Loving the Sunshine
A Eulogy for Sharman Stein
Sharman and I took the scenic route to coming together. We first met when I interviewed with her for a job while she was leading communications at SCO Family of Services. She made me an informal offer for the position, but some organizational changes meant that she ultimately had to withdraw it. We’d hit it off exceedingly well, so we were both extremely disappointed but agreed to stay in touch.
About a year later, Sharman’s name resurfaced in my inbox. She wrote that she had just started working at What Works Cities and thought she would soon be expanding her team. Was I interested? We had a phone conversation, but a few days later, she learned her team wouldn’t grow as quickly as she thought, and she once again had to tell me that there wasn’t a job opportunity after all.
A few months later, Sharman’s name appeared again. Was I still interested? This time, I had just accepted a new, short-term position, so I was the one who had to say: I’m afraid our timing is once again a bit misaligned. But, I added, I’ll be available in five months.
I assumed she’d gone on to hire someone else until, five months later, her name appeared again, with a note that began: “I know it’s crazy, but I had to ask …” And so, Sharman and I finally began working together. In truth, for me, nothing about it was crazy; I’d known I wanted her to be a part of my life since the day I met her.
On the day we marked three months working together, Sharman told me about her diagnosis. Our days became filled with trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. A few weeks later, as we were walking to the subway station, she stopped and said: “I know now why it didn’t work out for us to work together before. I think you were put in my life to help me through this.” I told her: “I think that too.”
What came in the time that followed I never could have predicted. Her surgery, her long recovery, her return to work. Then soon after, the end of my seven-year marriage. Next, Sharman’s joyous remission. Then, my father’s diagnosis with cancer. Next, the recurrence of Sharman’s cancer. Then, my father’s death. Our lives merged, and she grew to become all at once my dear friend, my second mom, my beloved mentor. We created a space where we each held the other’s grief and treasured the simple moments when life was just good.
It will come as no surprise to most of you here that one way Sharman coped was with a dark sense of humor. This also means that there are several stories she made me promise to tell you — one day, whenever I was standing in front of you here, delivering a eulogy in her honor. You will also not be surprised to hear that most of them revolve around her badassery.
There was the day she sent an email with a pointed conclusion: “I’m sure you won’t have any problem collaborating with us in this way.” When I wrote her to applaud the bold note, she replied: “And one sent fresh from a day at Memorial Sloan Kettering. You have permission to tell that little story at my memorial service.”
As the weeks and months passed, the feats I could share grew greater: the situations handled while typing one-handed on her iPhone because her other arm was being used for receiving chemo; the reporter interview she managed from a hospital bed.
And there was the last one she ever suggested I tell you: After a long time awaiting discharge on the final day of her most recent hospital stay, I texted her: “You break out of there yet, sunshine?” To which she replied: “Yes, on our way home. Not loving the ‘sunshine.’” The next day she said: Be sure to tell that story about how I had to tell you the right way to see how I was doing.
Last year, she and I made a pact to enjoy our early release on summer Fridays. On one of those afternoons, as we sat enjoying margaritas, we began talking about the difficulty of embracing life while facing an illness with an uncertain end. “What if this is as good as it gets?” she asked. And it turned out that it was. That summer was the height of her remission. But what I remember — from that summer and the entirety of her illness — is that she never let her fear diminish how much she loved living.
On my favorite among those Fridays, we took a ride on the East River Ferry — something she’d longed to do since getting her diagnosis but had not yet been able. After we boarded, we walked to the top deck. She stood against the railing with the Lower Manhattan skyline behind her. Leaning her head back, she gave the sky her widest smile, deeply happy in a moment when life was just good. And without a doubt, you could say that she was loving the sunshine.
