I Hate Goodbyes

My neighbor is dying of cancer. In fact, he may have passed away by the time this posts. He is mostly unresponsive and is under palliative care, which is a fancy way of saying they're just trying to keep him pain free. Mr. John has spent the last two years battling cancer, and he put up a good fight. Better than most. In fact, I don't know anyone who has fought cancer harder than he has. He lost a leg in the process, learning how to use an artificial limb and tearing up the neighborhood in his motorized scooter. I nearly fell over back in the summer when I looked outside and saw him mowing with the riding mower. I just knew he'd turn over the dadgum thing and cause great excitement, but he didn't. And although it often terrified her, his wife got used to his shenanigans and would just shake her head and pray for the best. He would zip up and down the street, talking to all the neighbors and giving Hubby all kinds of advice on yard work. He volunteered at his church, and back in October, he spent his weekends helping out at the local pumpkin patch and laughing with all the little kids who came there for Halloween pumpkins and hayrides. The Vietnam veteran was unstoppable. Until last week.


His cancer resurged recently, and he'd been undergoing experimental treatments when he developed a fever right before Christmas Day. Not wanting to be in the hospital at Christmas and during their 30th wedding anniversary he held off going to the doctor until he knew it was inevitable. Sure enough. They sent him from the Veteran's Hospital by ambulance to another hospital for more intensive care. He knew his time was up, and he started preparing his wife for the inevitable. He's actually been preparing her for months. He spent most of the past year, getting things done around the house to make it low maintenance for her when he's gone. He spent a lot of money on rubberized mulch, so she wouldn't have to drag and scoop mulch around their extensive landscaping. He paid for new windows, gutters and other improvements that were going to be needed in the next few years. He sold stuff he couldn't use anymore to eliminate some of the stuff she'd have to go through and sell. And he talked about dying.

I think he talked about it to help take away the fear for her. He wasn't afraid. He never was. Or at least he didn't act like it. I really think he had little fear. He is a Christian man who is strong in his faith, and it showed in his war against cancer and in his surrender this week. He confidently told his wife a few days ago, he was ready to go.

It also showed in the way he lived his life these past few years. He and his wife traveled and did things they wanted to do. He volunteered at many activities and basically enjoyed each day. And he didn't complain about his disease. If you had never asked him about his leg or scooter you wouldn't have known he was sick. I've often pondered the matter of fact way he has dealt with all that has happened to him in the past two years. If I am ever unfortunate enough to have a terminal illness, I hope I have the courage to put up the same kind of fight. Was he perfect? No, but he was good. I will miss seeing him fly across our yard on that scooter to find out what's going on whenever Hubby is in the middle of a project. He and another elderly neighbor stood at the edge of our pool last year, overseeing and debating its construction while the workers dug the hole and moved dirt and concrete. I wish I had taken a picture of them.

Last year, we bought Mr. John's Christmas lights. It was a pretty elaborate set of life sized nativity figures, complete with camels and donkeys. He had reached the point where he couldn't maintain them anymore. He helped Hubby put them up in the yard last November, and it made him proud to see them on display. I hate that we didn't get them up this year. With Papa T.'s hospital stays and life's craziness, we just couldn't find the time to set them up. I know Mr. John would have enjoyed seeing them one last time. We plan to have the displays refurbished this year with new bulbs and to do a little electrical work so that it's easier to set them up in the yard. We want them to be ready to go when November rolls back around. And when I'll look at that bright glow of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus and all those camels I shall think of Mr. John, a life well lived and a life well ended. I should be so lucky.

Fine, Thanks

“How are you doing?” It’s a question we get asked often these days by folks who know about Sissy’s suicide. My answer varies, depending on the mood I’m in at the moment, but usually I tell them something like, “I’m fine, thanks. Thanks for asking.” I soften it a little because people don’t really want to know how we’re doing. Oh, the ones who we’re extremely close to want to know and can stand the honesty when you lay your heart in their hands. God bless them. The others wince at our pain and really just want some sort of reassurance that we’re doing alright because they can’t bear the details of our grief. And that’s okay. I understand. Really, I do. There’s something about this kind of grief that’s a little more intimate and raw than the pain you feel when someone dies of a natural cause. It’s a little TOO intimate for some people.

The truth is, we ARE doing okay. We hurt tremendously, but each day we smile a little more than the day before, and each day feels a little more normal than the day before. Each day brings a new emotion. First, there was numbness and disbelief. Then came the anger. Anger that she could put Mama J. and Papa T. through this at such an old age. However, my anger drifted away as we began to sift through Sissy’s belongings. It’s such an intimate process, reading someone’s private papers and sorting through their finances and treasured items. Each thing I’ve touched or read has given me a better understanding of how the depression took over and destroyed her life. She started dying the day her son died nine years ago, and I just can’t be mad that she chose to finally end her suffering. I know she didn’t do it to hurt us. She just wanted the pain to end.

We’ve only begun to dispose of her belongings. Because Mama J. and Papa T. are not physically able to take care of that task, it has fallen to me and Hubby to do the bulk of the work. It will take weeks to close her accounts, clean out closets, box up items for an auction and prepare her house for sale. Some of the boxes we have to go through contain keepsakes that Sissy saved when her son and husband died. We don’t look forward to that. We try not to think about how much has to be done because it gets a little overwhelming. In fact, we try not to think too far in advance about any of this because it is so difficult. Mama J. and Papa T. need a lot of care right now. Their pain runs the deepest of all. To bury two children and a grandchild in the last two decades is almost more than they can bear. They are managing, but they are very fragile right now.

An emotion that keeps drifting in and out of our souls is guilt. Should we have done more? Could we have done more? What if? I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had. We keep reminding ourselves that we did the best we could. It was Sissy’s decision, not ours. My emotional barometer clicks over to sadness most of the time now. Not extreme sadness. Just a dull ache that things did not end better. That our relationship with Sissy was rocky near the end. I hold onto the memories of the good times. The dinners and trips together before her mental illness turned her into a person she never wanted to become. I’m especially grateful that Christmas 2007 with Sissy was such a wonderful time. It was the first time she was able to celebrate Christmas with us since Chance’s death in 2000. I hold onto the memories of her smiling and laughing amid the twinkling lights and colorful packages.

Those memories will sustain us as we slog through this grief. We will prop each other up and try not to tear each other down with our emotions. That's a big danger for the family members affected by suicide, you know. We have a long journey ahead, but our days are better now. We’re looking forward to the fun that summer brings: swimming, concerts and parties with friends. We have a party this Saturday with old friends, and we will see Willie Nelson in concert Memorial Day (11th row!). We have plenty to smile about, and we will be okay. We’re fine. Really, we are. And thanks for asking.

A Smile for Miss Kay

It’s raining here again today….a steady drip, drip, drip for the second day in a row. I figure those raindrops are tears from heaven for my friend Miss Kay. She died this morning after an ugly struggle with cancer. I’m so very sorry she’s gone, but I’m glad her pain is over. She didn’t deserve the suffering she endured during the last few months. How do you say goodbye to such a fine lady? With some tears, sure, but mostly, I want to say goodbye with laughter. That’s because she brought so much light into my life. She always made me smile.

I met Miss Kay seventeen years ago. She and her husband owned a duplex that Hubby and I rented when we were starry eyed newlyweds. She was never really a landlord, always a friend. I liked her immediately. Her laugh was infectious, and she was plain spoken, but never with a sharp tongue. She was able to tell me how crappy my nails looked and how badly I needed a manicure without hurting my feelings. “They’re your jewels, honey, not tools”, she said. I rarely mailed our rent to her in the two years we lived there because a stop by her house was better. It always yielded some lively conversation. I was always amazed at her positive attitude, given the heartache she’d suffered over the years; a failed first marriage, the deaths of her parents and the birth of a severely retarded child that was eventually institutionalized. She rebounded with a second marriage to a wonderful man and the birth of three children. They built a good life together and had many good years. She busted through life’s ups and downs with a high spirit and a hearty laugh..or two..or three. For years she laughed at Hubby’s run-in with her mother’s remains. Actually, it was a prosthetic leg that went tumbling down into Hubby’s arms as he was digging through some shelves in a garage behind the duplex. He didn’t realize it was fake until he had screamed like a girl, tossed it on the floor and nearly wet his pants. It scared the bejesus out of him, and left us rolling on the floor. You didn’t mind that she laughed at you because she was always laughing at herself.

Even when we bought our own home (two blocks away) and moved out, we stayed in touch. Hubby became a caretaker of the duplex, mowing the yard and keeping an eye on the place for the last fifteen years in exchange for some storage space in that garage. Mostly though, he did it for Miss Kay and her husband. Miss Kay was always grateful for his help, and each year showered him with some kind of overly generous gift at Christmas. We ran into each other at the grocery store, Sam’s and other places around town, always spending a while in the middle of an aisle catching up on kids and work. Each time I saw her, she had a smile, even when the world wasn’t turning her way. Each…and…every…time.

We knew in recent weeks she was not in good shape but didn’t know until last Tuesday that she was near the end. The family didn’t know if she would make it through Thanksgiving. In typical fashion, she hung on and pushed through, probably for her family’s sake. That’s Miss Kay, generous to the end. She let go early this morning, and I hope she went peacefully. I’m sorry she’s gone, but I’m glad I knew her. She was a fine example of how to live life. I will shed a tear or two for Miss Kay over the next few days, but I know I will find many smiles among the memories. Thanks for the laughs Miss Kay, and say hello to Jesus for me, will you?

Remembering Chance

*For those of you visiting today for a smile, I will warn you that this one is a little melancholy. But it’s a story you should know in order to understand me. There’s a challenge at the bottom, so hang in there until the end.

Many folks lost their innocence on September 11, 2001. I lost mine nearly a year earlier on September 23rd, 2000. That’s the day my 13 year old nephew died. Tomorrow will mark the anniversary of Chance’s death. Seven years ago he left us in a sudden tragic accident that has forever changed our family and the way I look at the world. The loss was enormous, the pain unimaginable and the healing, well, that’s been a slow process. Like the folks shaken by September 11th, I now know that security can disappear in a heartbeat.

I remember the phone call with vivid detail. Sunday morning. Six o’clock. The ring jarred me from bed, and I caught my breath when I saw the number on the caller ID. I braced myself for bad news because the call was from Sissy. Her diabetes ravaged husband had been to the brink of death more than once, and we knew his fate was inevitable. We had expected bad news about him for a while. We didn’t expect the news to be about Chance. It just didn’t seem possible. Chance and his best friend had been in-line skating at an industrial park when they were swept up in the run-off from a sudden rain. Both boys drowned. At first they were only missing. Hours later the dogs turned up their bodies in the water, and Sissy was introduced to a priest.

Answering the phone that morning was like hopping on a runaway train that wouldn’t stop. It set into motion some of the most painful moments of my life. Telling Hubby that the nephew he spoiled and cherished was gone. Watching Mama J. and Papa T. crumple under grief and explaining to our seven year old daughter that her brother like cousin would never eat watermelon with her again. And worst of all, trying to prop up Sissy and her husband during the worst of all possible losses, their only child.

The three hour drive to Sissy’s house was surreal. Cars whizzing by. People going about their every day business while we felt stuck in time. The news didn’t truly sink in until we arrived at our hotel and saw a news story about it on the television. Even though it was a major metropolitan city, the story was big news. Every television newscast. The front page of the newspaper. Everywhere, somebody was reminding us of the tragic nature of the accident. We staggered through four days of planning, services, homemade meals and well wishes. I cried non stop for four days. I simply couldn’t stop. There was just so much pain. Chance was the closest thing to a son Hubby and I will ever have. He spent part of his summer with Mama J. and Papa T. every year, bouncing between their house and ours. He was the only person who ever slept in our guest bedroom. Teen Angel worshipped the ground he walked on, and clung to him like glue. She would have followed him across the Mojave Desert barefoot. We loved that child dearly. The rip in our hearts was deep and jagged.

We buried him on a crisp, autumn day. As I stood in that little country cemetery numb to the preacher’s words and blinded by the sun, I realized that amidst the enormous loss, I had been given a gift by that smart, beautiful boy who had brightened our lives. That gift was the realization that life can be very, very short. It is not always what you expect it to be, and it is to be lived fully…every day…without exception. The clothes, the cars, the fancy homes really aren’t worth two figs in the end. It's not about living the good life. It's about good living. I try to practice that every day. It's why I dance when no one else does, sing really loud even though I can't carry a tune and laugh, laugh, laugh. I don't sweat the small stuff anymore. I know what tough really is, and most of my daily challenges are really not that tough when I consider how rough some folks have it.

A second gift I received from Chance is courage, courage to get out of my comfort zone. I'm not afraid to try difficult things anymore. Why should I be? I've already done the hardest thing I will likely ever have to do, help to bury a child. Everything else has to be much easier, right? After his funeral I came home and asked for a very challenging job promotion that I had been scared to ask for. I got it. I succeeded at it, and five years later, when I felt the call to a new career, I took that leap without much fear.

These two gifts were expensive, so I try very hard not to squander them. Each day I remember my dear nephew by using his gifts wisely. I will remember him tomorrow with a couple of tears, but mostly with pride for the dynamic young man he was and for the light he brought into my life. He was kind, generous and giving to others, so my challenge to you, my friends, is to help me remember him by being kind to others. I encourage each of you to commit a random act of kindness this next week, and come back and share it with me when you're done. If you're a lurker and don't want to reveal yourself, then post anonymously. It's about the act, not the name. Feel free to pass this along to your readers and challenge them in Chance's memory too. The world could use a little more kindess these days.