81. A Bunch of Loose Threads
This blog is going to be a braindump. There’s some stuff banging around in my head that’s been there for months, and some new stuff that recently joined the clusterfuck. I’m not sure exactly where we’re going, but I do know I need to clear some headspace. I’ll start with something I find interesting — and AWESOME!
This is blog 81. I can’t believe it. I remember saying to Tim, when I began writing #14, “I wonder how many of these I’ll get to write.” I just went back to read what that blog was about. It was titled, Pill Pusher, and it was about the time when Tim let me sleep through a dose of medicine and I paid the price with some pretty intense breakthrough pain. Mostly, the blog was about Tim making decisions. Here’s some of what I wrote:
To be perfectly honest, I had absolutely no idea how effective the pain pill/anxiety pill combo was, until I slept through one of my regularly scheduled pill popping events and the pain got ahead of me. Going without a dose of Tramadol let me know that I’m experiencing a lot more pain, deeper and more prolonged stabs and jabs of pain, than I was a few weeks ago. I’d still been feeling discomfort, but I definitely wasn’t feeling all of the pain. The realization of how much cancer crap was going on inside me was really painful, physically and mentally.
The medication mishap really knocked Mr. Wonderful for a loop. Every jab and jolt of pain in my leg, or hip, or rib cage, registered on his face and turned my medicine-manager into a hovering-husband. “Maybe if you raise — lower — raise — your recliner. Maybe if I put a towel, a pillow, a soft blanket under your leg. Maybe if you sit further up or lie flat or sort of get between the two.” I pushed this button and that button on the motorized recliner to no avail. He grabbed the pill bottle and read the instructions hoping the label would miraculously change. On occasion he muttered, “One tablet every six hours, as needed for pain.” After several minutes he conceded, “Okay, it’s 3 PM, you just took one, so that should kick in and you can take another at 9.” He watched my flinches, and expressed his frustration with some rapid-fire cussing when the pill didn’t kick in quickly enough, “Son-of-a-bitch. I should have woken you. What the fuck was I thinking letting you rest?”
I bet he was thinking I needed the rest.
What’s next?
Those events seem so long ago, and really they are, all things considered. I am in my seventh month — neither of us ever thought I’d still be here, ergo, neither of us thought I’d be writing blog 81. That sort of brings me to an official announcement. My blogs, and a whole bunch of stuff, like commentary from many of the people you’ve been introduced to in the blogs: my family and friends, and the She Devil Kathy Gaffney, and Kevin Mullaney, and Joyce McTigue, and Nurse M, will be part of this published book — as a two volume book. Many of you suggested it be available for others to read; that you found it informative and helpful. We agree. I’ve sort of hinted in other blogs that we were thinking of doing this, but we’re definitely doing this! There are so many blogs already written, and more to come, that we think it will take two appropriately sized volumes for my final writings. The original intent was that the formation of the book would fall upon Nancy’s shoulders after my death. I decided I wanted my last published piece to be created by me, if I was at all able. I wanted my work to have my voice, my creative flare, my very last push into the publishing world.
I am so happy to say I have been able to do the work myself. From the front to back cover and everything between on Book One has been done by Yours Truly. I will begin the layout for Book Two sometime this week — and all the while, I’ve been writing three blogs per week, working around side effects of a new narcotic, and an ass-kicking disease called cancer. Not bad, if I do say so myself. If any of you have visited my website and taken a look at Frayed Threads under the series heading, then you’ve seen my book cover, for those who have not, here it is!
Loose Threads
I am equally excited about The Gutter, the first book in this new series, co-authored by Nancy Pendleton. I know many of you have seen the FB post about this, and if you’ve read the announcement about our collaboration, then you know that Nancy brought to bear a deep cleanup of my work. What you don’t know is how happy I am that my storytelling was really strong — even back then. My mechanics sucked, but like Nancy and Andria always said, “Mechanics can be fixed, storytelling is a talent someone has, or they don’t. A writer has their voice, or they don’t.” All of that has been proven to me in The Gutter. I am so happy I asked Nancy to jump into the deep end with me on this project. I appreciate her pushing all-in on the technical stuff so I can validate, for myself, that my writing career started way before 2018, I just didn’t know it. Muah, to The Goddess!
Now, a suggestion: Colleen Mullaney, you have a writer’s voice. I know you’re thinking about doing something with your talent, my suggestion is that you do it — whatever it is, just do it.
Now a thank you: to a new friend in Florida, Linda Charpentier Christina, you are always so kind to give feedback on my work, and so complimentary. Who doesn’t like having their work supported? And I certainly appreciate your words on The Gutter. I can’t stop reading it! Dang, woman! What a blessing that there are other Sheryll stories I will get to read!! And when Linda finished reading it she added: So good!!!! I loved this and can’t wait for the rest! Sheryll, you’ve been holding out on us!! Thank you for this gift.
Well that certainly made my day and it’s only 4 AM.
Borrowing a priest.
In blog 12, Firsts and Lasts, I introduced you to Father Dude, the priest Donna introduced me to, the priest I hoped would ‘officiate’ at my send off. This is part of what I wrote in that blog:
A little background, Tim was raised Catholic and I was raised Protestant. Our children were baptized in the Catholic church and attended Catholic high school. That decision was part of our religious plan for them from the get-go. Tim and I didn’t have a get-go on our religious plan. We spent the early years of our marriage ‘visiting’ churches, looking for the right fit for each of our religious needs. Sadly, we never really found ‘our’ religious home. No big deal for our daily lives, but a bit problematic now that I need a spiritual leader on my current journey.
My bestie, Donna, solved my problem with one phone call to her priest, a dude she’d been raving about for years. The other day she showed up with the man in tow — the man I need — the man I could have benefitted from knowing my whole life. The laidback priest took a seat in my favored mission chair (although he might have been equally comfortable in a beanbag chair tossed on the floor or swinging from a hammock in the backyard while listening to a little Van Morrison or Joan Baez). Father Cool became part of the scene. He didn’t arrive with expectation, or vie for the leadership role. Honestly, his vibe was that we were just hanging out together. He wanted to know about me, sure, but offered no Plan A or Plan B on how to accomplish that. He just sat back and let me tell him what I wanted to tell him. In other words, the man of ministry knew we’d find our way.
We found our way with ease. In blog 30, Random Acts of Kindness, I wrote:
At the end of the tucking-in process each night I ask Tim to give me my stones. I take the first stone, a palm-sized, naturally smoothed piece that has a cross etched into the center of it, place it on my chest and leave it there.
I’ve mentioned this stone a few times and promised I’d tell you the story about it. Here we go. After spending more than an hour with me on that first meeting, Father Dude took hold of a zipped satchel, not much larger than a pencil case and removed a stone from within. He said something along the lines of. “I think you’ll find comfort in this.” He handed me the aforementioned stone, I never mentioned the other things about the stone. All around the cross, front and back were words written in black marker: anger, acceptance, depression, joy, fear, hope, fatigue and several others. He went on to explain:
“There is a Hawaiian tradition, actually, it is a tradition of many cultures. I learned about it in Hawaii. The Shaman (Huna) prepares a stone for the person who is readying to pass over. Etched into the stone is something relatable to the individual, a bird, a marine mammal, or something from nature. Around the symbol is a series of words or drawings. The stone I gave you has the Christian symbol, the cross, and a series of words associated with the dying process.
“When you are stuck on a feeling, or struggling with something like fear, or regret, or whatever it may be, put your thumb onto the word and offer it up in prayer. If you are experiencing acceptance or joy, offer it up in thanks. Let your family use the stone to deal with their issues. Use it and share it.
“A few weeks from now, I’ll come get the stone and take it to a body of water and toss it in. The water will wash away the burdens you put into the stone, and let the peaceful feelings rise.”
There is so much to unpack here. I love that a priest was willing to comfort and guide a non-Catholic on her final journey. We tend to hear about the separations of churches in the Christian faith, and we tend to focus on less than favorable stories about men who devote their lives to the Church. I’m not here to weigh in on serious topics, all I know is that my bestie knew I was in need of a spiritual guide, she asked her priest to help, and he did.
The introduction of the Hawaiian tradition was beautiful and beneficial. The fact that a body of water was central to the ceremony most definitely fit with who I am — a lover of nature’s water sources. A week or so after retrieving the stone, Father Dude contacted me. He was at the Old Stone Church at the Wachusett Reservoir, a favorite place of mine; my requested body of water. He walked to the shoreline and tossed my stone in. He sent pictures of the beautiful waterway beneath a bright sunny winter’s sky, one that showed a circular ripple that might have been made by my stone. I felt unburdened and blessed at that very minute to have participated in such a lovely, spiritual ceremony. The memory of it still touches me deeply.
Fuckin Quitter.
I mean happy retirement!
That’s the card I sent my brother on April 30th. Yes, that’s the date my almost 67 year-old brother became unemployed. I say good for him. I say good luck, Denise. I am totally kidding. Mr. and Mrs. Sneade are a very suited couple. They enjoy all of the same things: keeping their homestead well taken care of, working in the gardens: vegetable and flower, walking the wooded area around their property, swimming in their pool, sitting by the fire long into the night, creek fishing, camping, and parking their asses at the beach. It’s only been a few weeks since he punched his last timecard and Don and Denise have already done most everything on their Love To Do List, even making a week’s long camping trip to the bronze-colored sandy shoreline of Flagler Beach, Florida.
Retirement isn’t only for D&D, I am enjoying stories of couples I know who are making plans for their ‘golden years’ and actually realizing them. Whether you are Snowbirds from New England, or Old Coots from anywhere in the U.S.A., I hope you pack it up and head on out, or park yourself on your front stoop and do a bit of Gladys Kravitz snooping for many, many years to come.
As for you, Don and Denise, I hope you guys have a long, happy life doing whatever the hell you want!
The smell of lilacs.
When I was waiting for head/brain surgery all those years ago, I needed to turn over ‘my’ flower garden to Tim. My garden is the one that has grown exponentially over the years with the sole purpose of gobbling up more and more of Tim’s lawn. I spent years choosing what perennial plants and bushes I wanted in the fieldstone edged, very long, curvy garden.
We didn’t know what condition I’d be in after surgery, but we’d been warned on several occasions that there would be physical and perhaps mental faculty changes; some could be temporary, others would be permanent. Taking care of my children and sharing my life with Tim were the major concerns, of course, but there were other things that pressed-in, things that I’d miss doing — like gardening.
Before my surgery, Tim picked out and purchased several plants and bushes for the garden — my favorite was a dwarf lilac bush. I remember sitting on the front stoop as he tried out different locations for the flowering newcomer I already loved. When he found the right spot, in she went. Tiny buds were on display, giving a faint purple halo effect. I loved watching that bush blossom wide, and hoped I’d be well enough to see my lilacs the following year.
I did, and every year since.
I woke from my nap this afternoon to the smell of lilacs. The final blooms on that bush were cut, arranged in a vase, and set on my end table — and that’s the lovely aroma I woke to.
Thank you, Tim.
Changing things up.
Tim places our order at Culpeppers by phone now. He learned pretty quickly that if we wanted a dozen apricot danish, he’d better place a call before driving to College Square. For some unknown reason, no matter the time of day, or the severity of my nausea, I will eventually make my way from eating square salt crackers to an apricot danish, so Tim always has them on hand. The staff knows Tim’s voice now, and they ready a box of twelve, perfectly shaped and iced wonders upon request.
Today, he switched things up and put a newbie worker under the hot glare of everyone who works at the bakery. Tim ordered six lemon and six raspberry/lemon danish, (Mom and Marchrie were coming for dinner and we thought we’d change things up and offer those two flavors). Anyway, when the newbie was ready to hand off the box of yummies, he was nearly tackled by his coworkers who were sure he’d made a colossal mistake. He didn’t.