San Juan

Deanna and Gordon Banry married on September 25, 1987 with youthful hearts and unbridled enthusiasm for what the future had in store for them and their 3 month old baby, Brit. For themselves, they made a life on an island in the Pacific Northwest called Friday Harbor. To this day, Deanna and Gordon still live in this highly visited area alongside beaches dotted with dulled seaglass and where, if you listen closely enough, you can hear the ferry arriving and departing several times a day.

Today there are four Banry children: Brit, Clayton, Sam, and Lindsey. And this is where my path was allowed to cross with theirs.

Lindsey and I first met in English 101 in the very building in which I am now writing this story. We both had steaming cups every morning when we walked into class. Somehow, this show of water evaporation was enough to bring us together. She drank her coffee black and I choose hot water.

That first year in college was full of learning and tears, loneliness and exhilaration. More interested in making vodka gummy bears and blanket forts than drinking at fraternities, both Lindsey and I grew together and found similarities in our beliefs, dreams, academic goals, personalities, and preferences. I told Lindsey about how I hated the sound of the bathroom fan and she would eat cheese daily despite being lactose intolerant. We’d share stories over almonds while sitting on the kitchen floor and have sleepovers in the living room, despite being roommates. She’d lay under my bed with me and listened while I cried over a boy named Peter. She’d read my writing and tell me how much she felt that God had picked our apartment special for us. I didn’t have to explain to her why I was feeling this way or that, or the reason that I didn’t feel like attending a social gathering; she just seemed to get it. I never expected to find a friend quite like her and I haven’t found another since.

She’s the kind of person who makes you wish that all of the hurt in the world would go away. She makes me wish people weren’t mean and that everyone is warm enough on a cold day. “She’s an angel is person form” I’ve told my boyfriend while crying at a coffee shop over the stress of my senior year of college. “I miss her.” I know that you, the person reading this, cannot understand from just these worlds, but if this doesn’t tell you what kind of person she is, I have have not the command over language to tell you more.

If I forget everything else in my life, there is one day with Lindsey that I hope I shall never forget. The Pullman weather was shifting from winter to spring and the mornings were finally starting to look like heaven instead of milky water. Lindsey woke up before I did that day (as usual) and was in the kitchen looking over the morning light and drinking tea. I began to tell her about a dream that I had that night about zombies. I actually have dreams about zombies more than a lot of other things, so she was pretty used to them by then. She would always listen and tell me what she would have done if she were in my dream situation, but if it were in real life. Between her impressive cooking skills and innate innovation, I had many times over told her that she was allowed to be a part of my zombie-apocalypse team.

We started talking about how we would travel to collect the rest of our team and where our base would be. I thought that the Recreation Center on the Washington State campus would be a good place to set up. I argued that there were many escape routes and lockable doors to keep stashes in. The huge glass windows and location at the top of a large hill would allow for us to monitor approaching threats and the open staircases and floating track would allow for many points of strategic leverage that would allow ease of zombie killing. Additionally, zombie bodies could be kept in the pool until the coast was clear enough to rid them of the premises.

Lindsey said that she thought it was an okay place, but suggested that we should try to make it to her home in Friday harbor. This island is takes approximately 40 minutes to reach by ferry and has a population of a little over 2000. Additionally, Lindsey’s family was already here. She had lived here her whole life and knew it more fondly than the layout of our apartment. The land itself would yield adequate food and the sea surrounding the island would accommodate our needs. I had to admit that her idea for the location of the base was exponentially better than mine. Then I asked her what would happen if the island was already infected when we got there.

Being such a fantastical scenario, I said that we would have to run around the island and kill all of the infected people. Once the island was free of disease, we would be safe to flourish. She got solemn and then asked about Sam and Clayton. “What about them? They are in wheelchairs…they can’t run away if they are being chased.” I was sideswiped for words. I thought for a minute and said the only thing that I could think of But I also learned as soon as the words were said, that just because you can only think of one thing to say, that doesn’t mean that you should say them.

“I guess they will just have to accept it, Linds.” It’s been over 2 years since this moment but I am sure that she stared at her coffee for a few long seconds and began to cry. “But they have had to accept too many things already. That’s just not fair.” She told me about how her brothers used to love running around and playing sports. She told me about how many surgeries they have had to go through and how no one was sure how much longer they would live as their condition is so rare. How they are her brothersand she doesn’t want them to have to accept things like this just because of what they were born with.

This person who had spent every moment that she could tending to my raw heart was crying her strength away in front of me. And I realised that there were worse things than a broken heart. I can’t describe to you the disdain that I felt for myself at that moment. Lindsey had grown up knowing that nothing was promised forever and, day after day, I only thought about myself.

I didn’t get any words out. She let her thoughts drip from her brain to her mouth to my ears and into my heart. When she had let out what she had I still had no words for her. But, if I had to condense Lindsey’s resilient personality into only one moment, it would be the one that followed: She was still crying, but composed herself and said, “Maybe their condition will make them immune to the zombie virus.” To that statement I was completely stunned. And I thought to myself, “You know what, I bet they would be immune to the virus.”

This moment, as significant as it may or may not seem, spanned only a few minutes.

Lindsey has since left Washington State. She was having trouble deciding what it was that she wanted to do. And, for her, there is no better place to do this than on her island surrounded by Orcas.

Sam and Clayton Banry have had extremely difficult and unfair lives. Their condition, mucolipidosis type III, affects only .16% of the entire world and the chance of both the Banry parents being a carrier of this gene is incredibly microscopic. However, despite their obstacles, these two men, my friends, are some of the most optimistic people that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Sam is currently working on a memoir and Clayton works with the San Juan Emergency Medical Services team on the island.

This family’s resilience throughout the years has been breathtaking. Being an outside spectator to this, all of my experience is through Lindsey. I have learned that memories made are days saved and that strong men breed stronger women. Lindsey and her family have troubles, as we all do. But these people, as infrequently as I see them, have become my family.