[This is the text of a speech I delivered at the memorial service for Deniz Sarikaya, at St. James United in Montréal, on February 17, 2005. Thanks to true_nexus for the photo.]
Good evening, and thank you all so very much for being here. My name is
Dave Coombs, and I have had the pleasure of being a co-worker of Deniz's at
NITI for the past eight months, and the utter privilege of being a close
personal friend of hers for the last four months.
I clearly remember the first time I met her, and I knew she was special right away. It was her first day of work. I was sleeping at the office when she arrived, but I sprang to life and we talked for a while. She was eager to meet everyone, to soak up as much information as she could, and to get right to work. I instantly admired her warmth, energy, and broad range of interests, and stopped by a few times that day just to chat and banter with her, a habit I made sure I kept. After about two weeks, everyone at the office knew she was indispensable.
I have been trying to identify what made her tick, what she was driven by. Certainly she had an uncommonly strong sense of self, a set of beliefs that she designed herself, and the conviction, once she decided what she wanted, what made sense for her, to make it happen. What stands out even more is her devotion to her friends, and her desire to brighten up the lives of those around her.
She offered great warmth, enthusiasm, and a big smile to everybody she met. She loved life. She had presence, and she would make you smile, and she was normally smiling too. She was cheerful, possessed of boundless energy, extraordinarily intelligent, she lit up a room with her words and her manner, she was often outrageously funny, and she loved to laugh.
She would try new things just for fun. She had an amazing recipe for peanut-butter cookies. She and I were making a batch one day, and we decided to add garlic powder, which of course seemed like a perfectly sensible idea. In fact, the raw dough was delicious. We baked them, let them cool for a bit, and I shall never forget the expression on her face as she bit into the first cookie. It was a look of absolute disgust and revulsion, because it turns out that peanut-butter-and-garlic cookies are quite awful. Now we know. She was not the type to be afraid of failure. Ever.
Her network of friends is enormous, probably larger than any of us realized. She seemed to know everybody; some of you have found that she knew other friends of yours, often quite well, for completely different reasons and in a completely different context. She meant different things to everybody, but her spirit and generosity and love for her friends is undeniable. She gave of herself freely, opening her home to her friends, and offering her time, understanding, and wisdom to those who needed it. One of her friends in particular has put it quite simply: that the person he would most like to talk about Deniz's passing with is her.
At work, Deniz was unstoppable. I mean that quite literally. We tried, but could not stop her. I frequently had to remind her to eat. We sometimes had to form a group and drag her, kicking and screaming, away from her desk, to get her to go home at night, because she needed sleep like anyone else. She did her job extremely well, and then some. She would do whatever she could get her hands on, and always seemed surprised to be complimented on it, as if she felt she could and should somehow be doing even more.
She bonded quickly with most people at the office, and helped keep things as lively as possible. She would find unusual ways to make people happy. Occasionally someone would arrive to find a chocolate bar on his desk, usually already half-eaten. There would be a corresponding handwritten note from the mysterious Chocolate Fairy.
She loved what she did and she loved her co-workers. I am pleased that we could offer her an environment in which she thrived.
She was happy. She was most assuredly happy.
She invented the concept of spinach origami, and I like to think that the world is a better place for it.
On Halloween, wearing a new red shirt, I pointed out that she had forgotten to remove the little 'M' sticker. Instantly, without missing a beat, she claimed it did not indicate size, but was her costume: she was a medium, with psychic channeling abilities. She was an endlessly inventive, fascinating person.
The outpouring of love and warmth and wonderful stories that we've been receiving from Deniz's huge number of friends has been staggering, but in no way surprising. It is the sign of a life well lived. She made each moment count, and she made every person feel special. She did as much as she could in the short time she had.
Those of you who knew her, please spend some time thinking of a way in which she changed your life. It shouldn't be hard. Hang on to it.
She revived my love of music. I had forgotten. I will hang on to it. We sang together sometimes, for fun. She had a gorgeous voice, and claimed to be working in technology only temporarily, and that in ten years she wanted to be living in Europe singing opera. I never knew whether to believe that, since she was so proud to be an engineer. Perhaps she would find a way to do both. She was happy and proud to be a member of the choir here at St. James, and I came several times to hear her sing.
Deniz had her own way of speaking, her own unique turns of phrase, which evidently were infectious. Recently I've caught myself and noticed others using a few expressions that clearly came from her, and I paused, and was surprised to realize I had been using them for months. In the last few days, many of you have picked up on her signature tagline in her journal, "Good night, spoons", taken from a children's book. To all of you, and to the shiniest spoon ever, good night.
