I was aware of Viv when I first started subbing with the Montreal Symphony in 2013, her being the only female trombone player in an otherwise pretty testosterone-heavy brass section; but we didn’t officially become friends until several months later.

On my first tour in March 2014 to Europe, I still felt kindof like an outsider in the orchestra. And so, in an attempt to change that in a way that was and still is incredibly out of character, I would lurk in the lobby of each new hotel at meal times, waiting for some group of pre-existing friends going by to latch onto.

“Mind if I join you?” I’d say to the entire bass section, full of tall burly dudes on their way to find beer and wiener schnitzel; or to our concertmaster and two of his longtime friends from the violin section on their way to a place they’d looked up nearby that was supposed to be good; to our then-conductor, Kent Nagano on his way to McDonalds.

Just kidding!!! Kent Nagano doesn’t eat.

To my amazement, everybody I was brave enough to ask said, “Of course! Join us!” And slowly, as the days of tour went on, I got to know (almost) the entire orchestra. I got to know an awful lot of historic gossip, too…

One of my favourite evenings of that tour, was the one I spent with a seemingly mish-mash crew made up of a bass sub, a contract cellist, a viola sub, a contract violinist, and a contract trombonist. Andrew, Peter, Wilma, Joe, and Viv, respectively. I may not be remembering the details exactly (have I left someone out? Was Joe even there? Joe, in his orange bubble jacket, was everywhere); but what I remember was that it was just the nicest time.

We all walked to this giant cave-like pub, filled with banquet-sized tables full of people drinking glasses of beer so big you could barely hold them up to your face. The vibe of this group was different than most of the others—not that anything was wrong with the others, but I felt instantly comfortable here. This was a group where subs seemed to matter just as much as non-subs, aka, contract members. There was no implied hierarchy. We just sat around, drinking and enjoying each others’ company, laughing a ton.

I remember Viv didn’t talk a whole lot, but she laughed at everybody’s jokes in a way that made them feel deeply understood. There was no judgment here, no walking on eggshells. Viv had just the warmest most lovely presence, sitting tall and relaxed—her curly brown hair with glimmers of silver as buoyant as her smile. She wore smart knee-high leather boots, a leather jacket, and a colorful scarf she’d knit herself; one of many gorgeous hand-knit pieces she would wear over the coming years.

I likely played a similar role at the table to Viv, just listening and laughing, although when I’m in new situations with people I barely know, I tend to share stories that I probably shouldn’t. Actually, Fuck that. That’s the way you make immediate friends, if you’re in good company.

In December of 2014, the orchestra went on another tour, to Japan and China. It may have just been the jet lag, but I noticed that people seemed to travel in much smaller packs on this tour. I still didn’t have a set “crew,” other than my platonic gay soul-mate, Scott, who often chose to cozy up in his hotel room in our precious off-time rather than explore the bowels of the Tokyo subway system with me and risk showing up late to a rehearsal. A habit I have since adopted, having been on enough tours now to know better.

However. On this tour, I would wake up at 3am every day (if I even managed to fall asleep in the first place) and start researching everything I could possibly fit into whatever tiny window of free time we had that day between services. I did a lot of stuff alone.

I believe it was in Sapporo, day 3 or so of the tour (hence, still feeling jet-lagged AF) that I had the amazing idea to run off to a nearby traditional Japanese onsen in the relatively short break between our dress rehearsal and the concert. After reading the I dunno, 374 pieces of etiquette you should follow in these bewildering places, I did have the wherewithal to see if anybody wanted to come with me.

“It’ll be an adventure! And it’ll be so relaxing! Plus, it’s like 16 min from the hall!! Anyone wanna join me?” I asked the entire tour bus full of sleepy musicians.

“That sounds like it could be nice, I’d join you!” “Yeah I’ll come too!” Came two voices from the back of the bus—Viv, and Kathy.

I’m not sure if they realized what they were in for, exactly, but these two brave souls followed me to one of the swankiest onsen around, and together we fell over ourselves trying not to call attention to the fact that we had absolutely no idea what we were doing. We stripped down naked and scrubbed every inch of our bodies according to a very strict protocol, before joining a bunch of women in the mineral baths; performing the bizarre dance-with-napkin-sized-towel where you make a feeble attempt to cover your bits (not all of them, you must pick one!!) as you slip into the water, eventually letting the microscopic towel rest on top of your head—all the while trying to avoid conspicuously looking at each others’ bushes.

We had a wonderful time. Until I decided to partake in all the various complimentary creams and sprays in the change room, spraying my entire face with what I thought was a cooling mist, but was actually a medicinal hot-cold substance meant to soothe aching muscles. I essentially pepper-sprayed myself. I proceeded to scream and run naked around the change room full of austere elderly Japanese women with my eyes clamped shut in pain, boobs-and-cheeks-a-flappin, until I found Viv and Kathy who helped me find a dry towel to wipe the burning off.

We were all maybe a little too relaxed for the concert that night.

After this extreme bonding experience on tour, I often hung out with Viv on breaks at work; and I started getting invites to her and her husband Dave’s home for dinner parties. These were the best. The parties everybody wishes they were able to have, but are just too damn high-strung to pull it off. Affairs at Dave and Viv’s were effortless, and that energy made people feel truly at ease in their home. There was always enough food, always enough booze, and people basically stayed until they got kicked out.

I also loved throwing parties, but unlike Dave and Viv, I meticulously planned out every tiny detail, and then tried to somehow pretend I wasn’t the most stressed person in the room the entire night. People usually left by 11. But Dave and Viv were always there, Dave often helping my overwhelmed ass make cocktails for everyone.

Dave and Viv started affectionately calling me their adopted daughter, standing in for their actual daughter Erica, who had moved to the UK. I don’t know if I was ever able to express to them how much I adored this, but I did. It made me feel so incredibly special, being claimed even in a semi-joking way, by just the most special people.

When Viv told us a year ago that she had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I was shocked and upset, like everyone; but I think it’s pretty safe to say that the way I coped, was some clumsy combination of deluding myself into thinking she would be the rare one who survived—and simultaneously pretending she was already gone. I rarely texted, even more rarely visited; I didn’t even bring over a tray of lasagna. I just plain didn’t know how to deal with it. I assumed that she and Dave were so very well taken care of, that it felt borderline intrusive at times. And they were. The taken care of part, at least.

Their (real) kids Erica and Travis visited often to help out, and according to Dave, they had friends stopping by all the time, stocking their freezer to the brim with precooked meals. What could I possibly have offered, other than robbing them of some of the precious little time they had left together? I didn’t want to be another member of The Care and Concern Brigade, forcing them to answer the same questions over and over via a tiny phone screen, ringing her doorbell at all hours, tromping through her house to make a big show of the fact that I’m a Good Person. This was my fucked up thought process, at least. So by not showing up, am I… a bad person? Well, some part of me knows, no. I really was doing what I thought would be the most kind thing, at the time. Caring about them from a respectful distance.

But I do feel guilty.

The last time I saw Viv was on May 31—Scott and I were incredibly lucky to catch her in a week she was feeling quite well, having been on a break from cancer treatment. We got to sit with her outside in her beautiful garden on a sunny day. Dave and Travis were there too. We talked and laughed like old times, as Dave ate an extremely messy egg salad sandwich. Viv and I talked about writing, a love we both share—she often used to post on her blog within hours of something I posted, saying I had inspired her to write, too. She had been struggling to write as much as she’d like, though she was still writing way more than I was. “Maybe we could start a writing group! It’d be such a nice way to encourage each other to write more!” I said, as our visit was drawing to a close. “That sounds like a great idea!” Travis said, being one of his mom’s greatest creative cheerleaders. Viv smiled, nodding. “Let’s do it!”

It never happened, but Viv kept writing, anyway. Even as cancer was slowly killing her.

On the morning of September 30, I was in the middle of confirming my plans with Scott to visit Viv in the hospital for the first time in 4 months—and, we had a sinking feeling, for probably the last time ever—when I got a text from my mom.

“I’m so sorry punkie. I know how much you loved her.“

No. No, no no no. My heart dropped as I fumbled over to Dave’s page on Facebook, where he told us she had passed away gently, with no pain to his knowledge, around 2 in the morning. We were too late.

I don’t know where it came from, but somewhere from deep inside of me came just the most surprising tsunami of grief—all the love for Viv I’d been hiding from myself this entire time. Wave after wave hit me all day long, every time I would think about her, and especially when I thought about how hard this must be for Dave, Erica and Travis. For some reason, I would imagine the moment they left their beautiful home together for the last time, over and over and over, like some kindof empathy torture, my sadness pouring out in loud, ugly sobs.

The next day at work, they asked us to play Nimrod before our concert in honor of Viv. I understand the sentiment behind this, but I don’t think the people who made this decision fully thought it through?!? Like, have you ever tried to play a brass solo while you were ugly-crying?!? I prepped in the bathroom beforehand by making myself a giant scarf made of toilet paper, and you bet I needed it. I wonder what Viv would have thought of it all—I’m pretty sure she would have laughed, with a very subtle eye roll.

Maybe this explains my total inadequacy at handling Viv’s final months, but I haven’t lost very many people in my life. I’m either really lucky, or I’m just not that close to many people. When I was a baby, my maternal grandma passed away, which doesn’t really count. I never knew her!

But a dear older friend of my mom’s from her hometown stepped up when this happened—Gracie, we called her, even though her name was Lynn—and volunteered to be my grandma. She believed that every child should get to experience the gentle, unconditional love of a grandma. And she really followed through on this, spoiling me rotten whenever we’d visit family in Rochester for the holidays! When she passed away in my 20s, it hit me. But still, not as hard as Viv. I don’t really know why. Maybe, it’s because I didn’t just love Viv; I love lots of people who loved her, too. When she passed away, I wasn’t just feeling my own pain. I was feeling a huge, collective loss.

There is a really special link between Viv and Grandma Gracie, though they never met each other. They both chose me. They didn’t have to, but they stepped up in a very lonely world and claimed me as family, so I would know I was loved. And for this, and everything Viv brought into this world, I will always be grateful.

Rest in Peace, dear friend.

If you’d like to read Viv’s writing, take a walk through Vivian’s Tranquil Garden. It is inspiring, profound, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Vivee, thank you for inspiring me to write again. I’ll do my best to carry the torch.