I just got home from visiting a friend. I finally got to meet her husband and we had a nice long chat. I hugged her children’s necks and laughed with her friends. I told her every wonderful thing I love about her and thanked her for being such a well of encouragement and inspiration. It was amazing, and I almost missed it. I almost didn’t go.
My friend’s name is Tammy and she’s dying. Right this very minute she’s lying in a hospital bed, unconscious, trying to navigate her way from this world into the next. I’ve got the distinct impression that it’s harder than it looks. But Tammy is a badass and she can handle anything.
Several years ago she opened a children’s bookstore in East Nashville. Now, this was no ordinary bookstore. Yes, there were books, but there were also toys, and crafts, and a big ol’ area to play with them all. And the very best thing? There was an area in the back with couches and coffee and good smelling candles and it was there for mamas and papas to sit down and RELAX. Imagine. A place actually designed for children and families to enjoy.
Tammy Derr, owner of Fairytales Bookstore and all around badass.
From the time Fairytales opened it became our go-to for birthday and Christmas gifts. In fact, at any neighborhood party, you could bank on 75% of the gifts arriving in the signature white bag with colorful tissue paper and fairy stamp. So I saw Tammy a lot. She was hard to miss. She had bright red hair and a giant grin and she was ALWAYS at the store. Still, we weren’t actually friends. In the 300 times I came into the shop, I never introduced myself; I smiled and “thank you-ed” and tried to stay invisible. I’m a little intimidated by red-haired badasses who open businesses and become community linch pins.
It wasn’t until I started this blog that Tammy and I became friends. I have no idea how she found out about it, but one day she began leaving comments, and the next thing I knew, we were talking a couple times a week. I felt like I’d won the lottery, like I’d just been picked first for dodgeball. Here this incredible woman was offering to be my friend. I’d like to say it’s because I’m special, but the truth is, Tammy does that for everyone. With Tammy, everyone is in. That’s part of her magic. That, and an infectious sense of optimism.
Tammy has been sick for a while. She successfully beat cancer once, only to have it return. Still, she continued to raise her three amazing daughters, run her store, and treat every setback as only another obstacle to beat down. In the midst of it all she kept loving on others and drawing larger and larger circles, pulling more people in. When Mike was fired a couple months ago, she showed up at my front door with a large bag of wrapped gifts for my kids – books and toys from her shop. She had the thumbprint bruises under her eyes that gave away how hard the fight was proving to be, but still, she glowed. Her bright light couldn’t help but shine.
I got the word yesterday that Tammy was failing and had said she was ready to go. She’d slipped into unconsciousness. As much as I wanted to go say goodbye, I didn’t want to intrude. I imagined her surrounded by a small circle of family and best friends. I’d heard that her husband was welcoming people to come visit, but I figured that was meant for other people. You know, people who really belonged. People who had passed some kind of friend litmus test. Maybe people who’d delivered her babies, or also had badass red hair like hers, or had solved world hunger or something. Worthy people.
I teetered between resigned and hysterical all last night. I paced the kitchen for half of the morning. She was still there. I could still tell her how important she’d been to me in this last year, though she might not hear me. But I felt hamstrung by insecurity and unworthiness. Death is a sacred thing. I didn’t want to taint it.
Even so, I was haunted by a need to show up for her like she’d shown up for me.
And then it occurred to me: Tammy had no idea that we’d be friends when she reached out the first time. She had no way to know for sure that I wouldn’t laugh her off. No way to know when she opened her store that it would be received with love and loyalty. She just stepped out with her whole heart, hoping. She just showed up. The realization felt like a holy lesson.
So I sent a text to a stranger (her husband) to make sure it was not inconvenient, dragged my blubbering and grateful butt into that ICU room and had one of the most meaningful experiences of my entire life.
I have no idea if Tammy heard any of the things that I said to her. Perhaps she can tell me someday when I see her on the other side. But this I know for sure: that waiting room was filled with people. Most I knew, some I did not. And every single one of them belonged there. Everyone was in, because Tammy had drawn them in. That is Tammy’s legacy. The legacy of belonging, the legacy of community.
I’m heartbroken for her children. I’m heartbroken for her husband. I’m heartbroken for all of us. But I’m okay with it. Sometimes, if you’ve really been wholehearted, you are going to have your whole heart broken. And if there is one thing that Tammy personifies it is wholeheartedness.
We will be ok. Her family will be ok. Scratch that, her family will be more than ok. We will all make sure of it. After all, she spent her life building up the world’s best life love insurance policy.
As always, beautifully written and encouragement to us all – to be community & take the risk of friendship. Thanks.
Thank you , Jen, for always finding the words to say what we are all feeling! Thank you! Thank you!
Xo Fleming
This is a lovely tribute. I always find warmth and light in Tammy’s presence when we stop in the shop. It takes courage and love to say goodbye. I know she felt that from your presence.
Such a beautiful tribute. Thank you. No matter how horrible she felt, she could always build you up. From the day I met her in the 8th grade, in gym class as she and her bad-assery are killing it playing football, through our friendship in high school and as adults, she always knew how to make someone feel important and special.
She sure did. She will be sorely missed, but her legacy lives on. Thank you. Wishing you peace.
What a brave and difficult thing you did. I’m sure she felt your loving spirit and each person that speaks to her adds peace to her journey. I’m sure you were blessed by stepping out there and pouring out your heart.
Oh Mitzi, I hope you’re right. I wish that sweet soul nothing but peace. Thank you.
and here I’ve always thought *you* were a red haired (okay maybe a pretty auburn that’s sometimes red) bad-ass and linch-pin of your community.
I’m so sorry for the loss of your friend and for the pain her family must be going through.
Bless you for Going to see your friend. I know she heard you. I just know it.
You are an incredible writer! Very finely crafted! Thank you so much!
Well writ, friend. XX
Thank you for sharing a beautiful story. Your readers are the lucky ones also, you bring everyday life into perspective.
Beautifully written. I’m sad I never got to meet her, or visit her store … but she, her store, her family, and her friends sound wonderful. May her memories live on in all your hearts … and that ‘red-haired badass’ will certainly be a guardian angel for many. You just have to be open to see those subtle (or not) signs. Peace to your hearts and soar high, Tammy.
Wonderfully written,.
As tears are flying
Down my face.
I thank you for these wonderful
Memories of tammy! It is so comforting to know the community is there for this awesome family!
Sue
Johns sister
Sue, she built the community. We belong to her. Much love and peace.
That is a very sad, but truly sweet tribute. Only met her once but we talked until my husband dragged me out of the store- she was just lovely and her family is a reflection of that. Life is so short.
Through my sadness, and some tears, I feel for ya. The one resounding thing that keeps rolling over in my head. “Beauty is as Beauty does”
You are Beautiful !.
Thank you for these beautiful and loving words. I stopped into the shop with a cup of tumeric & ginger tea, and met with Tammy’s wonderful and equally gracious and giving husband, who told me Tammy had left for the day. The trooper she was, she had been in the store, oxygen canister in tow, to greet customers and cast her magic. I knew then that the time was coming, but didn’t realize how soon. How deeply sad, yet you are right– everyone was in with Tammy, and on our first meeting, she took me in, as well.
My heart goes out to her family, and to all her friends who knew her a little, like me, and a lot, like so many.
I bought some fairly wings for my grand niece, and will tell her that they are extra special, from a true fairy angel.
Heart-wrenching and beautiful tribute.
Thanks so much for sharing this. It helped me get to know Tammy better. She is amazing and has touched so many lives.
Are you sure you don’t have red hair?!!
I’m glad it helped. And, no, my hair is auburn only on my best days.
Thank you. I’m a relative but sometimes relatives only know someone so much. We visited a couple nights in Nashville last year but you know what? You think there will be more, and we’ll spend more time together. I’ve heard of the people who were crashed in the waiting room like a rained out summer camp and I know that I didn’t know her. But John is here and he is great. And her brother Chad is here and he is great. But I miss her already.
I only met Tammy once but it was memorable. My family and I spent a day exploring East Nash and she (and Fairytales) was our best find that day. I’m so sad to hear she’s gone, but I’m sure her legacy will live on. Thank you so much for your touching tribute. Through you, Tammy is continuing to build community even in her absence.