71. Mother’s Day
Tim’s kiss goodnight Saturday evening came with an observation and a question, “You look really tired. Do you feel like sleeping in tomorrow?”
“Yes, but make sure we’re up by seven. Brunch is at ten.”
“Will do.”
I was dead to the world when Tim crept downstairs Mother’s Day morning. I heard him move about the kitchen, but didn’t quite have the ‘get up and go’ to ‘get up and go’ until he walked past me with a mug of Chase and Sanborn. That smell isn’t something I ignore — ever! Eager for a sip — or a gulp — I grabbed hold of the remote control for my recliner and proceeded to ‘get up and stay seated’ for the day.
“Morning,” Mr. Wonderful said with a kiss to the top of my head. “Happy Mother’s Day — you made it.” His wonderful sentence came with another kiss and a big-ass smile.
I checked the clock, “7:05 AM. As soon as we’re done with coffee, I need you to help me wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And then I’ll do the whole spongebath thing in increments. Nurse M said to break the sessions down, even do some on the recliner if necessary.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need any help.”
We sat in silence, just sort of enjoying the quiet of our company and watching a few hummingbirds flit at the feeder just outside our picture window.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I got a text message — at 7:11 AM — from Dr. Wonderful.
It read: Happy Mother’s Day – hope you are able to enjoy the day.
News Flash: I was enjoying the day so far! Mr. Wonderful and Dr. Wonderful wished me Happy Mother’s Day and I’d barely woken up. Can’t get much better than that — just sayin!
Hadley spent the night at her father’s so Tim and I had the quiet pleasure of our daughters who came bearing hugs and kisses and craving mugs of coffee. Each of my girls gave me lovely cards with heartfelt written expressions of love and gratitude. Their words pushed hard at the most tender places of my heart — and at theirs, too. Spoken words weren’t shared during this almost sacred time because they weren’t needed. There were tentative glances between mother and daughters, and finger-traces down my arm from Jessie, and a lingering kiss to my cheek from Hannah, but words were held.
After we’d sufficiently caffeinated ourselves, the girls headed off to get ready for company. I did the same. Tim, the short-order-cook of the day, got down to business. He fried a pound of bacon and a pan of hash browns, then cooked up a batch of pancakes. He set the table buffet-style with his breakfast offerings and a bunch of fun toppings — sliced strawberries and whipped cream for the pancakes, and sour cream and crumbled bacon bits for the potatoes.
Jessie headed to Auburn to schlepp my mom and sister to the soiree, each arriving with bags of goodies in tow. My favorite gift — always my favorite Mother’s Day gift — was a hanging flower pot with cascading Impatiens of salmon and yellow. The big-ass planter had hundreds of happy, little flowers vying for attention.
They easily got mine.
“Don’t let it stay outside overnight,” my mom advised Tim.
“I won’t.”
From inside gift bags of spring colors and happy designs came trinkets galore. At the risk of seeming ungrateful by not listing them all, I need to express that the only thing I wanted was a visit with my mother, sister, daughters, and granddaughter. When Mom and Majorie finally walked through my front door, a sigh of relief preceded an inhale of joy — it had been four weeks since their last visit — a long period of time given the state of things. I could see the relief wash over my mother’s face when her eyes found mine. Her lingering kiss to my head and the touch of her arthritic hand to my cheek spoke volumes.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Mom.”
“It’s so good to see you. Thank God,” her words caught on emotion.
Marchrie barely awaited her turn and swooped in for a gentle hug and a loud, celebratory kiss. Her casted wrist reminded me of her own challenges — about which she never complains.
As with most of our gatherings, there was plenty of talking over one another — it was wonderful. And breakfast — that was wonderful, too. We scarfed down Tim’s creations then settled into conversations over mugs of coffee. The pleasant talk about the unseasonably brisk May morning, and things that amounted to nothing in the scheme of things, was just perfect!
There were no discussions about cancer or Covid or death and dying. There was only chit-chat and laughs and the sense that we’d been gifted the most important thing — time together.
And. Then. There. Was. This.
So that you’ll understand a gift I gave my mom, we’re taking a sidestep. In blog 41: Turn. Turn. Turn. I wrote:
I am a storyteller. I can take a reader from here to there and keep their interest. BUT that does not mean I am a writer — by any stretch of the imagination. Way back when, I could write a damned good story — though I knew NOTHING about the fundamentals of writing: first person, third person, past or present tense, or point of view — and, with a loaded pistol to my head, I wouldn’t have been able to identify an omniscient narrator in a lineup of subjective and objective narrators. Huh, I wonder if that’s real stuff? I’m not going to stop to look it up because then I’ll be forgetting and scrolling up to find out what this ramble is about. So …
I bought a few Creative Writing for Dummies books (not kidding) and got to reading. The books are stored somewhere in my basement. They’re most likely next to nine manuscripts I wrote — nine VERY bad manuscripts (technically speaking) but nine VERY good stories. I’m gonna give this a try: Suzanne. The Caller. The Gutter. The _____. Dancing with Deception. Dancing with _____. Dancing with _____. Well, that was a bust. I thought about rewriting the manuscripts, page by page, chapter by chapter, but there’s NO WAY I can do it — but Nancy, if you’re up to the challenge!
Announcement.
This new page was added to my website.
A note from Sheryll O’Brien
When I was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I stopped writing novels and began a blog about my final journey.
And. Then. This. Happened.
In one of the entries, I casually mentioned several manuscripts I’d written years ago — the ones I’d unceremoniously dumped in our basement to gather dust and the attention of an occasional creepy crawly that might wander past. I tongue-in-cheek suggested my publisher, Nancy Pendleton, take a read of these works.
I never thought she’d bite.
She bit.
And she agreed to co-author the books.
The first manuscript, The Gutter, was in the mail to her within days. Nancy read the story, fell in love with the story — then she worked her magic and turned it into a publishable novel. A Herculean task — believe you me — one befitting the woman I named The Goddess, years ago.
Nancy’s Perspective
Over the time Sheryll and I worked together, I fell in love with her writing. As time passed, and we communicated more, on both a professional and personal level, we became friends. When she received her devastating diagnosis, I was crushed. I couldn’t believe I was going to lose this treasured friend, and the world was going to be deprived of additional SOB works.
When Sheryll mentioned she had some very early manuscripts tucked away in her basement, I was intrigued. When she asked if I’d like to read one, I jumped at the opportunity. Before I knew it I had a 40,000 word page-turner in my hands. She was right, this is a great story, but it needed a lot of work. It needed the spit and polish that Sheryll’s recent works are known for. As her publisher for the past few years I knew exactly what it needed, but would I be able to deliver?
Once I began the process I was immediately freaked out! What had I done? I’m no writer! How can I possibly do this? I had seen Sheryll produce an 80,000 word masterpiece in a month, how could I have thought I could put the Sheryll polish on this story? But I finally got hold of a thought that kept bouncing around my head. I asked myself the most important question — how could I not at least try?
That said, I pushed into this story, and I am busy working on the next collaboration, The Caller. I hope you enjoy these new works of Sheryll O’Brien and Nancy Pendleton. I hope you will be kind in your assessment knowing that I, who am not a writer, completed the technical tasks required to get these stories ready for the world.
Coming Soon
The Gutter
The Caller
I need to pull some threads on this.
On November 1st, I thought my book writing and publishing days were behind me. Since then, I published Be and Be, still. Within a matter of weeks, The Gutter will be added to my list of published works and then The Caller and then Dancing with Deception and then Dancing with Evil and then Dancing with Destiny — each will take their place on the bookshelf of Sheryll O’Brien.
Not bad, if I do say so myself.
And I do say so myself.
Lessons learned.
It wasn’t until I’d been given a death sentence that this thought found its way to the center of my belief system — truth be told, it is the most important thing I believe — so far as setting goals is concerned.
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.
I claim the writing of my stories and the publication of my books as a success. I nurtured a dream of being a storyteller for five decades and when the opportunity presented itself, I pushed all-in. I welcomed fabulous characters into my heart and head, then gave them the freedom to take me on the ride of my life. And when my life was threatened, when I thought my dream was stolen from me — I pushed all-in again.
Is there any reason why I should not have?
Absolutely, no reason at all.
The most meaningful gift given.
My mother has been on the frontlines of my writing since Day One. She’s read every story I wrote a minimum of four times each — sometimes as a proofreader — most often as a fan. When it looked as though my writing days were over, she and I shared more than a few tears.
So imagine my joy when this happened.
I handed my mother a black, zippered folder on Mother’s Day. The folder is the one I used to put my manuscripts into before sending them off to Auburn for Mom’s inspection and enjoyment. “This is for you,” I said with a smile.
She smiled, put the folder onto her lap, ran her hand across the canvas material and smiled again.
I tilted my head, “Go ahead and open it.”
She pulled the zipper along its path, lifted the top cover, and read the laser-printed book cover, “The Gutter.” Her faded-with-age blue eyes found mine, “Oh, Sheryll, is this new?”
“Well, you read it many, many, many years ago, but technically, I suppose it’s new. It’s something Nancy and I have been working on.”
“The Gutter. Will it be published?”
“Because of the efforts of Nancy Pendleton. She’s worked her ass off on that book. You’ll remember the story, that hasn’t changed, but it’s cleaned up and is a book worth publishing now.”
Mom’s eyes filled with tears. “I never thought I’d see another SOB book. I can’t wait to read it. I’m rereading Alva right now, and I’m almost done, so this will have to wait a day or so.”
“No rush, Mom. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”