Maya’s blond pageboy gleamed in the early October light when she came bounding into our apartment. She was about to turn 19, at the beginning of her sophomore year in 1991 at Santa Barbara City College. She had come home for her birthday. She was on fire with her love of acting, her classes in the theater arts department, her plans to transfer to UCLA and realize her dream of becoming an actress.
We had a cake with candles, birthday presents, and as we always did when Maya was around, we laughed a lot. She showed photos of her modeling portfolio – a glam shot of her in a leopard skin coat and bright red lipstick, vamping for the camera. A sporty picture of her holding a giant beachball clad only in a bikini. A headshot that plumbed the depths of her deep brown eyes above a melancholy smile.
Maya as a teen
Maya was beautiful, yes, but she was so much more. Her essence emanated from her like a cloud of perfume, mixing daring, sweetness, charisma, and sardonic humor that cut to the bone. There were top notes and bass notes, florals as well as patchouli. Maya was complicated.
She’d be 49 years old on October 4th. Hard to believe. When your child dies, the future dies with her. But memories and imagination live on, and I can’t help but wonder who my daughter would be thirty years after that last birthday. I like to imagine happiness and success for Maya, but misery and failure – or at least some disappointments – are equally plausible.
“Thank you for never giving up on me, even when it got so hard,” Maya wrote to me in a Valentine’s Day card six weeks before her accident. She knew that her turbulent teen years had tested my endurance; she had pulled out of the tailspin she had been in, righted herself, and was on a glide path to realizing her consuming ambition to become an actress.
One of my best memories is of holding Maya’s hand, walking along the main drag in Santa Barbara window shopping at stores so pricey I couldn’t have afforded a handkerchief. As we strolled, Maya turned and tugged me closer.
“I know girls who can’t even talk to their moms,” she said. “But we can talk, really talk. Thank you for being a great Mom.”
We were high as two kites, confident she’d ace her audition at UCLA. The future shimmered in front of us, and we chased it, hand in hand in the bright California sunshine.
Once, when she was only five years old, Maya had tried to comfort me when I was upset. “That’s the way life lives,” she had said. It stopped me in my tracks.
I laughed at this quirky saying that held a deep nugget of truth.
“You’re right,” I said, gathering her into my arms.
A child’s wisdom – that life just lives, and we have to live along with it – stays with me. All my attempts to pat life into place, to manage or control, are ultimately futile. After she died, that saying was like a beacon, guiding me in my halting attempts to let her go.
Anyone who lives by the maxim “That’s the way life lives” understands that death and loss are part of life. If we deny death, or try to rush or hide grief, we are not living along with life. Living in harmony and acceptance of what is – even if what is includes unbearable sorrow – is the mark of a spiritually mature person.
I can’t always live up to Maya’s maxim, but when I stumble, those words return to me. “That’s the way life lives.” So, to honor Maya, and to celebrate her birthday, I offer you her wisdom, and ask us all to imagine a future that never was.
A beautiful girl, who helped so many people. I am blessed to know the lovely lady who received Maya’s liver.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Debra. Patti is a gem! You are blessed.
“That’s the way life lives” is something we all could continue our lives with–the joys, the tragedies. My son will be 49 on the 14th and I think of Maya (his daughter’s name by the way) each year on her birthday since I read your beautiful book.
Thank you, Linda. I didn’t realize our children were so close in age. Glad to hear you have a Maya in the family!
Living with what is … and never was … is the mark of a spiritually mature person. Well said and so true. Thank you for sharing your memories of your daughter.
Susan, thanks for your kind words.
I’ve often thought of Maya over the years, as my daughter became an adult and is now 50. She grew up in the same area as Maya, so when I read your book it hit hard. Your continued reflections keep her beautiful spirit alive. Thank you for the words you express so well!
Thanks so much for reading and sharing your thoughts, Chris.
Thank you for sharing her wisdom with us.
Thank you for sharing her memory.
May you be well.🙏🏻
Thanks so much Lynda.
I think of you and Maya often. My girls are 54 and 50 now. I just want to go before they do. Not everyone gets that treasure. Love to you and your sweet girl.
Nicolette, thanks so much for your kind words.
Beautiful remembrance, Ellie. Of a beautiful soul.
Thanks so much Ron.
I never tire of hearing your reflections on your remarkable girl, Eleanor. Love to you.
Very sweet of you. Thank you!