62. Special Moments: They’re All Special, Now
Tim
The other night, in the wee hours when most everyone was silenced by sleep, I woke — not because I was in pain, but because I sensed I wasn’t alone. I had a prickling of dread run my spine which caused me to clamp my eyes tight — just in case it was the Grim Reaper making an earlier than hoped for House Call. Within seconds, my fear passed because I knew I had guest. Tim had woken, snuck downstairs, and taken residence in his recliner. He hadn’t intended to wake me, but having his energy nearby woke me.
I didn’t acknowledge him, I just watched him look longingly at me. It was really hard seeing him sitting alone in the dark. I knew what was working through his head — the loneliness that’s already settling in.
We didn’t talk, we just shared the space. And then, just like that, he got up, touched my cheek, kissed the top of my head, and headed back upstairs. One night soon, he’ll wake and come downstairs for a sit in his recliner — and I won’t be here to share the space with him.
How sad.
Marjorie
A week or so after Marjorie’s accident, a knock came upon her front door. Standing on the stoop was Sheila Lavallee Westerlind — the original Third Musketeer to Marchrie and Helena when they played together on the streets of Columbus Park.
Sheila lives in New Jersey now. Her travels brought her to the Worcester area, and led her to Auburn, so she could stop in and see her friend, the one with a broken wrist, and a breaking heart.
Sheila is a mover and a shaker. She is always on the go — as evidenced by her Facebook posts. The blonde, blue-eyed beauty is happily traveling here — there — and everywhere — and she is doing it with a wide smile on her face — the one that is identical to that of her mother when she was Sheila’s age.
The beautiful, Nordic-looking, Mrs. Lavallee raised her family of five children in the 60s and 70s in a sweeping Victorian home with a beautiful wrap-front-porch. She also spent long hours at work helping countless women bring new bundles of joy into the world. I was always awe-inspired by Mrs. Lavallee. There were other neighborhood moms who had jobs back then — my own included — but none of them had a career —— certainly none that required a crisp, white, nurse’s uniform, complete with a nurse’s cap.
When Mrs. Lavallee had some ‘free’ time, she filled it by being a Camp Fire Leader to a bunch of neighborhood girls. I don’t recall what our leader wore in that capacity, though I think it was a white shirt and navy bottoms. I liked being part of the group and I looked forward to our weekly meetings in the Lavallee’s big-ass old barn.
For those of you unfamiliar with the organization, Camp Fire Girls was the first nonsectarian, multicultural organization for girls in America. Its programs were designed as small group experiences and held after school. There were lessons about camping and stuff, but the focus was aimed at building confidence in young girls by introducing ‘way-ahead-of-the-curve’ lessons about environmental protection, and childcare skills, including CPR, and the importance of community service — the things Mrs. Lavallee was doing in her own life.
Live by example, I guess.
I told Marchrie I was going to mention Mrs. Lavallee in a blog, and we both broke out into the Camp Fire Girl song.
“Make new friends but keep the old.
One is silver, and the other gold.”
I guess if you are a former Camp Fire Girl and you learn that an old friend has broken herself and your name happens to be Sheila Lavallee Westerlind, you show up on your friend’s doorstep with an Irish bread and a beautiful plant —— and if your name is Kathy Lavallee Budgell, you fire off text, after text, after text to Marjorie with countless offers of help — rides, meals, errand-running, whatever, whatever, whatever.
You might remember it was Kathy’s husband, Larry, who came to the OB rescue when Hannah’s furnace crapped out one Saturday morning. I messaged Kathy w.a.y. b.e.f.o.r.e. it was respectable to do so, and within ten minutes of that text, Larry was onsite fixing our problem. I hadn’t seen either of the Budgells for years before placing our S.O.S. — a fact that mattered not one bit.
Kathy has let us know that she is standing at the ready to help — as are sooooo many others. The instant my blog went up on my website about Marjorie’s fall and subsequent injuries, I was flooded with text messages, emails, phone calls — and I’m quite sure I even saw a few Camp Fire Girl smoke-signals lifting skyward. Family and friends of mine — and even a few people I’ve never met — were offering all kinds of help.
Ever since Marchrie’s triple-klutz on ice, Helena has done the lion’s share of schlepping her to surgical, and doctor and physical therapist appointments, and Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo is on the phone day and night with a sympathetic ear and a check-in on my sister and our elderly mom. And Sharon and Jackie, the women across Inwood Road, the lovely little cul-de-sac where Marchrie and Mom live, are running back and forth to grocery stores and pharmacies. And my Jessica, is helping with their laundry, garbage, and recycling.
A slip on the ice landed my poor sister on her ass — and in one fell swoop, it flipped the coin of concern and compassion from me to Marjorie. Just as it should have.
People are absolutely wonderful.
We may forget that in our day to day lives. I hope my blog reminds us of the kindness and willingness of so many to offer a helping hand, a shoulder upon which to cry, and a hug of comfort.
Mary and Linda
In my book, Be, still — I suggest that hospice patients be thoughtful — that they consider gifting a special trinket to someone while they are able to enjoy the experience. Since I’m on a bit of a roll about the thoughtfulness of others, I wanted to share something I did — I took my own advice.
When I mentioned Fifi’s chair in a previous blog, I heard from all three of Fifi’s daughters. None of them knew their mom had a special seat at Mary O’Brien’s table. I think this is a good time for a little backstory and it should begin with Tim’s mother.
When I first met Mary McTigue O’Brien, she was already a grandmother to fifteen — give or take one or two. I think she was about the age I am now — give or take one or two. ‘Nana’ as she was called by just about everyone, was a tall, fit and trim, Irish-pretty woman with snow-white hair that was always done, but never looked done, if you know what I mean.
Nana never looked like she just stepped out of Al’s Golden Chateau, THE PLACE where women flocked to have their hair follicles permed, teased, and shellacked into an armored-halo. Every woman of a certain age, from one end of 01603 to the other, had helmet-hair — except for Mary O’Brien. Her hair looked casual — natural — soft — beautiful.
Fifteen Merchant Street was Mary O’Brien’s home — her kitchen was the heartbeat of that home. I don’t recall a single time when I entered that house when she wasn’t in that room. I barely remember a time when she was sitting in that room upon my entrance. She was always upright doing something.
And. Then.
As soon as she realized she had company, she was pouring a cup of coffee and slicing a piece of coffeecake — her specialty — and taking a seat with her guest. I felt like a guest in Mary’s kitchen until I had Hannah — then I was a Bonafide OB. One who always tried to snag Fifi’s chair.
As for The Chair, Tim remembers things this way: the two chairs at either end of the OB kitchen table were his parents’ chairs. He said the one at the end nearest to the stove was his mother’s and the one nearest to the back door entrance was his father’s. The seats along the table sides — all ten of them — were for the kids. Tim’s memory often puts his father in the chair at the end of the table closest to his mother, so they could sit near and talk around all the noise.
So, technically, Fifi’s chair was Papa’s chair. I don't know when it was that she wriggled her ass onto it and claimed it, nor do I know exactly how Tim and I came to be in possession of it. I suppose, as it is with so many families, things get given to people upon the passing of loved ones. We ended up with the chair, a beautifully-carved mahogany seat which spent time in nearly every room of our house over the years — proof of that is evidenced by the many layers of upholstery on the seat cushion.
My blogs about Fifi’s chair piqued the interest of Fifi’s daughter, Linda. She just loved that Fifi had her place at the OB’s home, and that the chair became so special to me. A month or so ago, Linda, her husband John, and her sister Suzanne, traveled from Rhode Island for a visit with Tim and me. At the end of our time together, I gifted Linda with Fifi’s chair. “I want it to go to a good home,” I said with sincerity.
She happily accepted.
Thunder
The other night, I was woken from a sound sleep by deep rolls of thunder. We’d had an unseasonably warm day in Worcester which banged against the ordinary cold of nighttime March in New England. The phenomenon led to the first thunderstorm of 2022. First off, you should know that I love thunder and like lightning storms. I do not, however, enjoy the wind that usually accompanies a real good storm. My mother, on the other hand, enjoys some wind and the thunder, but is terrified by the lightning. The first flash of light and accompanying crack of contact sends the poor woman toward shelter in her bathroom, or in the basement of her home.
If she is alone during a storm, she and I get onto our cell phones as she makes passage toward her haven of safety. I do a series of well-spaced check-ins with her, and then give her the ‘All’s Clear’ when things become All Clear.
When the thunder rolled and rolled and rolled the other night, and a few bolts of lightning lit the sky, I smiled because Mom was safe and sound with Marchrie — and then I cried because I knew Mom wouldn’t have me to call when this year’s summer storms fill the sky.
Brad
I actually had a Brad for chili. The woman who has been sustaining life by eating apricot danish had a hankering for chili. Go figure.
Joyce
The other night, out of nowhere, I had a memory — at least I thought I had a memory. The next day, I texted Joyce who was in Florida sitting poolside or perhaps on the beach with her husband, John.
Me: I think I had a memory. Did a Christmas tree fall in your living room?
Joyce: Yes. It was the last real tree we owned. It fell during the night, and we didn’t hear a thing. Must have been a very slow fall … you have a very good memory. John didn’t remember that — nor do I recall telling anyone.
Me: I got a call from you in the morning because you wanted help driving the kids to school. You said, ‘If a Christmas tree falls in your living room does it make a sound?’ I said, “I don’t know, Joyce, does it?” You said, ‘Apparently, not.’
Score one for my memory.
Joyce: Wow. How do you do it? We don’t recall yesterday! And the details you gave are amazing.
Me: I think it’s part of my life passing … I’m having really accurate memories … I think I don’t have cluttered thoughts about the future … so my mind is really clear about the past – OR – I COULD BE NUTS.
Joyce: Whatever it is, it’s amazing.
Spirit Animals
Hadley asked me the other day if I had a spirit animal.
“I sure do. It’s a white-tailed deer. How about you?”
“A hummingbird. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t like seeing a hummingbird — they make people happy. I think a spirit animal should make people happy.”
“Me, too.”
Pause. Pause. Pause. “You know MammyGrams, when you’re a white-tailed deer, you need to make sure you find a place to hide as soon as it’s Coyote O’Clock — that’s when the coyote’s come out, you know.”
“Good to know.”
Gotta love her.
I’m head over heels in love with my spirited little hummingbird!
Don
During my most recent phone call with Don, he went off on a tangent about a piece of furniture he’s refinishing. “Denise and I have an old-fashioned, metal Hoosier cabinet that I’ve been restoring. I spent some time today screwing in a T-bolt to hold the marble top,” (I’m not sure what he actually said about the bolt because I’d already started zoning out).
Ten effing minutes later I interrupted the snooze fest. “You do know I’m dying, right?”
Don. Cracked. Up. Laughing.
“And you just wasted ten effing minutes of my life, right?”
He kept on laughing.
When he pulled himself together, he said, “Yeah, sorry about that. Jesus, wait until Denise hears about this conversation. Every Sunday she asks if I let you get a word in edgewise.”
“Tell her the answer to that question is, nope.”
“She already knows the answer.”
He. Cracked. Up. Again!
She Devil
I was over the moon happy when I learned that one of Kathy’s best friends hated Wordle. I felt I had an ally in the war against the wicked word game. But alas, Paula Dumas, the woman who ended her heartfelt card to me with these words: P.S. I hate the fucking WORDLE, too! Love, Paula. — has had a change of heart.
I heard about Paula’s slide under the spell of Wordle from the She Devil, herself. The Gleeful One might have been brewing something in a kitchen cauldron when she cackled her victorious claim of another soul. Dratz!
Mom
I found myself alone with my mother, in my home, Sunday afternoon. I haven’t been in my mother's company, by myself, since my diagnosis. We hadn’t planned on spending alone-time — but there we were, without the distractions and interruptions of others — so our conversation went where it needed to go.
I guess.
“I’m old. It should be me who’s dying,” she said through tear-filling eyes.
“It’s not your time, Mom,” I choked back.
“But you’re only sixty-four and I’m in my eighties.”
“I’ve had a really wonderful life.” Pause. Pause. Through a few tears. A very long pause. “I don’t know why it’s my time — I don’t think I’m supposed to know why — but as much as I want to stay here, I’m okay with things. I’ve made peace with all of this.”
My mother pulled herself together. I’m glad she did because she said. “I don’t know how you are doing what you’re doing. The blog, and planning a funeral, and taking care of everyone — with all of the little things you’re leaving behind to soothe Hadley. I can’t believe how strong you are — what an incredible person you are. I’ve always been proud of you, Sheryll, but I can’t believe that I am the mother of someone this amazing.”
So, there’s that.
The most important words I’ll ever hear.
When Things Go Numb In The Night
Saturday Evening
Telling you about my plans for Blog 64 was a big step. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel after I went all-in, but overall, I was relieved. I committed to telling my whole story. I think it’s best for me that I don’t hide behind things — and I think it’s best to let you decide how you want to handle things. Look at the scan — don’t look at the scan. Read the angry blog — don’t read the angry blog.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from this whole mess it’s this: I can’t spend any time worrying about what others think of the stripped-down, vulnerable version of me —— the person who is obliterating the shroud of privacy by telling the good, the bad, and the ugly about what is happening to me.
I’ve been awake since shortly after 3 AM staring at a blank page for nearly an hour. I had a physical incident earlier in the evening, one that left my right leg numb from my hip to my knee. The explanation of the incident might be TMI — but — I spent a couple days backed up a bit, and when the time was right, I ended up spending too much time on the hopper. We’ve all been there — a long sit sometimes results in a numbing of the lower extremities.
This. Numbing. Was. Not. That. Numbing.
This numbing was — is — very concerning.
As soon as I stood, I knew something was happening, or had happened, in my lumbar spine. There was a bit of pain on the left side, even though the numbness ran the length of the outer side of my right leg, most notably in the thigh region. I leaned against the bathroom wall for a minute or so, making sure I had strength in my legs, then waited for the tingling sensation that usually accompanies an awakening appendage. There wasn’t the expected ‘pins and needles’ feelings, so I called out to Tim to walk with me as I moved to my recliner.
I snuggled into the warm leather seat and waited for the feeling to return to my dead leg. Before any numbness abated, my nightly dose of Tramadol and Xanax pulled me under its spell. I’m awake now and I think it’s safe to say I’ll be awake for a while longer.
So, while I wait for more of my leg to come back to life — I’ll write.
It's anyone’s guess where these hours will lead us.
What fun!
For the most part, writing the blog has been a therapeutic thing. It has allowed me to look at where I was when this all began and where I am now. It has given me a way to face my fears and loneliness, and the anger and resentment I sometimes feel. It has allowed me the freedom to ask the occasional — Why Me? — Why This Soon? —— and it has left me with the questions of — Why Not Me? — Why Not This Soon?
Haven’t we all, at some point in our lives, asked those questions about someone else — especially if a death was sudden and seemingly random? An accident, perhaps, when someone was in the wrong place at the wrong time — or had taken an earlier flight because there was a seat available —— and then they were gone.
Death happens – when it happens.
I keep trying to impress that fact upon me and those I love.
With varying degrees of success.
You may think I spend most of my time – perhaps an inordinate amount of time — thinking about ME — about this ache and pain — about that fear — about what’s next. I suppose I’m guilty as charged — let’s face it, the circumstances of my life have isolated me — they’ve kept me from the natural order of things. They’ve positioned me in the spectator section of my life and everyone else’s life.
I was joking with Mr. Wonderful recently. I said that the long hours I used to spend at my desk or in my recliner writing was sort of like my Spring Training for the Big Leagues — the arduous 24/7 sitting requirement of my type of cancer. I asked Nurse M. the other day if I’m a whiner — she laughed out loud.
“Far from it.”
We went around a bit about the uniqueness of my situation as it relates to other types of terminal cancer and even other cases of bone cancer.
“Most hospice patients, even those with bone cancer, can get up and out of their homes — they can go sit on a park bench, or have a meal at a restaurant, or go to Sunday church services, or whatever.”
She impressed upon me that I am living a very unusual life, and it’s still an incredibly full life despite my being confined. She acknowledged the blog is at the center of it.
I agree.
So, I thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to read along, and to comment from time to time.
The blog was intended as my way of working things through. I’ve come to find that informing people about what’s happening in my cancer-life and my hospice-life has been quite meaningful and purposeful.
I can say with complete honesty that my mind is full of so many things. Lots of non-illness-related-things. Happy things. That’s because I try to push all-in on the day-to-day happenings that I am smackdab in the center of — the whirlwind of ‘comings and goings’ of my little family unit.
I may be on the sidelines, but I am still the one choosing Hide ‘N Seekables. I am still distance-appropriate sitting with Hadley after school while she does homework or online math and language puzzles and games. I am still hanging out with ‘our’ dog, Piper, the beautiful rescue who used to live with Tim and me, but who lives next door with Hannah and Hadley now. I am still the one choosing, ordering, and prepping birthday gifts for my 3-year-old grandniece, Evelyn — the adorably precocious, ‘what goes around comes-around’ daughter of Nicole, my sister Marjorie’s adorably precocious daughter.
So, while I wait for the last ultimate answer to the only question that really remains —— I’m looking toward the future.
With a little creativity, I expect to be part of it.
I’m making sure there are things in place to help Hadley and my daughters navigate through their period of loss and grief — and I’ve prepared special things to remind them to have fun, full lives.
I’ve stocked up on hideables so Tim can continue Hadley’s Hide ‘N Seek breakfasts. I think it’ll be really important that they keep steady with their Mashup Mondays, and Toast Tuesdays, and Wacky Wednesdays, and Eclectic Thursdays, and Cheesy-egg Fridays.
An important note: Friday breakfast day went through a name change. It is now referred to Fantastical Fridays — why, you might ask? Because Hadley has not wanted a cheesy-egg for the past couple of weeks.
The horror of horrors. So, what’s a kid to do?
Choose something else to eat — and do some renaming.
Every Saturday, Tim makes a big batch of French Toast for breakfast. He packages up several pieces and tucks them into the freezer. They are up-for-grabs by anyone for any meal or snack. Hadley likes to microwave one afterschool or for an impromptu dinner at Gee’s and MammyGram’s.
When she put the kibosh on that Friday cheesy-egg morning, she checked the freezer, smiled wide, popped a cinnamon-square-yummy into the microwave, grabbed the rainbow sugar crystals we use for cookie decorating, and sprinkled a few onto her Fantastical Friday French Toast. She added a couple pieces of watermelon and a handful of blueberries to her sectioned-plate and brought it and a glass of milk into the living room, set it on her rolling table, and rolled it close enough for me to see the fruits of her labor.
“Not in the mood for eggs this morning?”
“Nope.” She did a theatrical gagging. “I. Did. Not. Want. An. Egg. No seriously, MammyGrams, I would have puked if I had to eat one.”
I laughed. “Gagging sounds and puking references and it’s only 7 AM. This day isn’t getting off to a good start, I see.”
She chomped a mouthful and countered with, “It’s getting off to a great start. This toast is awesome!”
Looking Toward The Future
I’ve signed Hadley up for summer camps. Last summer, during the height of Covid, she spent most of her time putzing around our house and yard. She spent one week at a horseback riding camp and had a little bit of outdoor fun at Broadmeadow Brook — the largest urban wildlife sanctuary in New England — that just happens to be in Worcester. She’s going to do another couple of weeks there, but she’s decided to spend oodles of time at Giguere Gymnastics Center. She’s all about learning to do a cartwheel and to do TikTok dancing and Carnival Week and Water Week and whatever else she wants to do this summer.
And. Then.
I bought a beautiful wooden box that has an old-fashioned brass key fixture. It’s the kind of box that will make a lovely keepsake, one day. Until then, the box is wrapped as one of Hadley’s birthday gifts and it will be given to her on June 28th. Inside she will find birthday cards from me — one for her upcoming 8th birthday and twenty-two others — one for each of her birthdays all the way through to her 30th. Each card has a few words from me that are relevant to whatever milestone she is celebrating.
And. Then.
I’ll be leaving her the tape recordings of the time she and I are spending together. When I first began the tapings, she was aware and maybe even a bit reserved, but as time went on, it didn’t matter one bit to her that our words were being recorded —— in fact —— she flew into the house the other day and started telling Tim and me about the happenings at school. She’d spewed a couple sentences and then stopped cold. “You should put the recorder on. You’re gonna want this on tape!”
I want everything on tape.
Her little voice keeps me company at night when I can’t sleep.
Like now.
What’s Next?
I’m not sure. I’ll be putting Blog 63 up when 64 and 65 are completely written and reviewed. So, I might be off-the-grid for a bit.