After my close cousin Diane Bell was killed while running, I wrote this letter to her and read it at her funeral

Hey Di,

I want to tell you how much I appreciate you. I know, I know. I can hear you grumbling, “No! NO! Don’t! Stop!” I can see your hands gesturing, your arms flailing, “Don’t bother—it’s too much trouble.” 

But here you go.

Do you remember that black and white photo of you and me. 1951? I was 2, you were 1 with brown curly hair. You sat in a high chair. I stood next to you, taller then than you. That might have been the last time I was taller. You, fully grown at 5’6”?  I barely top five feet. For our whole lives, Di, you towered over me, towered over so many of us in so many ways. Your energy. Your sense of adventure. Your passion for what’s possible.

In that photo, your legs and arms were reaching with a kind of, “I wanna get out of this chair and walk.” Di, everyone here today is nodding “ah, ya, ya, we know that ‘get-up-and-go’ in you.”

Do you remember being kids at the beach with Memere and Pepere?  Memere served us those half chocolate/half vanilla Hoodsie cups? The ice cream would melt, we’d lick the cover and scop out the soft stuff with a tiny wooden spoon. Remember how the sticky goop dripped all over us? How I squirmed a lot and you squirmed a lot less, as Memere scolded us for being messy. You were braver than me in those moments. You were braver than most in life’s tough moments. Braver than almost all of us in life’s toughest moments.

Then, of course, we needed to wash off, so Pepere took our hands and walked us to the warm water creek. Do you remember how Pepere taught us French songs on the way? Frere Jacque. Allouette. We splashed and danced our way there and sang loud and a lot. Di, you had such dancing spirit. If any of us had to describe you in one word, we might say, spirited. 

Even at our young ages there at Kinney Shores, you five, me 6, younger cousins skipping behind on the sand, we knew we belonged to the Alberts. You never lost that sense of belonging. As busy as you became, you brushed off gravestones, weeded around them, planted near them for all of our relatives in St Hyacinth cemetery. Thank you. Family, right, Di? How proud you were of Jaime, how you adored your grandchildren and how you stepped up to do what needed doing as: daughter, oldest sister, step-daughter, wife, daughter-in-law, mother, aunt, grandmother, cousin. Family.

 And then your kindness and service to neighbors, friends, co-workers, Portland Trails, your running community. WOW! Extraordinary. And then there was your devotion to dogs! When did you have time to train a Golden Retriever and go to obedience school with an Irish setter?

Oh …OH……back to the beach… do you remember, when we got back to Memere’s cottage how Aunt Rebecca, was sometimes there, in her full black nun’s habit? Some of us were afraid of her. You never seemed to be afraid of anything. Over time, I learned that you did have fears. Your hearing. Your memory, your health, your worries about loved ones. But fear didn’t stop you. You faced fear with such courage. Big courage.

Good thing because your adult life handed you huge changes, huge losses, huge sadness. Reed. Erin. The twins. Your dad.

AND remember how I asked you, if you wanted to get out of your house, maybe go to the movies the day after your 42-year-old mother died on Mother’s Day? You were 19. You said, “I am so glad you called. Too many people hanging around here crying. Yes! Movies!!” 

How we went to the movies and later, how my mom raised her voice. “Susan Jeanne: I hope on the day I die you don’t go to the movies!” How we looked at each other and whispered, “I hope we do.” And you told me, “If you want to then, I’ll take you to the movies.”

So many of us here today have benefited from that incredible I’m-here-to-help generosity of yours.

We all marveled how you powered on again and again to create a new life after tragedy, after trauma, after hardship and heartache. You can teach us now. I mean….at age 19, and motherless, you left college, moved home and mothered Nedra, a younger teenager, and Missy, a pre-adolescent. Diane. Again, Wow. Such strength. I doubt you knew how remarkable you were. 

You invited me to live with you on Colonial Rd. Remember when we lived together there, we were trying to lose weight? How we asked Nedra to hide the peanut butter so we wouldn’t eat it, but we searched and found the jar in her dresser and ate it anyway? 

You were filled with such mischievous fun.

Remember, how, many years later and two weeks after giving birth, you invited Nancy and me to your house, for a visit with our babies? We placed your 2-week-old Jaime in the middle of your sofa between my 2 ½ month-old Alisa and Nancy’s 10-month-old Jana? Remember the chaos as they kept falling, crying? You instantly supplied an old checkered dish rag for them to chew on. You always had an answer, Di (even when we didn’t want your wisdom). Seriously, though, we were blessed by your constant problem-solving readiness. That day, Jaime toppled over and you played paparazzi. Do you remember how we didn’t know what we were doing as young mothers? But you took on parenting the way you met all the unknowns in your life. You were our take-on-a-challenge teacher.

And then the babies grew and then….and then…my mother-in-law gave me “The Mother of the Bride Book” when Alisa announced her engagement. Jon and I used it for her wedding, then passed this antique book to Nancy for Jana’s wedding. 

Years later, when my sisters’ daughters started to date seriously, I wanted to find The Mother of the Bride Book, to give to them. I called Nancy: “If you have it, great. If not, I hope someone’s enjoying it.”

Nancy said, “I don’t have it. I gave it to Diane. I don’t know what happened to it after that.”

I called you, Diane. You said, very assuredly, very confidently, “Nancy gave it to me, and I gave it back to her.”

Ahh, sooo, no one had it and no one knew where it was. I sent an e-mail to you both that said,

“Mother-of-the Bride Book:

1. My memory is that I gave it to Nancy.

2. Nancy’s memory is that she gave it to Di, and Nancy never saw it again.

3. Diane’s memory is that Nancy gave it to her and she gave it back to Nancy.”

Remember how we laughed at our non-remembering? Diane, everyone here LOVED your easy and room-filling laughter. 

I asked you both to do a quick search, just in case.

Later Nancy and I read this email from you. In bold CAPS: “OK, I JUST FOUND THE BOOK!!!!!!—– (with 6 exclamation points), I thought for sure I had given it back to Nancy. I don’t even remember knowing that the book originally belonged to Susan!!!!”  (4 exclamation points)

The Mother of the Bride Book offered this advice about weddings, “Mingle! Laugh! Have fun! Enjoy yourself!” Di, we all know you did that because that’s who you were. Mingling! Laughing! Having fun! Enjoying yourself!

Remember our 20-mile walk from Westbrook to Sebago when you were caring for Reed AND training for a three-day walk in DC to raise awareness and funds for colon cancer?  My shorts ripped on a guard rail I tried to vault over. I had no other clothes, not prepared as you always were with extra clothes, money, snacks, lots of water, sunblock, bug spray. You were much better at details, better than most of us, so much more organized, all part of how you tended to situations and people. And people, Diane, all kinds and ages of people.

And remember how you, Vicki and I decided to WALK a half-marathon? How Vic and I stopped about halfway through to use a porta-potty and you jogged off? You yelled back in your ever-present fierce determination, “I’m gonna push to the finish. I’ll see you at the end.” And how you RAN the rest of the way, and placed in your age bracket, which fueled your passion for running?  

Thursday, November 20, 2025, you pushed to the finish, Di, literally, at the corner of Franklin Arterial and Marginal Way. Missy and I cried together the day after you were killed as I imagined what you might be doing “up there.” Missy said, “Diane didn’t believe that stuff.” But I like to think you’re still running, maybe looking for Reed, or the twins, or your mom or dad, or Memere and Pepere. I love you and miss you. I regret I didn’t reach out when I thought a couple of weeks ago, “I haven’t talked to Di in a while. I’ll call her to wish her a happy Thanksgiving.” I have always believed that regrets live inside grief. I should’ve…. I could’ve…. I wish I had…. Here’s what I also believe: that gratitude, too, lives inside grief. So, this Thanksgiving I gave thanks that we walked this life, at least some of the time, together.

Diane, here’s what I want: that our sorrow learns from your joy, that we focus not only on our great loss, but also …and especially …. on the great gifts we gained from you. 

And, even though we can all hear you declaring, “Don’t be ridiculous, that stuff is not true,” here’s what I hope for all of us: that when we breathe our last breath, when our lives come to a close, we’ll see you at the end.