Someone called me today, introduced himself and asked me if I knew x. I had a little trouble placing the name or discerning the motive of the caller, so I answered, “Yes, a little. We’ve worked on a few projects together.” Suspicion tinctures my phone interactions with strangers. The person the caller mentioned was someone who had worked for the Los Angeles office of a Minnesota client of mine; she was on the periphery of the solar system of my life, a voice on a few conference calls, a sending address for an email with some background I needed.
“I’m calling because your name is on her Blackberry. I wanted to let you know that she died.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. There’s a 1-888 number for more information.” He gave it to me. At first this seemed odd, but then it seemed sensible. It saved this good man, who was doing a favor for her brother, from recounting the details of her death to everyone in her address book. I can imagine what that might entail: I have 375 names in my contact book, plus 128 linked in contacts and 58 facebook friends, many of which overlap. If I were to die. E would know which it would be appropriate to call, and which it would be better to email. But this woman died single so there was no one to judge nuances of closeness.
Dialing the 1-888 number, I learned that she suffered a stroke while bicycling in a charity fundraiser. The stroke was a “lingering complication” of an aneurysm she had suffered two and a half years earlier. “She had reached her goal of returning to the things she loved: riding with her friends and helping other people.”
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