The Weight of the World in Her Hands

“Richard, stop being infatuated with me!” ~Pam, October 1990

Toward the end of her life, Pam lived almost exclusively in bed, often unable to sleep.
Toward the end of her life, Pam lived almost exclusively in bed, often unable to sleep.

Today is the first anniversary of the death of Pam Hudspeth, a long-time friend, one-time girlfriend, and fellow journalist. She was just 58 when she died.

A couple of nights ago, I had vivid dreams about her all night. Lucid dreamers know how much that can color your thoughts, so for the past few days, she has been right here with me.

Journal, April 17, 1992: “Pam made a face when I told her I’d like to read her writing. Her whole life has unprepared her for the kind of openness I offer.”

Journal, Friday, May 1, 1992: “My hands smell like Pam’s perfume. And her soft voice touches me with illusion.”

That was just as the Dread Poets Society was coming together. It would be another month of writing and meeting to critique our writing that Pam and I would … hmm.

Pam wrote a lot. To put that in sharper perspective, Pam probably wrote more in a day that I do in a year, and that’s a lot, but Pam wrote in rants, like wild rainstorms of emotion, most of it anger.

These are some of Pam's journals, though some are missing, and, knowing her, there are more that were hidden, relocated, or destroyed.
These are some of Pam’s journals, though some are missing, and, knowing her, there are more that were hidden, relocated, or destroyed.

Journal, May 13, 1992: “I think Pam enjoys loneliness,” Frank told me.

Journal, Friday, May 15, 1992: “Pam looked so beautiful to me.”

I made a note in the margin that night that said, “Pam apologized to Melissa, Craig and Frank for being what she phrased as, ‘a judgmental bitch.'”

Pam, I added in that entry, “is a puzzle, wrapped around a mystery, surrounded by an enigma.”

Later in the evening, Pam confided in me that, “I don’t know if I can ever be with anyone again. I guess that’s what’s bothering me.”

If I could have, I would have wrapped my arms around her and taken away all of her fear and pain and heartache and insecurity.

Journal, May 23, 1992: “I thought about Pam a lot today. If she were here, I would smile at her.”

By June, we were something of an item, but she struggled with it. At a Chautauqua event, for example, she wouldn’t sit with me, and wouldn’t say why. Trying to love her was always like that; she would only let me get close to her in fits and starts. As spring 1992 turned to summer, she tried to let me in more, and even shared with me a story about her life she had mostly kept secret. Afterwards, she said, “I never told that to a man.”

Then she would emotionally retreat, and getting back to her meant navigating barbed wire, then walking on eggs.

Journal, June 8, 1992: “Now, with the sweet smell of her perfume lingering on me from holding her for a long, long time, and the even sweeter memory of her face under the streetlight as I held her hands, I feel like our time together was too short.”

Journal, July 14, 1992: “Pam was so glad to see me. She smiled and held my hand… she had just come from her counselor, who had told her she and I have a ‘healthy’ relationship. She told me I open up a sensual aspect of her she’d never really known before. ‘I’m trying to think of anyone I’ve ever met like you,’ she told me. ‘But of course, there’s no one.'”

Journal, July 26, 1992: “She tells me that she’s not as excited about seeing me as I am about seeing her – ‘I look forward to it, but I don’t do cartwheels.’ Then she turns around and tells me our relationship is ‘very wonderful,’ and that she has pre-visualized our wedding.”

She seemed annoyed by my vegetarianism. At some point that summer, she left a message on my answering machine that I wrote down verbatim: “Meat loaf. Pot roast. Yankee pot roast. English pot roast. Cheeseburger. T-bone steak cut from the side of a cow. Round steak. Rib eye. Fillet mignon. Fried crab. Oysters on the half shell. Pork ribs. Barbecued beef ribs, dripping, glistening with barbecue sauce. McD’s Big Macs. Oooo, I have a deep voice! Hamburger meat, nice and lean and frying in a pan forever and ever. Pork chops. Chicken, broiled, baked, fried. Chicken noodle soup. Beefy vegetable soup…uh… (beep.)”

*************

A couple of months ago, I was flipping through old journal pages, looking for writing ideas for Open Mic Night, which I think of as “journal mining.” I found the entry in which I noted that Pam had gotten married again, just 20 months after she and I parted company. I got pretty mad when I did that little piece of arithmetic, since at the time of our breakup, she made all kinds of noise about not being able to be there for me, can’t be a in relationship, having a lot of work to do on herself, blah blah. Married 20 months later made that all sound like the usual breakup lies.

This is Pam in around 1999 or so, based on her shirt and her name tag from a church "encounter" she and her then-husband attended.
This is Pam in around 1999 or so, based on her shirt and her name tag from a church “encounter” she and her then-husband attended.

In an email on August 1, 2022, Pam wrote, “Richard. You are the ONLY man  – I could feel like our ENERGY … when we got to hug each other after nearly 25 years … I’ve never EVER in my life felt safer with a man – and that man is YOU. MY WHOLE LIFE – YOU have been the SAFEST, uncurl, loving, lovely, allowing my stupidity, being there no matter what .. ..I just had to tell you that because I’m not sure I ever did.”

Her friends and I know that the best song to go with her life and death was The Girl with the Weight of the World in Her Hands by The Indigo Girls…

“With the half logic language of the sermon she deliversAnd the way she smiles so knowingly at me gives me the shivers…”

Yes, the way she smiled at me; that lyric is exactly right. Pam knew it too. She just didn’t know how to put down the weight, and stop being the girl with the weight of the world in her hands.

Pam had a look and a way about her that was very attractive to me.
Pam had a look and a way about her that was very attractive to me.

1 Comment

  1. Thank you for introducing me to your longtime-friend, girlfriend and fellow journalist.
    From the numerous journal entries you shared, I learned Pam was a unique woman.
    Mysterious.
    Searching for love and contentment. Hoping to find happiness.
    I’m not judging her, but it seemed she was doomed to live a troubled life where challenges were plentiful, and obstacles to happiness popped up randomly and frequently.
    I know you and there’s no doubt in my mind that you tried to help her. That’s what you do, especially for your friends and people you keep close to you.
    Her story made feel sad for her. I’m sorry she died so prematurely but am glad that you keep her in your heart and your thoughts and you honor her memory.
    Beautiful writing, Richard.
    Very touching memories that you shared.

Comments are closed.