Goodbye Amy

I used to call them the six o’clock check ins.

Over the course of two years of doing fabulous, high-caliber, groundbreaking, printer-selling work at Epson America (and no, I don’t get my printer discount anymore so don't ask), my boss Amy Weitzman would more than occasionally check in with me to see what was going on. I didn’t mind the check ins—that’s what bosses do. What I wasn’t too crazy about was that they always happened just before six o’clock in the evening, my clocking out time.

They always wound up being fun calls. Since my very first telephone interview with her, Amy and I just had a connection, we hit it off immediately. Both of us were each others safe place, able to talk freely about anything. Over my two years of knowing and working for her, our conversations were open, laugh-filled, and completely honest about whatever the topic was: the company, the work we were doing, the many different personalities (including that one guy who was a monumental asshole), politics, life in general.

For all my griping about her after work hours calls, how I wish I could be on one of them with her now.

Amy passed away on October 17, 2022, her 50th birthday, from glioblastoma—a mercilessly aggressive form of brain cancer.

When she went on medical leave about 13 months ago, I instinctively knew it was bad. Amy was an incredible worker who literally didn't know when to quit. She'd be up all hours of the night and on weekends, thinking of ways she could make things better. I used to tell her that's what she had a department for and to take a weekend off and enjoy time with her husband Keith. She agreed she should, but rarely did.

I called her and asked what was going on. She told me she’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor and was going to have surgery to remove it. Her doctors were hopeful.

I’m not going to go into a lot of details here, because they don’t seem to matter much right now. In my talks with Amy over the last year, up until she wasn't able to talk anymore, she confessed her fears about dying. She had so much to do, and she felt it was so very unfair. Of course she was right.

She also told me often how much she loved and appreciated her husband Keith, who was her sole caretaker for most of the past year. She was funny, was able to joke about her cancer, and able to be hopeful through much of it. She had told me there was a woman in her cancer group who'd also had glioblastoma, and was twelve years past it.

Miracles do happen.

Unfortunately hers didn't happen fast enough.

As you'd imagine, the expenses that come with caring for someone with a terminal disease are enormous. And even though Amy is gone, those bills continue to roll in for Keith to navigate as he mourns the loss of the love of his ife.

If you're so inclined, there's a Go Fund Me set up to give some small relief to his devastatiing loss. I know he'd be more than appreciative.

On our check ins, and often during the work day, Amy would patiently listen to me complain (I know, so out of character) about issues I was having at work, and she'd unfailingly and fearlessly go to bat for me. Her department was her people, and she felt a responsibility to take care of us.

Amy was an artist, a dog mom, a wife, a boss and my friend. She was the kind of strong, opinionated, open, spirited person that immediately lights a room and makes you feel comfortable and part of her circle. In her case, the saying is absolutely true: while the world's a sadder place now that she's gone, it's a better place for her having been here.

Thank you for everything Amy. You'll always be in my heart. I'm glad the suffering is over.

And for crying out loud, enjoy the time off will ya? You've more than earned it.

Rest in peace.