January 7, 2021
Two hours ago I was still trying to pack away the last
of the Christmas decorations and put out the few winter decorations we have,
dividing the snowmen and the penguins between the few flat surfaces we have
that can accommodate candles and figurines. Two hours ago I was feeling proud
of the fact that I hadn’t fallen off the stepstool after dusting the shelves
over the fireplace. Two hours ago I didn’t know that a little boy I knew over
forty years ago would leave me in tears at the news of his death.
I had no idea what Matt Phaneuf looked like as a
fifty-one year old father of three. I didn’t’ even know he had three kids or
that he still lived in Western, MA. I didn’t know that he had an Associates Degree
from Springfield Technical Community College. I did know that he had Type 1
Diabetes and he had lived with that diagnosis most of his life.
Matt was the first person I knew who was diagnosed
with diabetes. He came to school in the third grade with a lunch box full of
snacks that were all labeled. My mom was Room Mother that year. At home she
explained to me what all the numbered snacks in his lunch box meant: he needed to eat certain snacks at specific
times of the day to help him balance the insulin that was delivered to him via shots
at the nurse’s office. We had been friends since kindergarten and I don’t know
if he was diagnosed in the third grade or if I was just becoming aware of the
information at that time. I do remember that he was a good friend that made me
smile and I felt protective of him. So much so that when another classmate made
fun of his numbered snacks, I jumped in and angrily explained to her what
Diabetes was and that she shouldn’t make fun of him for it.
I have three other very specific memories of Matt
Phaneuf and a handful of foggy senior year memories mostly centered on
drinking. (Matt was known for drinking his “OM’s.” Old Milwaukee was never my
beer of choice, but Matt could pound those things like they were water.) My
first Matt memory is in kindergarten or first grade. It is after gym class and we
are sitting on the line at one end of the gym, waiting to be dismissed. Since
classes were always filed in and out in alphabetical order, Phaneuf and Porter
had a pretty good chance of being adjacent in line. I had already learned to
tie my shoes. All these years later I honestly don’t remember if Matt didn’t
know how to tie his shoes yet, or whether I wanted to show off that I could,
but I remember tying his sneakers for him after class. First I tied mine, then
I tied his. Then we filed into line and went back to our regular classroom.
My second memory takes place on the playground. It was
during a colder, winter month because I specifically remember winter coats and
mittens. I had managed to climb to the top of the Igloo on the far end of the
playground. A lot of kids were doing it, so I followed what they did and weaved
my way to the top on the outside of the Igloo and then dangled my legs down
inside between the bars like the other kids. When the bell rang, some dropped through
to the ground and then crawled out the sides, while others reversed their
direction and descaled the outside of the igloo to the ground. Suddenly afraid
of the height that I had achieved, I was unable to get down. I couldn’t move. I
was stuck at the top of the Igloo.
Despite calling me to get in line, no teacher came to
help me. But Matt did. He ran back, climbed inside the igloo and told me to
drop. He coaxed me to the inside of the Igloo until I was hanging, arms long,
hands clenched on the bars, feet dangling just a few feet above the ground.
What he knew from below was what I couldn’t feel as I hung there: the ground was not far below my hanging feet.
He told me he would catch me. I trusted him and I dropped. I didn’t need him to
catch me and I landed squarely on my feet, a little embarrassed that I had been
“stuck” five feet off of the ground. But to a barely four foot tall second or
third grader, that was a lot of space to cover.
My only strong memory from our high school years was
when he let me drive his car. Matt had an old Mustang that we were all envious
of. He loved that car. He took care of it and not many people were allowed to
drive it. One day after school he let me drive his car to Caroline’s house. We
were on Stony Hill Rd., passing the Junior High School when a squirrel ran
across the road and I hit the squirrel with the left front tire. I screamed,
pulled up my feet and I think I took my hands off the steering wheel. Matt
didn’t get mad, although he did insist that I open my eyes and drive, as he
held the steering wheel straight on the road. I never drove his car again, but
I don’t think that’s because I was banned, but more because the opportunity
truly never presented itself again.
I don’t believe I have seen or heard any news of Matt Phaneuf
since my first or second year of college. We both went on and lived our lives.
I am not on Facebook and tend to miss a lot of the hometown gossip, catch-up
and connections. But to learn tonight, via a text from the only three people I
still do connect with from my youth, that he passed away last month as a result
of complications of diabetes, I was left with a little hole in my heart. I knew
he was special to me back in elementary school, and that I had carried those
memories forward with me to our friendship as teenagers, but I guess I never
really knew the impact that our friendship had on me until I was faced with
only looking at them as memories of a time gone by, and a person gone forever.
I know that when I am gone I would like to be
remembered as a good mother, a loyal friend, a loving daughter and sister and
hopefully as a writer. We all want to leave our mark on the world in some way
that makes us feel proud of what we have accomplished in life. And if I am to
be honest, I would like to think that we each have an opportunity to leave a
lasting impression in places and upon people that we didn’t even realize we had
touched. I’m fairly certain that Matt Phaneuf never knew what he meant to me. I
can only say now that his George Bailey moment is unfortunately posthumous. I
am fortunate to have known him and to have a place in my life, memory and heart
for him. And if every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, there were
definitely bells ringing for him on December 16, 2020.
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