40. Turn. Turn. Turn. (Part One)
To everything there is a season – a purpose.
Sometimes the season is death — and the purpose is unknown.
This season in my life has been amazingly purposeful. I started writing a blog because I just can’t live the remainder of my life without writing something. And since I’m not able to lay out a bunch of threads for characters to pull later and solve some mystery, I’m keeping things short. And, surprise of all surprises, I’m still writing mysteries because I never really know where my blogs will take me.
What I do know is this, my blog was supposed to give me a creative outlet — and a way to help assemble information that was coming fast and furiously — and to provide a dumping ground for overwhelming emotions.
My blog was supposed to help me — it has become so much more.
The writings about my final journey are touching people in a variety of ways. People I know, and people I’ve never met and will never meet have been reaching out, mostly through email. They are sharing stories about themselves, or about a loved one who went through hospice, or about someone who passed suddenly and without an opportunity to say or hear important messages of love.
Mostly, the people who reach out want to offer support — to me — a complete stranger. The support has come in a variety of ways: the mention of a book someone found helpful, or the link to a music video of a song I mentioned in a blog, or the heartfelt expression of thanks for an acknowledgement I wrote in one of my novels. Universally, those I know and those I do not know have all mentioned or marveled at how strong I am — and how my acceptance has made them think about how they would handle such news — or if they could handle such news.
So, the purpose of this blog is to push into a question I asked myself this morning.
Am I in a state of acceptance or denial?
During the days and weeks between funky blood tests and body scan readings, I told Tim and the girls that if things were really bad I wasn’t going to fight a fight I couldn’t win. I was going to accept the diagnosis and live the life I had left and be grateful for every second of it. Of course, those words were said when I lived in The Land of Ignorance. A lovely corner of the universe where the words, “You have bone cancer from your skull to your knees. You are terminal,” hadn’t yet been spoken.
So while I really had no idea what I’d do when someone lobbed those words my way, it turns out, I did exactly what I said I’d do.
I accepted my reality. I am going to die.
My acceptance WAS NOT without misery. I hurt so badly and wept so powerfully that I could hardly pull air sometimes. I remember the wrap of Tim’s arms and the burying of my head into his chest. I can still feel his tears drip onto the back of my neck as they slipped silently down his cheeks, and his repetitive, “I’m so sorry.”
I remember pushing away from his hold and rambling a list of things I’d be missing out on, and how sorry I was for my family and friends, and how pissed I was that my writing was coming to an abrupt end, and that I’d never see if my books caught on. I remember almost collapsing with worry about my eighty-six-year old mother suffering a profound loss near the end of her life, and about my seven-year-old granddaughter carrying a profound loss for the rest of her life.
And still, I accepted my circumstances.
I think part of my accepting the word ‘terminal’ has to do with what I’d been through all those years ago. The head surgery was big and it definitely felt like a bump against death. The breast cancer crap felt more like a bump in the road in comparison, but it felt serious nonetheless. And though both experiences could have ended very badly, I sort of knew — somewhere deep — that I wasn’t going to die from them.
This go around — I never had any sense of ease,
but I knew from the outset that I’d been blessed.
Reading some of the stories people have shared, has left me with this realization — even though I know how aggressive my cancer is, and how advanced it is, and how brittle my bones are — I am blessed. And even though I know the cancer is spreading to areas where I’ve never felt pain before — I am blessed.
Why?
Look at my blessings through this filter: I’ve been given time to say things and to learn new things — about myself, about those who are reaching out, and about those who are not.
During this time of reflection I’ve come to believe, really believe that I am a very strong woman. I can take a punch, shake it off, and take another. I’ve learned that I can help carry the load for people I love — even if that means I carry my pain in silence, sometimes — even if that means my mother, sister and I hide our true emotions behind happy, chirpy, singsong, “Hellos,” because it’s just too exhausting to do anything else.
At some point, we entered into an informal pact where we protect one another from our heartbreaking feelings — as often as we can.
What else can we do? I don’t want the time we’re sharing to be all about grief — there’ll be time for that when I’m gone — so we chirp our way through talk about the weather and little nonsensical things — then we say, “I love you,” a handful of times before our voices crack and the phones go silent.
I’ve come to learn things about others, too — about people who have the capacity to look beyond themselves and send emails of reintroduction and encouragement, or knock on doors and ask what they can do to help. Many old and new friends have shown genuine expressions of sadness — they have reluctantly accepted my predicament — they have expressed anger that my new little life as an author is being cut short — and they’ve extended promises that my girls will always have a place to go for comfort or guidance. In other words they’ve turned thoughts and love toward someone they are about to lose.
In the dark of night, I remind myself that my time is measured — that I should make every minute count — that I shouldn’t leave this world with unfinished business. I accept that I am going to — I think we all will. There are some difficult conversations that should take place, but I am not pressing into them. Not at this stage of my life — not when there are new areas of pain popping up here and there. Not when reality hangs overhead — (delete: that) things are going to hit the shits, and I’m going to get into the slide toward death. (That’s a whole other blog that’s coming so I’ll move on).
This just happened.
I wanted to put something about regrets, and I wanted to quote a singer and a song as a lead in. I couldn’t find either in my head so I called up to Tim.
“Hey, Tim!”
He came to the top of the stairs. “Yeah?”
“Who’s that singer? The big one who isn’t Bing Crosby.”
“Perry Como?”
Growl – “No! Someone good. And big. And really popular.”
“Como was good.”
“Nope. The big guy. Not Tony Bennett.”
Tim is downstairs now because I’m getting a little pissed. “Big? Can you give me something else to work with?”
Pause. Pause. Pause. “His daughter wore boots.”
Pause. “Nancy Sinatra?” Tim questioned incredulously.
“YES! Frank Sinatra. Thanks.”
I immediately went to the internet to find the song he sings about regrets — BTW, the song is called, My Way and the lines I wanted to use are these.
Regrets, I’ve had a few — but then again, too few to mention — I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption — I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway — And more, much more than this, I did it my way. (Written by Paul Anka)
So I guess my bottom line is this: I do regret there are conversations that won’t take place, but I’ll leave it to others to sort that shit out for themselves.
I’m happy with where I am.
I’ve done many things during my 64 years. I’ve made commitments, set goals, faced challenges, looked beyond myself, and helped others — through small acts of kindness and charitable contributions.
I’ve held jobs that served disenfranchised populations and those in need, and trained as a volunteer counselor for assault victims. I pushed through grief and helped others shoulder the pain of loss, and am now appreciating those who are doing that with me.
Most importantly — I am happy with the life I shared with Tim
and our daughters.
Another little story. Thirty years ago, we purchased our ‘starter home’ — we are still living there. The primary reason we never moved was — education — ours and the girls. Tim always regretted not getting a postgraduate degree, and I always regretted not getting an undergraduate degree. We agreed very early on that helping our girls get a quality education from preschool through college was our top priority.
Right out of high school, I took a couple courses at a community college because the school was located directly across the street from a bank where I’d landed a part-time job in the afternoons/early evenings. In order to afford my dream school — UMass-Amherst, I needed to bank some bucks, so in the meantime I killed a few morning hours taking whatever class was available to non-matriculated students, then played a little pool in the college cafeteria, then took my life into my hands as I bolted across West Boylston Street to the bank’s processing center where, for the next six hours, I canceled checks by typing in account numbers and check amounts in batches of thousands. It was blindingly monotonous work, but I did it because it was part of the master plan.
Things became different after my parents’ divorce and I needed to get a full-time job. I landed a really good one as executive assistant to two V.P.s at Hanover Insurance. I had stellar secretarial skills and carried myself with confidence, and I was very well read, knowing just enough to carry on conversations with individuals on the upper-floors of life — though I admit I didn’t know enough about anything to whoop Donna Rosetti’s ass in the pie game. An obvious sore spot, I guess.
As soon as I began pulling in some good money, my priorities changed. I ignored the call of higher education and honed in on how the business world functioned and how I could use that knowledge to get a little further up the stepladder of success.
Back in the day, in certain industries, experience combined with a go-get-em attitude was as valuable as a college degree. So, my new plan was to play up the skills I had, learn what skills I needed to have, and figure out a way to get them. I worked for a few years for the insurance V.P.s, going from a green-behind-the-ears support staffer playing dress up and mimicking seasoned professionals, to a bona fide executive assistant who ran the professional lives for the V.P. of Personal Lines and V.P. of Commercial Lines at a major insurance carrier.
During my leisure time, I wrote greeting cards for two very different companies; Blue Mountain Arts, a lovey-dovey company all about the pastels of life, and for a company that catered to the more vulgar side of life. These two companies were the perfect combo for Yours Truly — sweet and smut, a natural fit, thank you very much.
I left Hanover to work for an insurance agency that specialized in malpractice insurance, learned everything there was to learn, then applied for a job in the risk management department at UMass hospital — a job that required a bachelor’s degree and was a stretch for me to land on a good day. I talked up my experience and convinced the human resources rep into submitting my resume. I received a call from the director of the department, went for an interview and landed the job.
My puzzle-piece on-the-job experience + teach yourself what you need to know attitude — paid off rather well.
While I was doing all that, I volunteered at city and state democratic campaign offices because I was a budding political junkie back then — I’m a full-fledged one now.
And. While. I. Did. That. — I. Did. This.
I spent nearly all of my free time attending concerts. You name them, I’ve seen them — although the ones that got away were Queen, Bowie, and The Rolling Stones. That’s pretty much it. I saw all the biggies and those hoping to become biggies.
In the 70s and 80s I remember taking an occasional day off from work to sit on the damned phone hoping my call would be answered by some ticket-mastering agent before the much sought-after seats were filled. I always purchased 2 tickets because someone in my circle of friends would be down for whatever concert was being held from Maine to Pennsylvania and any state between. My friends and I considered ourselves ‘roadies’ because we’d drive anywhere for a good show. On many occasions, I bought someone else’s 2nd ticket and was introduced to soon-to-be superstars like Bonnie Raitt, and the multi-talented Charlie Sexton who went on to open for David Bowie’s Glass Spider Tour, to which I was unable to get tickets.
Okay, back to the point of this blog — if there is one. It’s amazing how my mind is working — or not working — depending on your perspective. In the middle of a thought, I’ll find myself who the eff knows where. I’m pretty good at staying focused during conversations, so long as no one interrupts my sentence. (Hellooooo Tim! Please read this and stop interrupting. Thank you, kindly). And texting is fine because of the short nature of things, although I got dragged into a game of I Spy with Joyce McTigue the other day that was absolutely the best time. She took a wide-angle shot of her living room and typed a brief description of something on display.
Then. I. Had. To. Find. It.
It was an absolute hoot of a time.
I’m down for a game with anyone.
I’ve got lots of time on my hands!
Anyway, I just scrolled to the top to find out what this blog is about and found that it is about finding purpose and counting blessings.
That’s so nice.
I’m going to spend a few minutes pulling a thread on the blessings of our girls — the ones who began draining our financial coffers in junior high and continued through their college years. We made sure they carried part of the load of their higher education by taking federal loans, and they needed to apply for scholarships, and earn money for books and supplies, but Tim and I did the heavy financial lifting.
The girls are both very happy in their chosen professions, and are drawing strength from friends and one another. They are with me often, and come running when I need something or am having a tough go of it. What more could a mother ask for? Nothing.
Overall, Tim’s and my life consisted of a series of lean years where we robbed Peter to pay Paul, and less than lean years when we lived it up with an extra vaca in Wells.
Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful are creatures of habit.
No questions. Full stop.
Tim and I ultimately did what we set out to do — we lived in a home that we were proud of and comfortable in, and we put our money where our mouths were as far as education was concerned — we explained the value of higher education to our girls, told them our regrets at cutting our educations short, and then we helped pay for theirs when they took our advice to go places and learn things.
AND even though there were lean years, we always managed to dig our toes into the sand once a year at Wells — our nonnegotiable. We might not have stayed an entire week, but we got there.
A little diversion. I suck at math. Mr. Wonderful knew that from the get-go, but for whatever reason, we put me in charge of household finances. Tim was working very long hours supporting a family of four, so he threw caution to the wind and let the female version of Jethro Bodine have at it — so long as bills were paid on time and checks didn’t bounce I would remain in the role of debit and credit mistress of the family.
My system. Write a check for $15.45, subtract $20.00 from the register. Write a check for $70.01, subtract $80.00 from the register. Back in the day, everything was done by checks, so there was a lot of extra money going into the account. Now, let’s look at why I did this.
Reason #1: Sheryll Bodine.
Reason #2: I’d never bounce a check cause there’d be extra funds to cover it.
Reason #3: I’d always have spending money saved for our trip to Wells. Two weeks before we packed the RAV to head All Points Maine, I’d close out the bank account flush with Bodine funds, and open a new one for the following year of Sheryll’s effed up math program. Say what you will, but we were always flush with spending money for Wells.
Don’t judge the sick one, okay?
And, as for Mr. Wonderful, he bit his tongue, shook his head, and stuffed his pockets with vaca bucks that his wacky wife squirreled away.
Life was good back then. Surprisingly to some, life is good now, too. I’m counting my riches in very different ways because they are showing themselves in very different ways.