Uncharted Territory: 9 Year Later, Still Holding On

Nine years ago today, almost to the hour, Rebecca Gayle Berger passed away due to asphyxiation during an acute asthma attack. She had been jumping on a trampoline at my friend Bob's house, celebrating with Bob, Jeremy, and Jackie having been all named new members to Patriot Singers, our high school's most esteemed choir. She was joyful. She was six final exams away from finishing her sophomore year. She was just fifteen.

I found out the next day when Gillian's parents called my mom, who, sobbing, relayed the news to me. It was eight in the morning. My friends had allowed me to sleep that long, knowing I wouldn't sleep well for a long time to come. My mom tried to tell me the news, but I was just confused. Becca? What do you mean Becca? Are you talking about someone else and not the good friend I saw just yesterday? Surely, you must mean another Becca -- my Becca is young and healthy and accomplished and the definition of "full of life." Sometime in the course of the morning, though, once I arrived at the Bergers' house to sit shiva, saw Rich and Judy's blank, tear-soaked faces, and joined a large circle of Stevenson students, I must have realized that what my mom said was true: Becca was gone.

After that, the week was a whirlwind. I remember walking to McDonald's with some friends and trying to swallow some food. I remember hearing Becca had donated her organs. I remember opting out of studying for my final exams, of taking my French exam with a teddy bear in my lap and tears slowly falling down my face, of pushing back my other exams. I remember going to the funeral service and singing "Letting Go" with what seemed the entire choir department, something that was a huge commemoration of Becca's passion and talent because music isn't traditionally a part of Jewish funerals. I remember some 700 people being present at the service for beloved Becca. I remember that Becca was a light in an age of really messed up, really confused teenagers, and people clung to her even as she was lowered below the earth. I remember losing, for the first time, someone who had been a daily part of my life, who I'd sat with at a pep assembly just 10 hours before her death, cheered on the phone just an hour before. I remember everything being new and frustrating and intense and fuzzy.

I still haven't been able to wrap my head around her death -- who can, after all, make sense of tragedy like that? -- but each year my thankfulness for her grows and grows. During that year, as we sang and danced with our show choir, Syncopation, and perfected "You Don't Own Me" for SHS's variety show, Showcase, we grew in friendship. Before that year, I'd felt uneasy when any of my peers referred to any other as her "best friend." I didn't know the meaning of the term; I'd never felt so sure that anyone was deserving of the honor. But Becca was. She was my first best friend. She was trustworthy, and hopeful, and humble, and excited about life, and she had the voice of an angel. She possessed all of those qualities I wished for myself, and she unabashedly showered them upon everyone. Becca was excited about being my friend -- like, I, too, was something special.

Throughout Summer, 2000, and over the next several years, Becca gave me a wonderful gift: She gave me a whole new group of "best friends", people brought closer together through her death -- a whole new group of friends upon whom I could depend. So many of us still are super close today. In Fall, 2002, when it was time for me to apply to colleges, Becca was still on my mind. I wanted these colleges to not only hear about this wonderful person but also to hear how she shaped my life and taught me to pass on all the lessons she'd taught me. So my essays were about her and how I've learned how important it is to pass on all the love she bestowed on all she met and how I tried to do that. And it was a way to take her to college, to have her experience something she never could.

Now, I carry Becca with me all the time. We all know that every single day is a gift, but when I think of Becca, I believe it. The urgency hits me.

Most of the time, I don’t wake up in the morning thinking this could be my last day. I don’t think, this could be the last time I will sleep in this soft bed, this could be the last time I’ll get ready for work, this could be the last morning coffee I’ll need, this could be the last time I’ll listen to that song on the radio, this could be the last time I’ll hear the voices of my loved ones. I don’t think about how life would continue without me in it, about how some may say their lives were different because of me, about how so many wouldn’t know the difference with me gone. I just don’t.

When I think of Becca -- and I pray, even as we near her death's tenth anniversary, that I may do so with even greater frequency -- When I think of her, all of it hits me. I realize, I am lucky to be alive, to have breath flowing in and out of my mouth, to be able to go about my life. And I realize, what a privilege I have here in my hands: the privilege to live, and experience life as God intended, and to share with others that life and love God wants for me and that Becca must have discovered herself.

I am persuaded to each day honor the memory of a wonderful girl. To know that she lives on still. To pray that she's with God. And to have hope in that prayer, because God shone threw her in every interaction, every smile, every grain of friendship, and every note sung. Because I knew her, I have been blessed.