I wrote a letter to Barry Manilow. One I never intend to send cause I'm afraid someone working for him will choose to not pass it on. Maybe even send one of those rude "Mr. Manilow is too busy to talk to a nobody like you" letters back.

I guess I've always been a strange gal. As a kid I listened to for a brief period of time to Madonna and Michael Jackson, but then I heard an Elvis Presley song and out went them and in came the oldies. Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Buddy Holly, Louis Armstrong, The Glenn Miller Orchestra, Neil Diamond, and always, even before I started listening to "Golden Oldies", always Barry Manilow. From the first time I heard Copacabana I've loved the music of Barry Manilow.
Even now, when I don't listen to the others so much, when I listen more to Michael Crawford,
Brent Spiner, even Weird Al Yankovic, I still listen to Barry Manilow the most.

I've never been very good at keeping friends either. Most of the time they use me then stab me in the back. I'm never the stabber, always the stabbie.

I briefly attended college. Dropped out after 9/11 because, frankly, I was tired of how shallow my fellow students were. After 9/11 I couldn't face them anymore. All they cared about was how they looked, how others looked, how much money they had.

There was one girl though that I went to college with briefly that wasn't like that. Her name was Erin McQuillian. We were in many drama classes together. Did scenes together. Sat and talked about nothing. We'd even just automatically sit together in classes. Me, fat and noisy, her, thin and quiet.

I needed a job. Having taken library classes in high school I picked a library in my town out of the phone book and sent in my resume. They were hiring pages at the time. People who do all the grunt work. What I didn't know what Erin's mom, Nancy, was the branch manager of that library.

It was from that Erin and I grew closer. Erin invited me to the first party I've been invited to since high school. When she'd come do volunteer work we'd talk.

I never knew Erin was sick until someone else at the library mentioned it.

Erin had cystic fibrosis. It's a genetic thing you only get if both your parents are carriers. The cilia in your lungs doesn't work correctly and you can't throw off mucus like normal people do.
Erin had to be careful not to get sick.

Nancy first moved to Oceanside, for awhile commuting between it and the library. Then she eventually got a job in San Diego and we got a new branch manager. While they were still in Oceanside I started spending Halloweens with Erin and Nancy. All three of us putting on Harry Potter themed Halloweens. Erin was now on oxygen. When there was forest fires she had to be confined to the hospital.

When you have CF, the only way you'll live a long life is to have a lung transplant. But it can't be just one lung - no matter what Law & Order: Criminal Intent will have you believe - it's got to be both at once. For the ill lung can actually infect the healthy one.

On December 12th, 2004, Erin finally got her lung transplant.

On June 11th, 2005, Erin died.

There was simply too much scar tissue from prior illnesses. They said no matter what she would've died anyway.

I was so angry though. I've always believe in God - and I was pissed off at Him. I had prayed so long, so hard. I had made plans. Erin was really into film making, especially writing, directing,
and lighting. I was going to take her on the VIP tour of Universal Studios when she was well.
We never got to go. We never got to do any of the things we planned. I had come up with a plot for a comedy murder mystery that Erin was going to turn into a one act play. She was going to teach me to make jewelry with chain. She never even got to read Harry Potter & The Half Blood Prince or the latest of Eion Colfer's Artemis Fowl books - and I had bought British editions of both books for her. Preordered the former before she even had her transplant.

Erin and I were very different. Erin was Pagan, I'm Christian, Erin was a Democrat, I'm a Republican, Erin hated Wal-Mart, I love it.

We just tossed all that aside and focused on what we had in common. That was all that mattered.
We loved each other. She was my best friend.

It came to the point where the only thing that got me out of bed was the music of Barry Manilow. There's something special about his voice, the way he sings, that is healing. That eases my grief. No matter how angry, how depressed, I am, even if I'm completely PMSing, there is something that Barry Manilow has that no one else does that makes me feel better.

So I wrote him a letter. I wrote him a letter that I never intend to send. And yet, I keep posting it,
hoping somehow, someway, he'll get it. That someone who knows him will read it and print it off and show it to him. To let him know how important his music has been to me.

I haven't made it through the rain yet, and I'm not sure in the end if I'll survive, but I'll never stop dreaming.

Dear Mr. Manilow,

I want to tell you, sir, how much your music has meant to me.

I've been a fan of your's since the first time I heard Copacabana as a child. However it's been these past few months that I've really gotten into you. For there is something about your music that is healing. I often refer to you as "Vocal Prozac" because no matter how sad, angry, or despondant I am, your music always puts me in a good mood.

On June 11th, 2005, my best friend, Erin, died after a life long battle with cystic firbrosis.
Though I knew that death was a possibility for her, it still hit me hard as she had gotten a double lung transplant and I had hopes she'd recover and live a long life.

I almost gave up on life myself. I did, and still do, miss Erin. More then words can express.
Every day I think of her. There were days, sir, when the only thing that got me out of bed, was the fact I could pop in a CD and listen to you. When the sorrow was so intense I thought life wasn't worth living. Days when I cursed God, cursed everything - except you and your music. No matter if it was one of your original numbers, or a song from Showstoppers or Singing With The Big Bands. It just made me feel good in a world gone wrong.

Sir, I just want you to know, that in your own way, you probably saved my life. And though the grief for Erin is still there, still painful, I can deal with it now thanks to you and your music. I wish I could tell you in person. I wish I could let you know how much your music's meant to me.

On September 8th, 2005, my 29th birthday, I had the honor of seeing you in concert. It was the most amazing experience of my life. I have never felt such sheer joy. It was even more powerful in person. I forgot about my blistered, hurting feet and got up and danced. Even my mom, in constant pain and in need of back surgery, forgot about her pain and danced.

I don't know what it is about you. No other singer effects me this way. Not Michael Crawford,
Brent Spiner, not even "Weird" Al Yankovic. Only you have this power. This almost supernatural ability to heal through your music.

I only wish there was a way for me to repay you for what you've done for me. I wish I could meet you and instead of you singing for me, me singing for you. That I could tell you in person how amazing you are.

Thank you sir, just for existing, and just for being you.

Love,

Jami JoAnne Russell