Sheryll (Sneade) O’Brien

December 28, 1957 – September 24, 2022

The best story I ever wrote was the one I lived.

To me it was a bestseller.

The End

I do not intend to torture myself. I do not want to hear myself cry out to God for the mercy of death. I want to be tucked into a bed with 24 hour care. So, my dear friends, you know my plan. I want you to know I am at peace with my plan.

“One found on land, one near the sea.

The next Orb I find will be for Me. Me. Me.” 

Rose Monahan is where I want and need to be. I am already full of peaceful expectation and want this for me and for the ones I love so much. Tim and the girls are all-in on this decision because I want it, but also because they see it as a perfect setting for me. In the end, it’s all going to come down to timing — will there be a bed available when I need one? None of us know the answer to that.

“Okay, now what?” I asked my professionals.

“You need a website designer and social media manager,” they advised.

“A what?”

I was put on notice by The Goddess, “You need a website to showcase your work. That’s where your blog will be.”

“Blog?”

“An online journal. A place where your readers can go to learn about you and your books.”

I was doing my fair share of head nodding during her explanation, but the word banging though my head was, “AreYouFuckingKiddingMeRightNow?”

Suzanne validates one of my quotes:

When I reached far beyond what I knew I could do,

I learned I was destined to do a whole lot more.

And I discovered that being successful is a personal thing,

it’s something you get to define and claim for yourself.

Twice in this lifetime Suzanne took hold of my hand and led me through crippling pain and sadness to a place where I found success and utter joy.

I am forever grateful for the time and wisdom to push in and finish what I started.

I am forever grateful for Suzanne.

We 01603 broads tend to stay put in that zip code.

I suspect everyone of us can connect by playing the six steps to Kevin Bacon game.

I’ll start. Are you related to Gig Fanning?

Me: If you could meet one celebrity in Heaven who’s the one? Asking for a friend who’s writing a blog.

JJ: Bowie, Freddy, Leonard, I don’t know. Too hard to pick. Maybe I would like to meet a friend I know in Heaven who writes a blog.

Me: Ok, but I get to bring a plus one to lunch. So who is beside me when we walk in? What celebrity am I bringing to meet you?

JJ: Bowie.

I am working on my 100th blog. Who would have thought that would happen? I’m hoping you will help me with it. If you would email me at: pullingthreadsnovella@gmail.com and tell me two things: what celebrity (singer, actor, athlete, or public figure) you would want to meet in Heaven, and who you knew personally that you would want to spend time with, that would be wonderful. If you object to my using your name, just say so. Tell me as much or as little as you would like.

The two walked from the car with Hadley’s arms wrapped tightly around her mom’s leg and Hannah patting her little girl’s shoulder and me watching and wondering what the hell happened. Didn’t have long to wait to find out. The front door opened and Hannah suggested, “Hadley go get yourself a snack and a water.” Then asked me, “Who the hell is Alaina?”

For all of my married years I have worn my hair cut short. The ease of this style is not the reason for the trimmed tresses — comfort level is what led me to the short shorn. The be all and end all is that I have very fine hair and I have a ton of it. If I let my hair grow beyond the nape of the neck, I look like Don King and my hair feels like a wool cap; a very hot wool cap in the summer. Basically, I have something I call, “Sheephead.”

It’s easy to tell when it’s time for a Scissorhands visit: one of two things happen, I baa during a blow dry, or I get the urge to Rumble in the Jungle.

On a larger scale, I wrote a blog to help me process this part of my life’s story, and to help others cope with the loss of loved ones, and to help show the ‘better’ side of being a hospice patient.

There in all her splendor was Hadley dressed head to toe in the colors of a penguin, however, black and white is also the standard fare colors for a nun. Yeup, our three-year-old granddaughter insisted to her mother that the nun’s costume was a penguin costume and it was HER costume. And when she was asked at each candy-giving home what she was, she happily replied, “I’m a penkwin.”

Digging toes in sand, taking a dip in the cold, cold, ocean waters of Maine, and catching some relaxing rays could be the reason for our annual sojourn — being with one another is the reason.

Hadley’s eyes opened and a smile took over her face — really it went ear to ear and lit up her sparkling blues that instantaneously filled with tears.

“Oh, Hadley. What’s wrong?”

“I love waking up and seeing you, MammyGrams. Every morning at home I wake up and say, ‘Please, please, please have MammyGrams be in her chair when I get next door.’”

People miss sitting down and writing a letter.

People miss getting a letter or note card in the mail.

People wish they had letters from those who passed.

People find comfort seeing a loved one’s script.

People have stories to tell.

People want to tell their stories.

To my chagrin, the signs are sort of like jigsaw puzzle pieces, and we all know how much I love a good old jigsaw. Did I say love? I meant to say hate. Did I say hate? I meant to say loathe. I loathe jigsaw puzzles; all those pesky pieces that need to be snapped together with the sole purpose of getting to see the image that’s already printed on a box. I don’t get it, but whatevs.