41. Turn. Turn. Turn. (Part Two)
To everything there is a season — a purpose.
Sometimes the season is living — and the purpose is unknown.
Reconnecting with friends
You know I’ve reconnected with Debbie and Jennifer, and I mentioned that Debbie heard about me from her daughter, Amanda, who was besties with my daughter, Hannah, all through grade school. Amanda has become a texting pal recently, and I appreciate getting her texts, her little ‘Amanda’ personality pops through each one. Anyway, proximity played a major role in Debbie’s stopping by the day she learned about my situation. So, for our reconnection, it required a B. BB. D. K. strategy: Blog, Banana Bread, Determination, Knock on the front door. Easy-peasy.
She said she mulled whether she should just do it, or make a call first, or think about this or that first. Bottom line for her was that she’d have to pass my home to get to hers to do the calling or the thinking. Ultimately, Debbie did what felt right and she stopped and knocked. And it was sooooo right for me. I needed to see her face even if it’d only be for that one visit.
She’s been back to visit a couple of times (once with a carrot cake in tow — amazing), and it has been like old times. Shooting the shit with someone who knows tons about me let us slip right back into the familiar give-and-take of comfortable conversations — and given the circumstances, we have shared a few moments of choked-back tears.
See, I’m still living.
Jennifer used a computer to reconnect, but I recently asked her for specifics on the where and the why for. Two caveats before I begin:
1) the Irish One does a rapid-fire-brogue-speak-thing that requires some rapt attention and quick deciphering on my part. On a good day, it’s a challenge, and now — I’m quite sure I’m only getting a smattering of ‘facts’ from she who spews; and
2) assembling and keeping ‘facts’ straight from anyone is not currently my strong suit. I’m gonna give it a whack though, and she can correct me if need be — although I’m not sure I’ll understand any of it any better.
Jennifer said that over the years she’d looked for me on FB with no success. I had a FB page under the name Anne Hobson which wouldn’t have meant a hill of beans to her or anyone else, really. Anne is my middle name and Hobson Avenue was the street I grew up on. I used the name/street formula of choosing a fictitious name because of Whoopie Goldberg.
The comedienne was asked once how she got her name. She said it was common practice for strippers and other performers to use their middle name and their childhood street as their ‘stage’ name, so Whoopie gave it a go. She said the process failed her because her stage name would have ended up being Elaine Martin Luther King Boulevard — obviously a schtick, but I gave the process a whirl for my pen name: Anne Hobson. When it came time to publish, it dawned on me that I wanted to see my name, Sheryll O’Brien, on the spine of a book, so I kicked Anne to the Hobson Avenue curb.
I didn’t really care about amassing friends when I had Anne Hobson’s FB, I only ever used it to occasionally snoop on my daughters’ lives, (hi, Hannah and Jessica, tsk, tsk, tsk) and to learn a bit about social media for a book I was dabbling at years ago.
Anyway, back to Jennifer’s dogged pursuit. She is FB friends with someone from the Columbus Park neighborhood where I grew up. I’ll call him Mike because I haven’t seen this guy in forty years, and he may not want to be dragged into this saga. Anyway, Mike became FB friends with Jennifer, and he was also FB friends with Tim’s best friend, Kevin Mullaney, who now resides in New Mexico.
Jennifer and Kevin don’t know one another from a hole in the wall, BUT Kevin put up a FB post about me and Mike saw it and shared it. Jennifer finally hit paydirt when she saw the unusual spelling of my name magically appear on her feed. She happily pulled the thread, which brought her to my website, where she learned about my illness. Within the beat of a saddened heart, she took to email and gave each of us the gift of reconnection.
She’s been back to visit a couple of times, and it has been just what I needed. We slipped right back into the familiar give-and-take, and have shared some tears of sorrow and of laughter. The other day, there was a lot of laughter. I’ve found that I, the dying woman in the room, gets to push a few envelopes. Like this.
I handed a child’s book to Jennifer and asked her to read it to me. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the book, The Wonky Donkey, I’d like you to take a minute (4:17) and go to a search engine and type in: “Scottish woman reading Wonky Donkey YouTube.” Watch the video and meet me back here.
Four minutes seventeen seconds later.
That’s what it was like when Jennifer consented to my request to read me a little something on her most recent visit.
See, I’m still living. Though I nearly died from laughter.
Making deeper friendships.
Joyce McTigue lived across the street from me for thirty years. We’ve chit-chatted about grade school happenings, and laughed at our kids’ Halloween costumes, and commiserated when our kids got sick — or in her case when Michael got poison something or other one summer, and when he broke his collarbone sledding, and cut his foot skating, and God only knows what else. The poor kid had a run of really bad luck — and his mom suffered along with him.
I don’t have a clue why I remember that stuff — and for the record, there’s a very good chance none of that happened. Things are getting weird in my head — I’m forgetting a lot of things, and I’m struggling with finding words, while I’m speaking and writing, and my penmanship sucks now.
There’s been a recent addition of new catch-all phrases in the household because I just can’t find the right word. The other morning when I wanted a piece of toast I said, “Jess, can you get me a whosy-whatsy, you know the … the … the bread thingamabob.” Don’t know why I’m channeling Ariel, or how Jessica manages to get whatever it is I’m wanting, but she does.
And I have a story about a unicorn that I’ll save for another blog that will illustrate a new weirdness in the noggin. Not to worry, I’ve written a note to myself so I’ll remember to write about it. I’ve got a stack of notes about blogs I want to write, but the actual writing of them is taking more and more time to do — maybe because I’m writing too many notes. And when the blogs are written they’re taking more and more time to proof.
The problem — I’ll be saying the words I intend to write in my head — and after each paragraph I go back and read the text. Honestly, the stuff on the screen is gibberish sometimes. I’m going to do a blog and leave a paragraph or two the way they come out, so you all can see that the old brain is on a slippery slope. It pains me when I see bits of myself chipping away, especially my ability to write intelligibly, but I’m doing what I can, cleaning it up as best I can, and finding occasional humor where I can.
I should probably have Nurse M read this — you know, in case I forget to tell her.
Anyway, I totally digress — I scrolled up a bit to get my bearings. I was writing about Making Deeper Friendships, so back at it.
Joyce was dealt one emotional blow after another in a very short span of time a few years back. Mr. Wonderful and I often remarked about her strength, and wondered how she put one foot in front of the other, day after day, without complaint and always offered a neighborly smile and wave. We knew damned well her journey was difficult, for herself, and for those who leaned heavily against her for the support they needed. And yet she rose to the challenge of dealing with loved ones lost and the grief left in their place.
Now that I’m terminal, this woman is offering herself in so many kind ways — knowing full-well that she’ll be losing me, too. She’s pushing in when she very well could be running away. She sends pics and videos of beaches, and from celebrations we both attended over the years, and she’s called often to give me a safe outlet for something I might want to say.
Best part, Joyce shocked me to my skivvies when she said this, “I’m fucking sick and tired of death and dying.” That was the first time I ever heard this lovely woman swear. It was a profound experience for me. I could f.e.e.l. those words deep to my core — they were alive with raw honesty.
See, I’m still living.
There are other women with whom I am building deeper relationships at this late stage in the game — and I am so grateful. These women are courageously navigating unsure footing after having life-altering surgeries, cancer diagnoses, and strokes.
I’ve been surprised to learn how much these extraordinary women endured. Sadly, I’m not surprised to learn they kept things bottled up — about their fears and insecurities about who they are — and the deep sense of loss over who they were.
I remember those things, especially the feeling of loss over who I used to be. The fun mommy. The one who had neighborhood kids in her house and yard all the time, the one who hosted themed sleepovers on the living room floor or in pop-up tents on the deck, so the kids could use the slider when they’d had enough of outdoor noises and wanted the familiarity of the living room floor. The home goddess. The one who kept a reasonably clean and orderly home, the one who worked hard in ‘her’ garden, the one who crocheted and did needlepoint long into the night. The hopeful writer. The one who typed words into a clunky, old, desktop word processor then printed pages of crap so family and friends could read them. God love them.
A digression. I am a storyteller. I can take a reader from here to there and keep their interest. BUT that does not mean I was 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!
Back to the women who have battled and who have won the game of Life — though it is very different from the life they were living. Every person going into surgery, or for treatments, or who survives a catastrophic event knows they will be different — but what that truly means — what it looks like and feels like — lives somewhere in the abstract — the place of unknowns, the place where there is hope just beyond the fear.
And when you become one of the lucky ones, the ones who make it through, the ones who beat ALL of the odds, it’s hard to utter ANY words that may be interpreted as being ungrateful. So, you suffer the insecurities in silence, and you mourn who you used to be in silence, and then you offer to the universe your gratitude that you’re still alive because, after all, you get to carve out a new place for yourself — while you get to watch the people you know and love carry on with who they are.
I mentioned to one of the remarkable women who is pushing through and moving on in spite of her heavy load and uncertain road that, “It’s tough to keep a tough woman down.”
Her reply was succinct and spot-on, “We’ve always known that, haven’t we?”
Indeed!
Another digression is needed — for me — maybe not for you, but since you’re along for the ride, we’re heading someplace new. The other night I watched a Hallmark movie — this time I actually watched it. I’m not sure of the title, but the female lead was an overly organized, semi-tightly-wound woman who’d just turned thirty. One of her gifts was a time capsule her mother put together before her death and buried in a flower garden in the backyard. The gift wasn’t to be opened until the daughter’s big 3-0. In typical Hallmark fashion the young woman opened the gift while bathed in bright sunshine, whilst birds sang gloriously, and her loving father sat nearby solemnly paying witness to the moment. Inside the shiny, chrome cylinder were several items from the woman’s childhood, and a stack of ribbon-tied envelopes that held six challenges.
Observation/suggestion: Hallmark needs to do some work on authentication. If I ever wrote a scene where a woman dug through a garden and pulled a long ago buried time capsule from a bed of soil, and it was in pristine, spit-shiny condition, my editor, The Warden, would have sweetly suggested I dirty the thing up.
Anyway, back to the story — not the original one — but the side story — maybe the second side story. Who knows at this point. So, anyway one of the challenges for this thirty-year-old woman was to find something she was afraid of doing, and do it. In other words the mom wanted her daughter to face her fears.
With the encouragement of a guy she JUST met, they drove to some big-ass remote mountain where there was a long-ass suspension bridge over rocky terrain and a rushing river hundreds of feet below. For reference, the bridge looked like MacGyver constructed it out of popsicle sticks and gimp.
Anyway, the dude started walking across the bridge, leaving the terrified woman to inch after him in tortoise-like pursuit. While she was edging along, death-gripping the sides, she was singing, London Bridge is Falling Down.
I looked at Mr. Wonderful with one hairy eyebrow raised, tilted my head leftward and sneered. He instantly knew I was readying for a tangent and I’d be dragging his unwilling ass along with me.
“Okay,” I began. “Who the eff would sing THAT song? She’s terrified about walking the bridge, so she chooses a song about a bridge falling down. That crap would have brought a pant and a glisten to The Warden.”
He laughed because he loves that my editor, Andria, is this sweet, refined, Texan woman — who banged hard against his determined, foul mouthed, storyteller, and still threw herself all-in with the person whose initials are SOB.
Hellooooo — SOB — how utterly delightful!
Anyway — back to the conversation about bridge songs.
“If you wrote this scene, what song would she be singing?” the dude played along.
“Bridge Over Troubled Waters — nope — nope — I would have gone all Cher with her and had her belt out a few lines of, If I Could Turn Back Time, or maybe Strong Enough, or SOS.” (Yes, Cher did a cover of an ABBA song and it’s the bomb). “And furthermore, there’s absolutely NO woman who’s terrified of bridges who would have gotten onto that bridge unless there was a loaded gun pointed in her direction. And furthermore, going off with some random dude to God-only-knows-where SHOULD satisfy the challenge of doing something you’re afraid of doing — and something that’s recklessly stupid — just in case that’s one of the unopened envelope challenges.”
He laughed. He waited for more.
“And for fuck’s sake, just once I’d like Hallmark to shake things up and have the woman say, “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I’m not walking across that damned MacGyver bridge for anyone, including my dead mother.”
For the record, Hannah and Jessica —
I won’t be leaving you any challenges — you’ll have enough.
AND please keep your asses off of suspension bridges.
Okay, getting back to ……. I just did a shoulder shrug and a bit more upward scrolling. Ah, women who I’m deepening bonds with — a sister-in-law on Tim’s side and one on my side.
Family friendships.
Kathy Gaffney is easily an enviable woman — in a myriad of ways. She’s the female half of a gorgeous couple. She’s tall, thin, fashionably cutting edge, has a recognizable and readily used laugh, and she owns the room when she enters it. She’s retired now (very early retirement), but she’s still all of those things.
Kathy worked for many years as an ER nurse and is enjoying her retirement going wherever she and her husband, Tommy, feel like going — which is often far, far away from the pack of 973 OBs. Coincidence/Plan, you decide.
Anyway, the off-duty nurse can effortlessly flip a switch from, “I got that bottle of wine in Italy,” to “Hold my glass,” at the sound of anyone in distress. While NONE of the normal people heard anything to raise concern, the well-honed 9-1-1 receptors of Nurse Kathy were already on high alert. She’d be on her feet in search of a kid with a sliver in a finger, or God forbid someone in real medical trouble — the other 972 of us would carry on by passing the salad tongs. Meanwhile, Kathy would be stripping off the fashionable scarf she bought on the streets of Milan — or wherever — and using it as a tourniquet.
Kathy has received more than her fair share of calls from worried siblings and siblings-in-law about every medical situation known to man, woman, and child. And when Tim and I were unsure of something medical, we’d unison, “Ask Kathy.”
Anyway, I knew all of my sisters-in-law on Tim’s side as well as I could living a secretive-semi-agoraphobic life for the past couple decades. ***** I can’t tell you how freeing it is for me that people can understand now that I wasn’t intentionally being antisocial, I just couldn’t bring myself to socialize face-to-face, not without a lot of mental prepping and heart palpitations. Hand me a phone and I’ll talk myself hoarse, but up close and personal was up close and uncomfortable.
From my very first call about the funky alk phos, Kathy and I became close. I think we both knew there wasn’t going to be a ton of time, so we’d better get on with it. From Day One, she was on her medical game — asking just the right questions, and explaining things in a way I could understand — even when the information was scary and overwhelming — and let’s face it, all of the information was scary and overwhelming.
And when the daily barrage of incoming slowed a bit, she gave me a little space. Keep in mind, this shit fest started on October 18th and by early November I went from delightful ignorance to, “Oh, my God. I’m dying.” She called every one of those days, probably knowing where things were heading, but helping me inch my way toward the place where I could handle the news that was surely coming.
Kathy calls every week now, and if something more urgent is happening she calls every day. She does all of that because of who she is by nature and nurture, but she also does that because she cares deeply for me — Sheryll — the person — not just her sister-in-law.
There have been countless times when her words of sorrow for me are lost in her emotion. Her pride at how I’m handling this is almost motherly, and her sincere joy at hearing me say, “I’m having a really good day,” is exhaled on a sigh of relief — or maybe gratitude that her prayers are still being answered.
Kathy Gaffney is all-in with me. I need and want her to be, but it’s hard for me knowing the toll it’s taking and will take on her. She’s come to know me — really know me, without the pretense of superficial relationships. I no longer need to be anything more than what I am at this very minute. Today is all that matters — it’s all I’m certain of.
When Kathy visited before leaving for her three month vacation to Florida, we hugged and said the ‘L’ word. It’s the first time we’ve said that face-to-face. I truly believe neither of us said it that day because that visit might be our last time together. We said it because we feel it.
Kathy called yesterday. She and Tommy are driving to Florida and were somewhere beyond Virginia. I asked how her hip was handling the long ride, and she asked how I’m feeling and listened to a long story about my very bad weekend (I’ll explain it in an upcoming blog). When we ended our call, I told her that I plan on being here when she gets back from vacation.
She agreed wholeheartedly that I will be.
So, that’s that.
Denise Sneade. My brother met the tall, brunette, mini-hurricane of a woman when he lived in the western part of Massachusetts. In my mind things went like this — they met and they whisked off to live in Rome, Georgia. They staked their claim, built their dream home, cultivated acres of land, and turned into the Clampetts minus the oil strike.
Within minutes of arriving in the Peach State, Denise had a southern accent. Amazingly, it didn’t feel fake, like that time when Madonna slapped on a British accent after living in London for a hot minute. Or how I’d sound if I tried to mimic the Irish One by adding a misplaced turn of Gaelic-speak. I can’t even begin to imagine what a mess that would be. As for Denise, the southern drawl is as natural as if she’d been born in Georgia. I figure it’s because she was meant to live in Georgia — that Godforsaken, sweatbox, land of chiggers. Oops, did I type that part out loud — yeup and I’m leaving it.
So, back to Denise. Everything about her is circular. She moves about in a circular fashion — she’s there, then she’s over there, then she’s hovering God knows where — and all of the movement is done in a silent Tasmanian Devil-esque twirl and swirl.
Denise is rail-thin, but she’s sexy in a sporty sort of way. I don’t think an ounce of fat has found her bones — ever. And I think it’s because she doesn’t sit her ass down long enough for anything to find her, let alone stick to her. She is one of those delightfully unaffected women — she is who she is, wears what she likes, doesn’t bother with fitting in — so, she just does.
She’s a damned hard worker, and she’s what employers seek — someone who’s neat, flexible, and relaxed. When her boss asked her to stay an extra hour — no prob. When her boss said he moved the company an hour and a half away from Rome — no prob. Denise is quick to decide if things fit in her life — if they do, then there’s no problem, and there’s no bellyaching, and not a whole lot of cussing. At least I never heard it — but I admit we hadn’t been closey-close all these years.
Sheryll O’Brien and Denise Sneade were leading very different lives. I was living in Massachusetts where we tend not to enunciate the letter ‘R,’ and she was living in Georgia where they tend to turn a monosyllabic word into a forty-second word. Case in point, “Doooooooooooooooooooon’s sittin by the fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire.” In the early days of their relocation I was paying by-the-minute for long distance calls, so I wasn’t making many of themmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Denise can do lots of things, but what she can really do is cook. When she says she’s making the redneck we both love a filet mignon, or baby-back ribs, or prime rib, I believe her. BUT consider this: she was genetically gifted in the culinary area of the DNA strand associated with appliances, so she could very well pass squirrel or possum off as finer cuisine.
No matter what Doooooooooooooooooooon feels like eating, Denise will cook it, and it will be beyond edible. For those edging toward the fallacy that if you can read a recipe and set temps on an oven, you can be a culinary whiz — don’t bother going there.
I can read and set temps — but I can’t cook like Denise Sneade.
Now for the other circle of Denise. When you get on the phone with her, it’s like hopping blind-ass drunk onto a merry-go-round and tossing your drunk ass onto a semi-affixed horse that’s rising and falling out of sync with the other equines.
Denise will start a convo, stick with it for a handful of seconds, take a sharp right onto a semi-related subject, then a hard left onto some other tract, then take a final right and left that brings you back full circle. That’s the go-round part of the merry-go-round conversational style of Mrs. Sneade.
The other part is the never-ending word creations she does. Denise makes up words as she goes along, and you just have to figure out the correct ones. It’s a challenge — what with the whole southern drawl and all.
Okay, I need to say something to Andria — The Warden. Stop laughing and rolling your eyes. I am fully aware that I am the kettle calling out the pot here — but when I make up words, they shouldn’t have to be made up — ‘unisoned’ should be a verb — and furthermore, there have really only been a handful of words you let slide, and creating words is an endearing part of my writing style, and I could go on and on and on. I won’t, I’ll simply say that Denise’s communication style is equally endearing.
See, I’m still living.
New friendships.
Josephine Power, the daughter of Mr. Power (my high school teacher), emailed me to express how happy she and her siblings were to learn about the acknowledgement I wrote about her dad. She pushed in on how she could absolutely see him doing and saying the things I wrote.
She mentioned her long-standing relationship with Phil McTigue, and mentioned a dear friend who went through recent brain surgery and was readying for a series of treatments. And just like that — we were off and running. In a rapid series of emails, we learned and shared more about ourselves than I know about lots and lots of people I supposedly ‘know’.
Aside from learning about a really interesting person — there were lessons for me. I learned that all it takes for two people to get to know one another is a willingness to open up. Not incrementally, not guardedly, just freely. I guess I no longer need to care what people think of me — I only need to be my authentic self — that happens to be the person who’s dying, so you all might as well know who the hell I am.
For Jo Power, a woman I’ve never met, I think she’s a perfect example of living her life the way she wants to. She threw herself out there to a total stranger with an easy attitude of — this is me, wanna play? I’ve decided she’s a genuine individual, one who knows who she is right down to her core. There is absolutely no pretense with her — no hedging when she wants to know something about me or my illness. No matter what she asks, it feels like it comes from a place of genuine curiosity, and a desire to learn in case she can help in some way.
And she has, in very ordinary, and in extraordinary ways. The topic of her dad’s obituary came up in an email because I used parts in a recent blog. I told her I was working with my family on writing my obituary — Tim, Hannah and Jessica, Mom, and Donnie and Marjorie all wrote something — but I wanted to have the last thing written about me — to be written by me.
Weird, I know, but whatever.
Anyway, Jo said she and her sister worked on their dad’s obit and that she/they would be happy to proof and/or edit mine. Nancy and Andria read the piece for accuracy and mechanics — see how wonderful they are — but both admitted they didn’t ‘know’ anything about where I live and how things of this nature are presented. I thought about asking someone close to me, but that felt really weird and unnecessarily painful. So, I went all-in, with a complete stranger, and sent her my obit. She made assurances that she’d share it with no one — and I believe her. I call that ‘freedom’ — and it feels wonderful.
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.
See, I’m still living. Renewing friendships.
Deepening friendships. Making new friendships.