A Tribute to Jude

I discovered last week that my friend, Jude, had passed away in February at the young age of 81. I wasn’t ready for it.

Jude came from a strong old Irish stock. Her mother lived to be 107, and still drove to greet her daughter at the airport when she was already 103. Yes, that sounds scary. But it happened.

I had assumed that, despite her numerous physical complaints stemming mostly from a serious case of hypochondriasis and her refusal to accept any advice from an actual doctor, she would outlive me. Which would have been fine. Instead, she beat me to the punch.

I would not characterize our relationship as particularly close. We met in 1980 when we worked together at Pan American World Airways. Jude and I both lived in Manhattan, she in the West Village; me in the East Village. We occasionally commuted together to work in New Jersey when one of our cars was in repair. Conversation was at first perfunctory and polite. But as time went on, we began to learn more and more about each other.

I visited her apartment only once in the many years we lived in the same borough, enthralled by her white baby grand piano. Jude came to my apartment once or twice for dinner and drinks. We also went to dinner together several times at various restaurants, although I cannot recollect which restaurants or where they were located. Surely, they were all in walking distance.

I met Judith, as she was officially named, when she was in her 40s and I around 25. She had a head of curly long red hair that just screamed “beautiful!” and a natural elegance that few women could hope to achieve. She remarked one day that she had protested the replacement of her apartment balcony flooring because the wooden slats were too far apart and might catch her high heel in the space between. “Who wears high heels in the house?” I wondered. Obviously, Jude did.

At work, she eventually met and then married her second husband, a nice man named Tom who worked for IBM. They sometimes stayed in Manhattan, and at other times in White Plains. I saw her less during this period, although I passed her office often. One day while passing by, I noticed her arm in a sling. “What happened?!” I asked. She quipped, “I fell off a bar stool,” and then giggled in that lovely laugh of hers, tossing her hair back as an added gesture. It was only much later I learned that she and Tom had had a confrontation that turned into a physical fight. As she came at him, he flipped her, accidentally breaking her arm. But at the time, she never let on that anything was amiss. Eventually, and probably thankfully, they divorced.

Jude was a singular personality with thoughts and ideas that were not entirely ballasted to reality, a woman (yes, I must admit) full of delusions and unrealistic hopes. But that is exactly what drew me towards her, this fascinating woman whose outlook on life was so different than my own – and anyone else’s. If she told an untruth, it was only to herself; I accepted her words at face value, no matter how outlandish they seemed. It was just so fun to be in her world for that moment.

Jude was constantly suing: the city, her employer, her family. Who knows who else. I’m surprised the courts did not eventually cite her for filing frivolous lawsuits, although they were usually in different jurisdictions so one court would not notice. The lawsuit became her raison d'être, the thing that got her out of bed and out of the apartment. With her multitude of self-diagnosed illnesses, the filing of lawsuits seemed to be the only temporary cure to her general malaise, an elixir of paperwork and legally worded incantations from which she could draw strength and vitality. She should have been a lawyer.

We kept in touch over the years mostly through emails. I would write long and detailed accounts of my life. She would always reply with regrets that her foggy-mindedness (due to CFS, Covid-19, brain cancer, or the like) – and her very old computer – limited her ability to reply with equal gusto. I didn’t mind; I was just happy to receive a reply and know that she was alright.

Although it was not unusual to wait a month for a reply, after a two-month delay, I telephoned Jude just after Christmas. We had lovely conversations about many things and showed enthusiasm for each other’s life, even though both had seemingly shrunk over time. The call then dropped, probably due to my spotty Internet coverage, and then I could not get through again. So I jotted out a quick email telling Jude how much I enjoyed the conversation and promising we would again be in touch.

Nearly a month later and to my amazement, I received a long, detailed email from Jude, the first – and only – of that length! Although much of it was filled with her detailing her believed afflictions, it was still an email of substance. I replied, “Wow! An actual email from you. I'm going to print it out and frame it!” That was the last email I received from her. She died in February from causes unknown.

In her final email where she detailed her myriad diseases and sought to discount the entire medical profession for their incompetence, she wrote, “I share this in hopes that should you have health issues that you not kill yourself trying to stay alive.” Was she being prophetic of her own life?

I sent a letter to her address marking it to “Estate of…” I have not yet heard back, and think that perhaps I never will. Like one would listen repeatedly to a recording of a deceased loved one’s voice, I continue to reread Jude’s email as her final words to me, and I treasure her last hurrah to a life…

Update: December 23, 2021

I was surprised and delighted to receive a card with a South Carolina return address. I also noted the writer’s maiden name, which I immediately recognized to be the same as Jude’s. It had to be one of her relatives finally responding to my May letter addressed to “the Estate of…”

Inside the envelope was a card from her sister, Sharon, dated October 28. In it, she explained:

Her friends in the city could not get in touch, so called Adult Protective Services. The police found her sitting on the floor leaning back against her bed. Autopsy showed heart disease. Natural causes. I assume heart attack from the way she was found…

Jude was attractive, with a charming personality and a gorgeous South Carolinian accent, to boot. The last time we met in New York around 2011, she still looked fantastic, despite the affects from her Trichotemnomania. I thoroughly enjoyed our afternoon together.

Rest in peace, Jude. I will always treasure our friendship.

Update: January 27, 2022

I visited Jude’s apartment last night in a lovely dream.

Although her actual apartment was in a townhouse in the crowded West Village of Manhattan, her apartment in my dream was on the top story of a low-rise two-story apartment building surrounded by trees. It seems that I understood Jude had died and that her apartment sat empty. Yet, I wanted to visit her home one last time.

I cannot clearly remember now the circumstances, but I do believe a neighbor or two may have somehow been involved in helping me gain entry. Once inside the building, I climbed the stairs leading to the second floor.

As I reached the top floor, I could see that the door to Jude’s apartment was ajar, as if purposefully left open. I pushed the door wide open and walked into the space.

It was perhaps midday in late spring. The large windows that lined the back wall allowed a bright southern sun to fill the room with warmth and light. It was a beautiful sight to experience at the perfect time of day in the perfect part of the season that was neither cold nor hot. I stood there for a few moments, taking in the sunlight and feeling gratified having seen Jude’s home once more. I then awoke.

Jude, surely your apartment in Manhattan is no longer empty. But your apartment of my dream is void, save for a bright shining light. I suppose this is all what we leave behind when we die: a void and, for those lucky few, a bright light.