COLUMN: Kari

When I had a heart attack a couple months ago, I didn't tell too many people right away, except for family and a few close friends.

That night, as I lay in my hospital bed, I got an unexpected text message.

"Mr. Brown," it read. "What is all this noise I'm hearing about your health? Are you ok? Worried about you."

"I'm still kicking," I replied. "Bad week, though."

"Look," came the response. "I'm chronically ill as you know. If you'd like me to teach you some tips and tricks to get healthy, I'm happy to help. The world is a better place with you in it."

"Appreciate it," I replied.

Those messages came from my friend Kari. As brief as the exchange was, it made me feel better while I was stuck in the hospital, unsure of what the future might hold. It turned out the future held me getting released from the hospital the next morning. The day after that, I got a phone call that Kari had unexpectedly passed away in her sleep. Sometimes life isn't fair.

Back in the old timey days -- you know, when we had to walk barefoot through blinding snowstorms on tiptoes as to not wake the dinosaurs -- Augustana always used to take the freshman class on a riverboat cruise as part of college orientation. My friends and I would always clamor to land this coveted DJ gig because we wanted to help our alma mater whenever possible and certainly NOT because it was a good opportunity to hit on freshman girls. Cough.

I had barely started playing music on one such freshman cruise when a girl stomped up, all full of snark and attitude. "So," she asked with a mischievous twinkle, "when are you gonna play GOOD music?" I figured anyone that cocky (and chock full of good music taste) was destined to become a friend, and Kari quickly did. Memories from those days are fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I was the one who introduced her to my old roommate, who would become her first husband years later.

In the universe of my friends, Kari was often the sun. It seemed like people would just gravitate into her orbit and rotate around her. The Dos Equis guy had nothing on Kari - she was always The Most Interesting Person in the Room.

In life, you're lucky to get, what, maybe 5 or 6 killer stories in your arsenal? You know, the kind of amazing tales from your past that can captivate strangers and make you the center of attention at any social gathering. I've got a few go-to adventures I like to re-tell. Nearly every single one of them involves Kari in some capacity. The time we snuck backstage on a whim and ended up meeting Duran Duran? Kari instigated it. The night a kitten randomly jumped in my car and decided I was its owner? Kari was in the passenger seat. The epic Y2K New Year's Eve party that people only speak of in hushed tones and reverence? It was at Kari's house.

She wasn't just a force of nature, she was OUR force of nature. The girl who could talk her way into anything. The girl with unlimited charm who took zero grief from anyone ever. The girl who could single-handedly keep a party going for way longer than it should have. 

Kari lived her life louder and larger than her personality. As her first marriage ended, she took a job with MTV and moved to London, where she quickly adopted a Madonna-esque British accent and regaled us with tales of hanging with rock stars. Having fully conquered the British Isles, Kari eventually moved back to Atlanta, where she worked in marketing and public relations until her death, which is still such a surreal and silly-sounding thing to say, because forces of nature shouldn't be able to die. I like to think that she's simply up there somewhere, in charge of making party arrangements for us all in the afterlife. It's either that or she's in heaven's jail, having been arrested for stalking John Lennon.

My friend was a force of nature, but she WAS also chronically ill. Having fully exhausted her old liver (who she named Merle, "because he is haggard,") Kari was on the transplant list for a new one, had curbed her epic ways considerably, and had been taking good care of herself while sharing her journey online in hopes of helping anyone else who was struggling. Living with Merle was no picnic, but they're speculating it may have been untreated COVID that took her from us -- which means she was likely feeling lousy in those last couple of days, yet still took the time to check on ME in the hospital.

It's sad that she's gone, no doubt. But at her memorial service last weekend in Chicago, it was magical to see old friends and re-tell all those epic stories. There were tears, but there were WAY more smiles, and that's undoubtedly what Kari would have wanted. She probably would've cussed us out something fierce if we were all mopey and weepy. I'm sad that the world lost such a ball of energy, but I'm happy I had the pleasure of orbiting her sun. Love ya, K.