sally looked at me and said we needed to run after it – as if we could chase down the light. That’s exactly what we did. We ran with energy we never knew we had, like children. Arms outstretched, wind in our hair. I remember little else about our descent, save the smile on Sally’s face as she turned to me and shouted, “It’s like a flying dream.”

I’ve never had a flying dream.

Later that night, in our motel room in Gallup, I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about the canyon, about the Anasazi, and about what a flying dream might feel like. I asked her to elaborate. I remember how she described the sensations. She had these dreams often. I listened in awe, realizing then – as I do today – that Sally was one of those rare beings who soared at everything she put her heart and soul and mind to do. She had the capacity to create fanciful flight of what others make weighty burdens.

Diane Ackerman wrote, “Flight is nothing but an attitude in motion” (On Extended Wings, 1985). Hard work, talent, and tenacity launched Sally’s remarkable career. Her patience and loving-kindness made her rise to every occasion as a mother to Emma and Cameron. Sally’s passion and selflessness elevated her marriage to a level many couples never know. Her joy-filled heart and zeal made her friendship a heavenly one to have. Sal was one of the few people I’ve ever considered angelic. And if angels do exist, I can only imagine them with a soul like hers.

Perhaps this is why she had recurring dreams of flying. It’s as if the night – much like our run down the canyon that day – gave her wings she never, in her sincere humility, knew she had. 

Linda Pasten wrote, “Dreams are the only after life we know / the place where the children we were / rock in the arms of the children we have become”(pm/am, 1982).

Though I have yet to have any dreams about flying, I’ll always be able to reflect on my memories, and my love for Sally, and take to the air with her again.

I can almost see Sally soaring somewhere now.

Elizabeth Lynch

Sally had the power of someone who knows who she is. She had strong likes and dislikes, and she let you know them. Whether it was a restaurant, a musician, or a movie, Sally always had a strong opinion and a unique take on the matter.

Sally didn’t sugarcoat things, either. While in the hospital with Sal, we were discussing which children’s books to buy Cameron for her birthday. Gretchen, Lissie, and I were remembering fondly the Amelia Bedelia books when Sally, who appeared to be asleep, said “I HATE Amelia Bedelia.” You could always count on Sally to say what she meant, directly and precisely, even if she ruffled your feathers in the process.

But Sally was very careful with people’s feelings, and she was your protective and loyal friend. If you were Sally’s friend, she was your champion, and she would go to great lengths for you. When Sally and I were roommates in the city, I couldn’t afford a health club membership. So, for my birthday, Sally took up a collection among about 20 friends and family members and bought me one. I was blown away.

Sally had an attitude. She was bold and sassy. I think about the way she walked, head high in a relaxed, confident, streetwise gait. I picture her dancing, doing “The Gangster,” the dance the high school girls used to do in the bathroom mirror, head cocked back and thumbs up, or another imitation that she called the “Foghorn-Leghorn” dance.

I loved the playful, funny side of Sal – the way she would surprise you and try to make you laugh, usually with wordplay. She loved to play with the sounds of words. She’d call me “Liz Lunch” or “The Biz Mistress.” She loved music and made music with words. She mused about opening a diner called “Slab-O-Beef,” joked about how she and David together made a “Garden Burger”. Even their girls’ names were musical – “Emma Kai” and “Cameron Page”.

Sally picked up on the things that others missed  – the specifics about people. She focused on people’s habits and idiosyncrasies. She noticed people’s hands. When I was in the hospital recently, I found myself staring at Sally’s hands, and they seemed to symbolize her. They were long, lean, sturdy, graceful, and expressive. They were so Sally.

I feel privileged to have known her.

Hillary Peterson

I’m Hillary Peterson and Sally was a dear friend of mine for the past 20 years. We met at Middlebury and really got to know each other our junior year in Paris, where we spent an incredible semester together along with Bizi. My memories of Sal at that time are of how incredibly cool she was. She could walk into any situation with an apparent ease that awed me. She was so funny and easygoing, and she was the greatest dancer. I’ve thought so much about how to share with Emma and Cam, when they’re teenagers, how their Mom danced because it was so great but I’m not sure that I’m the one to show them, so I am still looking for an answer to that challenge.

After Paris, we returned to Middlebury for our senior year and Sally and I were roommates. That was the year that I discovered Sally’s musical ability and her acute memory. I quickly learned that if she remembered something a certain way, that’s probably how it was.

In addition to being an intelligent, talented person, Sally was a very thoughtful, tender friend. I often visited her in New York after school, up until the time that I had children, and I was always touched by how she made a big deal of my visits. She would invite friends over, make great dinners, and I always had a wonderful time. More recently, when I was visiting Sally in the hospital, she turned to me and said out of the blue, “Lissie is such a great person, she really is.” Sally’s friends were important to her, which, as a friend, felt great.

An example of Sally’s thoughtfulness that touched me deeply began with a conversation about my desire to learn to play a musical instrument. She encouraged me to do it, and I decided that with my hours and travel at Levi’s, I might have to wait until I had children. I mentioned at the time that I had visions of getting pregnant and learning how to play the flute. Years later, when I did become pregnant, a package arrived with Sally’s flute.

Every Christmas, she sent a package with an always perfect small gift. I marveled at how simple and clever Sally’s gifts were; they were so consistent with who she was. When my daughter Kate was born, Sal sent pajamas with ballerinas on them and a note that said, “Dear Kate, Welcome to the dance!” My favorite gift that she ever sent was a small wooden angel that perches on a thin metal rod in a way that it dances whenever there is motion in the air, i.e., whenever you walk by. Even before Sally got sick, it was my favorite holiday decoration. Now the dancing angel will forever remind me of my very dear friend, whom I will miss more than I can say.

Richard Demak

Howdy-Doo, everyone.

I say “Howdy-Doo” because that is the way Sally Guard greeted me every time we talked for the last 16 years. “Howdy-doo” would often be followed by “Richie-Rich.” Sally had an unusual affinity for harmonious syntax – in fact, I think she’d like that phrase “harmonious syntax.” Most of her verbiage made sense, like Richie-Rich and Howdie-Doo, some… not so much. When other people at Sports Illustrated needed a copy of a story, they would print it; Sally would “printee-print-print” it. Okay, even that makes some sense. But how to explain such Guardian utterances as “mao!” (I think it can be traced to a childhood friend of Sally’s, Jimmy Mao) and the ever-popular “Smell it! Smell it! Salami, salami” (which also, I fear, can be traced to a childhood friend of Sally’s.)

Sally liked sounds. She liked to hear them and she liked to make them. I think that’s why she loved music so much and why she was so facile with languages. And it’s probably why she became such a good editor, too.

Now, Sally admired the sounds some people made much more than the sounds other people made. She was intensely, chronically opinionated – about everything, but especially about music. Bryan Ferry was a god! Nearly as divine as Los Lobos, whose music you heard as you filed in here – a request from Sally, by the way.

She knew what she liked and she let you know what she liked. Her highest praise was reserved for those she enshrined in what she herself called “the pantheon.” And if those gods played a sport, incidentally, that sport was surely soccer. 

A complex woman, that Sally Guard. She could be the most logical, rational person, and yet she didn’t always make sense. She loved fashion but was no particular fan of the fashionable. She was worldly but couldn’t understand how her kosher officemate was permitted to eat a Baby Ruth bar but not a cheeseburger. (As sophisticated as she was, she had somehow confused religious dietary restrictions with nutritious dining habits.) She was not the least bit pretentious, yet she moved downtown and was wearing black before anyone else (except, of course, permanent pantheon residents Bryan Ferry, Elvis Costello, and Glenn Tilbrook). She preferred the simple and the spare and yet was willing to wait almost a year for a toilet-paper holder to arrive from Australia that she had special-ordered.

She was quirky but intensely sane; stubborn but always game and fun. She did not suffer fools but was never mean. A complex woman.

A few weeks ago, Sally’s aunt, Sarah, asked me why people love Sally so much. The reasons I love her are not the same, I’m sure, as Bizi’s, or Mary’s, or Grayle’s, or Vicky’s, or the nurses on 16 East. Every human being is unique, of course, just not as unique as Sally Guard.

The other question, I think, isn’t why people love Sally so much, but why so many people love Sally so much. I can’t tell you how many people – friends of Sally all – paraded through that hospital room in the last month or so. Friends from camp, buddies from before that – from the womb, I think – pals from Portola Valley, comrades from college; les amies from France, amici from Italy; schoolmates, teammates, bandmates. Former colleagues from Sports Illustrated and from Bishop Books. She inspired unwavering loyalty. Sports Illustrated generously helped pay for this service and she hasn’t even worked there for five years. All kinds of people from all kinds of places came to be there for Sally over the last month, as she had always been there for them. Always.

And through it all, in room 1643 and other identical rooms before it, were Sarah and Gretchen and David and the girls, not to mention the extraordinary people of St. Vincent’s and the Cancer Center. Sally herself was welcoming enough, God knows – with her fascination with the minutiae of your daily life rather than her daily struggle. (“How’s Lorna?” “They’re selling their apartment for how much?” “Who took the package? Witteman? Really!” “They named her Elizabeth? Thank God! Esmé?!”) And the reason Sally was able to think about the world outside that room was the people inside that room.

Sarah and Gretchen and David kept pumping air into the stifling space within those four stark walls. And the girls? What did they do? They just brought life into the room, that’s all they did. And for that alone, for providing those crucial visits from Emma and Cameron, and for so much more, David is deserving of a spot atop the highest pedestal in the pantheon.

Starting about a week before Sally died, I became obsessed with sunflowers. I don’t even particularly like sunflowers; I’ve never felt the need to be surrounded by them before. Yet, for some reason, there weeks ago I just had to have a big vase in my apartment filled with Helianthus annus. It wasn’t until last week, when we started talking about what kind of flowers to have at this service, that I realized why this was. Somehow, I think of Sally as a sunflower. She loved the beach and the snow, but she loved them most in the sunshine. She blossomed in the light. Even now, I see Sally as statuesque and stalky, like a sunflower, and golden… and so very much… alive. And that is how I will remember her. Always.

Cindy Malouf

My name is Cindy Malouf. I met Sally at Barrow Street Nursery School because Cameron is in my daughter Devyn’s class. I remember one of the first times I met Sally we were talking about someone we knew in common, and Sally described this woman as an “übermom.” Now, I knew Sally was being facetious, but I thought it was an interesting word to use, even if in exaggeration. As I got to know Sally, I realized that she had this word in her vocabulary because she strove to be the real thing, a real übermom.

Nothing got past her. She was more involved in the details of her children’s lives than some of us are in our own lives. It always amazed me how aware she was of every little thing that had to do with her kids: their school, their teachers, where the best place was to get whatever it was that they might need, like the only kind of sausage a kid will eat (Cam’s favorite, of course) or the only bakery that could recreate a page from Emma’s favorite book and the image of Queen Frostine from Cam’s favorite board game for their birthday cakes.

She had a kind of respect for her kids that enabled her to make decisions based not only on what she thought was right for them, but what they might also think was right for themselves. I remember being so impressed by her setting the clocks ahead four hours New Year’s Eve so that the kids might enjoy the celebration at what they thought was 12:00 AM.

She had a way about her that told you that she was really listening to you and really cared about what it was that you had to say. An invaluable tool for an übermom. And while there are so many things I might say about Sally’s courage and strength over the past few months, mostly the phrase “uncommon valor” comes to mind. I think that, too, was all part of her drive to be an übermom: to be the best caretaker she could be for her family. And she was.

Morin Bishop

This is, of course, a preposterous event. No one with even a passing knowledge of the remarkable, willful, vital force of nature whom we celebrate today could possibly conceive that such an unforgettable personality might no longer be among us. Her absence seems too unutterably cruel, too fundamentally unjust, too simply incongruous for any of us to even imagine. In the face of such a blow we can only cry out against this harsh fate and wail to the winds, to God, to Allah, to whatever force we believe undergirds this oftentimes inexplicable universe, that this should not be so, this must not be so, this cannot be so.

But of course, it is so. And because it is, we gather here today in this place to tell stories, to warm ourselves at the hearth of our shared recollections, and to vow that so long as there is breath in any one of us, our beloved friend Sally will never be forgotten.

How does one describe the arc of a 17-year friendship? I won’t even try, but here is what I remember:

I remember swimming with Sally in the surging sea off the Jersey Shore, amazed at her strength and agility as she negotiated the heavy surf with characteristic ease.

I remember dancing with Sally in some dumpy little bar in Cooperstown, New York, wondering for not the first time what hidden reserves of energy fueled her seemingly inexhaustible stamina. (Any of you who have ever been in such a situation know that when Sally dragged you onto the dance floor, your participation was not optional.)

I remember arguing with Sally frequently, though I can’t recall the topic at issue in any of our disputes. (Early in our friendship, we recognized each other as kindred spirits and fellow curmudgeons who were more than willing to argue a point until everyone around us had long ago lost interest. I’m sure it is one of the reasons we liked each other so much.)

I remember walking with Sally in neighborhoods all over Manhattan, her long stride setting the pace for me and anyone else in tow. One post-brunch walkabout in particular comes to mind that started at one in the afternoon in the West Village, involved a trip on the Staten Island Ferry, and ended up in a bar in Soho at four in the morning, our original group of 10 now reduced to Sally, me, and if memory serves, Tim Crothers and Greg Kelly.

I remember drinking with Sally on many occasions, the most memorable of which took place in Sarah Ballard’s palatial pad on the Upper West Side and almost always involved someone’s birthday – Sarah’s 50th, Bill Johnson’s 60th, Sally’s 30th. Get a few drinks in her – and the epic birthday bashes just mentioned all involved vast  quantities of alcohol – and Sally would sometimes become sloppily emotional, something I, for one, enjoyed seeing, revealing as it did the depth of emotion that her strength sometimes concealed.

I remember many movies and many meals with Sally, some of them our traditional weekly brunches, and others more extensive repasts painstakingly prepared by Sally at one of her many apartments through the years and usually involving some Sally-originated variation on Tuscan cuisine from her beloved Italia.

I remember driving her to the memorial service for her father in New England and wishing there was something I could do to comfort her as she struggled with his death and her sometimes tangled feelings about his life.

I remember watching, along with so many of Sally’s friends, as she became enamored with a string of inappropriate and utterly unworthy men, our hearts breaking along with hers as one after the other they fell by the wayside. And I remember my shock when I discovered that this David guy she kept talking about turned out to be what all of us now know that he is: a person of such character, of such substance, of such strength, that we all came to honor his relationship with Sally as one of the best we’ve ever seen.

To speak of Sally’s marriage and subsequent motherhood is almost too difficult, at least for me. Thankfully, others have done so. Suffice it to say that for Sally, there was life before David and the kids, and life after them, and as one who came to true love and parenthood rather late in life myself, I can honestly say that happiness delayed is that much sweeter for the waiting. David and Emma and Cam were for Sally all those silly, schmaltzy, sentimental clichés. David was truly her knight in shining armor, and her children were indeed her greatest accomplishment and her greatest joy. Seeing her happy at last, and marveling at what an incredibly gifted mother she was – these are my most precious memories of all.

And so we move on, somehow, and the daily flow of life overtakes us once again. But I know I speak for everyone here present when I say that this one life, this singular individual, this beloved friend, will endure in our hearts and in our memories for as long as we all shall live. May it be so.

David Burger

David read this from babysitter Shannon Reed: I had the great pleasure of working for Sally. Before I arrived to become Emma and Cam’s babysitter in 1998, I had been an independent preschool teacher, and so I was wary of working side by side with a passionate and committed – and very present – mom. But working for Sally was a true pleasure. She was firm, direct, kind, and loving. Just as she looked after Cam and Em, she looked after me, as well.

She taught me so many things that I will carry with me for the rest of my life, from gently instructing me to say “Where is that?” instead of “Where is that at?” to the idea of drafting a thank-you note before putting pen to card. She showed me how to feed a baby, how to answer Emma’s 40 “Why does…?” questions a day, and how to get by in the kitchen without a microwave. She taught me the phrases “nudie girls,” “Camco,” and  “a cuddle.” 

Sally introduced me to the music of The Chieftains, tofu cream cheese, and the writing of great sportswriters (never mentioning her own skilled work), and she showed me that there was nothing wrong or scary about being direct, honest, and ethical about any problem that might arise. And by her very existence, Sally showed me how to be a good and loving parent, a blessing for which my own children will sing her praises someday in the future. 

I cannot encompass all that Sally showed me, just as I cannot find words to express my sorrow that she is gone.

So I will share a small story. The day that she went into the hospital to fight her long last battle, I came by to watch the girls. Cam and I were sitting in an unobtrusive corner, reading Big Red Barn, as David and Sally went about the sad business of packing. It was a dark, overcast morning, and suddenly, I became aware of growing brightness. Sally had struggled to her feet to cross the big apartment and turn on a light near Cam and me.

Perhaps she would hate my metaphor, but she was always tolerant of my propensity for sentimentality and emotion, so I believe she forgives me now as I say that that is what I most will miss about Sally. She was always shedding light.

I hope that the remaining beams will warm Cam, Emma, David, Sarah, Bill, Gretchen, Tom, Catherine, and everyone who loved Sally in the long days ahead. I am so grateful her light touched me and lives still in my heart.

Over the past seven months, we faced this battle against lymphoma much as we faced everything else in our lives, as a family. Sally’s courage throughout this year was truly extraordinary. Sal was not only brave; her spirit, honesty, love, humor, intelligence, and devotion to our family remained strong and constant. That gave Cameron, Emma, and me the strength to endure this ordeal, and it will give us the courage to go on with our lives. Sally, I promise you that we will always live this way. You are always in our hearts and minds; you will always be central to our family. In every joy, in every moment of pride bringing up Cam and Em, you will be with us. That will never change.

We did not go through this struggle alone. Our immediate family grew to include Sal’s mom, Gretchen, and her Aunt, Sarah. This has been as much their direct struggle as it was ours. Gretchen and Sarah devoted this year to helping all four of us. Now they are moving here to help care for Emma and Cameron. It is hard to imagine a more selfless act of devotion and love. I had always regarded Sally’s family as my own; now I know how truly blessed I am by having joined it through my marriage to Sally.

My mother and my sisters, Janis and Ronna, have given us the support and love that helped me be there for Sally this past year. I know it will continue in their ties to Emma and Cameron over the years ahead.

Emma and Cameron’s babysitters have helped so much in giving the girls continuity and a loving relationship. Throughout Sally’s illness, Lori cared for Emma and Cam with sensitivity, intelligence, and love. Ellen, Shannon, and Stephanie have all shared so much with us. As we begin to rebuild our lives, I know they will play an important part.

Over the past months, Sally spoke many times about the incredible capacity for compassion people have shown us throughout this struggle. She would remark that she did not believe she had the capacity to reach out to other people as many of our friends have to us. While Sal was in the hospital, Vicky Virgin came virtually every night; Michelle Kinney was always there with reassuring words. Hillary Peterson, Elizabeth Lynch, and Lisa Blades made several trips from California to be with Sally. Richard Demak was our most competent lay medical consultant. He would show up at the hospital with a seemingly endless supply of mocha-chip milkshakes. This wonderful memorial is all a result of Richard’s effort. Over the years, Richard’s friendship meant so much to Sally. This spring, Sally commented how fortunate she was to have Richard as a friend – she was right– and me as her husband. I am also right to think Richard was lucky to have had Sally as such a dear friend, as I have been blessed to have had her as my wife and the mother of our children. Over the years, I have gotten very close to all of Sally’s wonderful friends; these friendships will endure and strengthen.

During these months of Sally’s treatment at Saint Vincent’s, several of the staff commented on my intense involvement. Sally would of course agree; but she always said it was Moody’s that gave me the opportunity to be a dedicated caregiver. Moody’s has been so generous to us, and Sal and I often spoke of our gratitude.

Sally was on 16 East at Saint Vincent’s Hospital or the Cancer Center almost every day during the last seven months. The nursing staff at both locations were incredible. Their compassionate care, their knowledge, wisdom, and devotion to Sally always gave us the strength to go on. Pam, Christine, Brenda, Ellen, and all of the other nurses at 16 East at Saint Vincent’s cared for Sally, as well as for the girls and me, as if we were family. With their experience and honesty, they helped guide us through medical, spiritual, and emotional issues that no one so young should have to face. I don’t know how we would have managed without the support and dedication of Theresa, Dee, Kathy, Elenore, and the others at the Cancer Center.

Dr. Kempin, our family is forever indebted to you. Sally thought you were the only doctor who could follow Dr. Timothy Gee, and there could be no greater praise from her. Your experience, knowledge, and dedication to your patients are impressive. You listened carefully to us, you consulted other doctors when you thought you could learn something from them, and you did whatever needed to be done in order for Sally to get treated. All of that makes you a great doctor. It is your heart that makes you a great human being. You have given so much to so many people. I know how much you meant to Sally and me, and I believe I know how much Sally meant to you.

I want to say simply how grateful I am to all the people I’ve mentioned and others whose compassion and devotion allowed Sally to realize her own inner strength in the epic battle she fought.

Emma Burger

When I was younger, every extra year that you were gone felt like an eternity. I hated thinking that three, four, five years had passed without you here. So much had changed and there was so much you didn't know. In my mind, you existed in a five block radius in Greenwich Village where I'd go looking for you. I'd try to seek out the spots where I had my few memories with you. One of my favorites was sitting with you in a snowstorm in a French cafe on Christopher Street where you taught me to dip my baguette in hot chocolate like they did in France.

I was never able to find that cafe as hard as I searched and I figured it must be closed forever. More than anything, I needed evidence that you'd really been here, I'd really known you, and that these few precious memories I'd had with you really happened.

Now, as hard as it is to believe, twenty years have passed and so many of those places I'd been with you are gone. St. Vincent's is now a luxury apartment building, Dean and Deluca is an outerwear store, and Two Boots is still there, but two blocks south of where it was when we'd order pizzas to the hospital. Each time one of our places disappeared, it felt like I was farther away in time from you than ever.

That was the first twenty years without you.

These next twenty years, I don't want to let you get any farther away. As I approach the age you were when I knew you, I hope to feel you with me here more than ever. As I approach the age you were when you got married and had me and Cam and got sick, I imagine you'll be here with me in totally new ways. 

We've spent two decades now without you, knowing you mainly through your absence. For the next twenty years though, I hope to get to know you better all over again. After you died, I used to wonder if you knew what was happening in the world you left behind. Although I can't claim to know whether you did or didn't, there are certain things I'd want you to know. I'd want you know how much you've inspired me. I'd want you to know what good care of us dad and everyone here today and Donna have taken. You'd be so happy to know that dad has Holly, who is so amazing and good to him. We've missed you every day since you've been gone, but all came out the other side okay.

The first twenty years without you were for feeling your profound absence. The next twenty are for finding you here again.