My tragic Matron of Honour
L-R: Cindy, Karra, Crystal and Lisa
Monday 22nd October 2007
I could feel my stress levels going through the roof as I glanced at my watch.
'The vicar's late,' I tutted to my best mate, Cindy Osler, 45.
It was the night before my wedding day and we were at Allaire Chapel for one last rehearsal.
'Let's start without him,' Cindy said, clapping her hands and ushering everyone into position.
'Lisa, you walk down the aisle,' she said. Then she gestured to my bridesmaids, my daughter, Crystal, 12, and Cindy's daughter, Karra, 12. 'You follow behind.'
Typical Cindy, she was always so helpful. That's why I'd chosen her to be my maid of honour. Cindy and I had met 10 years earlier when me, my fiance Gary Palmeri, 41, our daughter Crystal, 2, and my sons from a previous relationship Chris, 14, and Nick, 10, had moved to Howell, New Jersey. Cindy was married to Frank, 45, and had three kids – Michelle, 15, Frankie, 11 and Karra, 2.
We both doted on our children and we'd often help each other out, babysitting or sharing school runs. But it wasn't just our children we had in common. With her wicked sense of humour and straight talking, Cindy was great fun. We lived two streets apart and were always popping round each other's houses. And when I got pregnant with my daughters Autumn five years later, then Sierra three years after that, Cindy was the first person I told.
So when Gary proposed in March 2007, after 14 years together, it was Cindy I called.
'That's fantastic news,' she said.
She was thrilled when I asked her to be my matron of honour and she'd done a brilliant job. Now it was August 17th 2007 and just a few hours before I walked up the aisle for real. I shivered with excitement as the vicar put us through our paces.
'See you tomorrow,' he waved as we left the church.
All that was left now was to decorate the room we'd hired for the reception in the Prince of Peace Lutheran Church Hall. But first we needed to eat, so we headed to the nearby Ivy League restaurant. Soon, Cindy and I were chatting away about the reception hall, while
Gary and his best man, Dave Tarnowski, 35, chatted about the football.
As we ordered fish and chips, Crystal gave a shiver.
'I'm cold,' she said. 'Can I get my jumper from the car?'
I glanced out the window. It was chucking down with rain.
'The sun roof,' I remembered suddenly. 'Is it shut?'
'I'll go and check,' Dave said.
Cindy and I started chatting but then I noticed the girls had gone too. 'They probably followed Dave to get their jumpers,' Cindy said.
'Can you go check on them?' I asked. 'I don't want them wandering round the car park.'
'Sure,' Cindy smiled.
They'd only been gone a few minutes when Dave came running into the restaurant, with the girls running after him. His face was white and he could hardly speak.
'She's unconscious,' he gibbered. 'Struck by lightning.'
'Who?' I asked, startled.
But Dave was shaking so much he wasn't making any sense.
Running outside, I saw a crowd gathered in the car park. I could hear people muttering, they were talking about some woman who'd been hit by a bolt of lightning. Curious, I pushed towards the front of the crowd.
'Don't,' Dave urged, grabbing my arm.
But I had to see if I could help. Then I saw the woman, lying on the ground.
'It's Cindy!' I screamed.
Suddenly there were sirens, flashing blue lights.
'Move out of the way please,' a paramedic told the crowd as he carried a stretcher towards Cindy.
'Why isn't she moving?' I panicked.
Just then, I heard a paramedic mutter - 'I can't feel a pulse.'
Sobbing I put my hands over my ears to block everything out and ran into the restaurant.
Ten minutes later, Cindy's husband, Frank, arrived.
'They've taken her to CentraState Hospital,' he said, his voice calm. 'I'm going there now. You coming?'
It wasn't until we arrived at the hospital that Frank broke down.
'His wife's been struck by lightning,' I told the receptionist.
A nurse came, ushered us down a corridor. She stopped outside a door. Counselling room, the plaque on it said. Counselling room. Did that mean…? Inside, a doctor was waiting.
'We did everything we could,' he said. 'But she took a direct hit. I'm so sorry.'
I don't remember much after that, just the falling sensation in my stomach and Frank's howl of grief.
When I returned home a cluster of friends and neighbours had gathered on our drive.
'She's gone,' I wept.
One friend was so upset, he was sick over the bonnet of his car. Inside, Gary put his arms around me.
'We can't get married now,' he said.
We'd spent five months planning our big day but without Cindy there, it just didn't seem right.
On autopilot, I rang family and friends and told them the wedding was cancelled. I choked up each time I had to explain why.
That night I couldn't sleep, images of the scene in the restaurant and car park played through my mind on a loop. Why had this happened? It just wasn't fair. Cindy was supposed to be with me tonight, calming my nerves and looking forward to our wedding. Not lying in the hospital morgue.
The next morning, I was numb with grief as the vicar who was supposed to be conducting our wedding ceremony said prayers for Cindy at Frank's house. The joyous day Cindy and I had planned had turned into something out of a horror film. And, five days later, on 23rd August 2007, when Gary and I should have been enjoying our honeymoon in Maryland, we were at Cindy's funeral at Clayton Funeral Home near our homes in Howell, New Jersey.
I gave the funeral director my cream rose wedding bouquets and he placed them next to Cindy in her coffin, scattering the cream rose petals meant for the wedding over her body.
Three months on, I'm still struggling with my grief. As for getting married, maybe we'll do it next spring.
If and when we do I'm going to ask Cindy's eldest daughter Michelle, 25, to be maid of honour as a tribute to her mum. I miss you Cindy and always will.
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