Karen

A month ago, I received a text from the lovely Dorothy Monkovic, the beloved sister of my dear friend Karen Ciccotelli, who passed away in February 2023. In Dorothy’s note, she invited a handful of women – family and friends – to meet on the anniversary of Karen’s passing.

Initially I panicked, thinking it would be hard to see Dorothy, because she looks and sounds so much like Karen. I was pretty sure I’d tear up, and I did. However, I also felt comforted by her, as well as being with some of Karen’s loved ones, including her daughter-in-law Amber and her close friend Lisa, who I’m happy to say has become my friend too.   

We laughed, cried, shared stories about our relationships with Karen and I think we all learned something new about her. I didn’t know some of the silly stuff she did with Lisa, for example, like stuffing her bra with Dots candy so that when Karen and Lisa, also a personal fitness trainer, would work out together at the gym, they had a Dots stash to nibble on. Who does that kind of thing?!?!? Karen, of course!

That’s the thing about Karen. She was a character in the best, most authentic way.

I met her almost 40 years ago, in 1986, when we were in our mid-twenties and had just moved into a new development in South Jersey within a few months of one another. She lived across the street, two homes over. Each of us had gotten married about 2 years prior and neither had kids yet.

I can still remember when I got my first glimpse of her. I thought to myself WOW, this chick is glamorous – and this was after her overnight shift as a nurse. She was statuesque, very tan, wore cropped tops and short shorts that showed off her rock-hard abs, sported a trendy hair style with her black, silky hair that enabled her big, gold earrings space to shimmer, and she always had long painted hot pink nails and make-up that she didn’t need, to highlight her beautiful face. She had well-defined, muscular arms and legs; it could have been my imagination, but she often appeared to be flexing. The first time she caught me checking her out up and down, she said “I’m from South Philly,” with this hearty laugh that made me crack up, which made her howl, with joy I think, that I was so captivated by her.  

It wasn’t until we had our first babies six weeks apart, in the summer of 1987, that Karen and I started to hang out. We didn’t have much in common other than the fact that we were both from Philly (albeit opposite ends), we came from large families, and we drooled over our little marvels, so impressed with ourselves that these little guys came out of our wombs. We spent many afternoons in her backyard or my front lawn, often with the other new moms from the neighborhood. Having “the village” to share in the joys, transitions, exhaustion and everything else that came with new motherhood was better than I could have imagined.

Over time, Karen’s and my conversations – in person or on the phone – morphed from entertaining chatter and commonplace topics to digging in deep, mostly about our kids. We found that we reveled in learning what pediatric experts like T. Berry Brazelton would say about this or that. We’d run these thoughts by our pediatricians and kids’ specialists and continually seek to find answers that made sense and could guide us, and we’d discuss with one another until we exhausted the topic – until the next time we spoke. We had this kind of arrangement going for years – maybe as many as 10 – and I am certain that my approach to parenting was greatly influenced by the collaborative effort that kept Karen and me aligned, sane and on our toes…always striving to be the best parent or advocate for our kids that we could be.  

Once our eldest kids reached age 10 or so and we found we had some breathing room to focus on ourselves, Karen decided she wanted to become a personal fitness trainer. She went through a certification program, shared what she was learning with me regarding nutrition and exercise and pointed out all the ways she could “help”…Ahem!…transform me. She recommended I buy a book about viewing food as fuel and said she’d assist me with meal planning. What she was WAY more excited about was getting down and dirty in the gym. She said we’d work on my posture (OUCH), tone up my arms, legs and abs (another OUCH) and make me look and feel strong (AMEN). All I had to do was be ready for her to pick me up at the ungodly time of… 4:40 a.m. two mornings a week. Hopefully showing off our partnership in the gym would lead to some paying clients. Then, she said, I’d be off the hook.

All at no cost to me. How could I refuse? The least I could do was to help with that goal after all the time and energy she was willing to put into my well-being. So, I agreed. For the next couple of months, she pulled up to my house on her way home from her shift at the hospital, with rap music blasting, and the only light outside was the moon shining in the dark sky. As her schedule filled up, I was freed – but hooked – and I continued to go. Looking back, I’m grateful that Karen introduced me to the gym because I’ve stayed with it ever since.

A good 6 years later, David and I made plans to marry which naturally meant converging our families. Rather than have all 7 of us live in my rather small house, we felt it best for my 3 and David’s 2 to move into a “new” place. This meant I had to leave the house across the street from Karen, which I couldn’t even picture doing after all those years of living just 200 feet apart. I was so relieved that she eventually got on board with my decision, even though she rallied against the move when I told her.     

Five years after David’s and my kids moved in together, David’s son Matthew got sick with a soft tissue cancer. I shared this news with Karen and leaned on her for the months to come. At some point, I told her that David and/or I would have to start administering shots to him every day that he was home – between treatments. It never occurred to me to ask her to help us or to do it for us; she was working 2 full-time jobs – one, ironically, in hospice. And then she said those magic words that kept us from unraveling: “I will do it.” When I protested due to her busy schedule, she said, “David and you should not have to do that.” When I told her that the shots must be given at the same time every day and she’s not usually home from work by then, she said, “I will make it work.”  The magnitude of this generous gift cannot be overstated.

She became his nurse at home and also his buddy, confidante and an integral part of our family. She’d go to his room, shut the door, administer the shot, and they’d hang out. Sometimes it would be quiet in there, other times I’d hear talking – I just couldn’t make out the words (yes, I admit, I sometimes tried) but I could hear the soft tone of both their voices – and laughter too.  

One afternoon, she told me that she asked Matthew If you could have one wish, what would it be? Forgive me if I have shared his in a prior blog post, because it’s hard to believe I wouldn’t have…He told her he wanted a doggy, and she looked my way, waiting for me to respond. I told her “No, I can’t handle one more thing,” and she softly but forcefully told me that this is something I must do. We did bicker about it, but I knew she was right. After I freaked out about it for a week or so – with her asking me each day when we were going to bring one home – we added Shea Doggy to our family. It was the best thing we could’ve done for Matthew – and, honestly, for us.

David experienced Karen’s enormous heart firsthand. Not only did she care for Matthew, but she helped us care for him too.  What she did for all of us at the worst period of our lives can’t be described with any words in the English language.

Karen struggled with her own health for a long time.  At the point when I realized that she was not going to recover, I shut down, as it was inconceivable that she was not going to be in my world anymore.

Once she passed, I was unable to drive down our old street, the way I habitually did for a good 18 years since I had moved away, honking as I passed her house and then texting her, “Did you hear me?”  just so she’d know I was thinking about her. There was really no reason for me to go down the street once she was no longer there, but for some reason I kept telling myself to do it. I thought it would help me to manage my grief and feel close to her at the same time. Yet, I couldn’t do it for the longest time.

Just last week, however, I was able to drive down E. Partridge Lane…It was a bittersweet reminder that once upon a time, I had an extraordinary friend named Karen.