51. Unleashing Memories — For Others
I have said it more than once — my end of life ‘flash of memories’ is more akin to a slow motion slideshow. Images appear then click away — followed in time by another image. There has been no urgency, no rapid-fire succession of pictures, no movie reel on fast forward. For now, it appears I’m on a slow-motion-move toward death.
Fingers crossed!
So far, I’d say I’ve had a really great end-of-life experience. Let’s face it, my body is a mess — my skeleton is a mess — my internal organs are another story. As of November, my body scan showed no cancer involvement — heart, lungs, liver — zero, zip, zilch — intestines, kidneys, bladder — no, nope, nada. The projected life expectancy of Sheryll O’Brien back then was six months, provided I didn’t break anything.
So far, so good.
For those of you who have been following along since the beginning, you’ll remember my prayerful mantra since Day One was to be given no more than I could handle. My prayers have sooooo been answered — I CAN HANDLE THIS — I am handling this. Still, dying is difficult work. Living while you are in the process of dying is difficult, too — but if you’re a writer with hours and hours to kill, and you have to kill it while sitting on your ass, and you have a laptop computer, and a few of your faculties are still intact — then I ask you this very important question.
Could my non-walk toward death be any more perfect?
No, it could not be.
At the risk of sounding greedy, I’m going to throw this out there — no matter the pain, physical and emotional — no matter the lashing to the leather, day and night — no matter the inability to grab a glass of water or a solitary trip to pee — I want my six months. I want every single day, hour, and minute of the optimistic life expectancy I got a few months ago.
Funny, my death sentence feels optimistic now.
Back then — not so much.
Perspective makes all the difference!
To that end, I’m doing the two things that will keep me alive for as many of those days, hours, and minutes as possible — I’m taking handfuls of pills around the clock to manage my pain and fluid on the brain, and, and, and — and I’m sitting my ass in a chair 24/7.
24/7. Since December 1, 2021. If it sounds daunting, it is.
Here’s a challenge. Sit down and plan on sitting there for one day. Now, don’t move. If the doorbell rings — ignore it. If you want a snack — wait until someone you live with walks through the room and ask for one. If you want to breathe in some fresh air — wait until someone you live with opens a window for you. And how about that blanket across the room that you’d really like because you’re cold from air pushing in through the window that’s still cracked a bit — but everyone is asleep. Should you wake them, or can you wait until you need to pee and kill two birds with one stone? And when you need to pee, don’t forget to call your slumbering mate to come downstairs and escort you — even if it’s 2 AM. And before you get tucked back in make sure the groggy-eyed monster gets the remote or mouse you dropped hours ago so that when you can’t fall asleep you can watch television or play a computer game.
No Kathy, not Wordle or Nerdle.
A game. You know, something FUN.
Breaking News: CIA to use Wordle and Nerdle instead of waterboarding as a new interrogation technique.
Just sayin.
Okay, I’m back to the point of this ramble, and apparently we’re talking about going pee. Whatever! Anyway, it’s the middle of the night and you don’t need to pee, so you don’t disturb your loved ones for the window and the blanket, ergo, you don’t get the remote or the mouse either, ergo, you’ll have no choice but to sit and think. And think. And think. That’s when most of my memories come — that’s really what the ‘flashing of your life’ is — it’s your memories being released. For me, they are ones I didn’t even realize had made the grade of becoming a memory — weddings, the arrival of a baby, the loss of a loved one, those are easy memories for us to find. These end of life memories are way more esoteric and way better.
To date, my memories are of good times and nice conversations. A recent memory was of my father-in-law, Patrick-Terrence-Francis O’Brien and me sitting in a small den off Mary O’Brien’s kitchen. Grand Central Station, a mere ten feet away, was in full swing that fall afternoon. The den, on the other hand, was full of hopeful tension. Papa and I were watching a Red Sox game — a 1986 World Series playoff game. The patriarch of the OB clan was a Red Sox enthusiast — but he was also a realist — one who cautioned his new daughter-in-law not to get her hopes up. Sage advice coming from the man who waited year after year after year for the team to break the curse and win a damned series.
I, on the other hand, am a Red Sox romantic — a girl who loses the ability to reason the minute her boys of summer take their places in the infield or outfield, on the mound or behind the plate. I believe wholeheartedly, every year, that this is going to be our year. Worse than that, I am one of those who thinks she somehow dictates what happens during the game. If my team is winning, I DO NOT move from my seat for fear I’ll shift momentum. So, on that afternoon in 1986, one of us was sitting back and enjoying the game — one of us was leaning forward, legs in motion, hands sweating, and heart palpitating — because she needed to pee and refused to go.
In 1986, the Sox came thisclose to winning it all. Thisclose means squat in the game of life and baseball. The team, my team, lost to the Mets in the seventh game. I took the loss hard, Papa took it in stride. I pushed from my seat in a huff, “Bunch of heartbreaking bums,” I might have said.
To which he definitely replied, “You’re a corker, Mrs. O’Brien.” I’ll never forget the words because it was the first time I’d been referred to as a corker, and it was the first time Patrick-Terrence-Francis O’Brien called me Mrs. O’Brien.
That recent memory brought a smile to my face and filled me with comfort.
Isn’t that just wonderful!
Before adding the steroid to my pharmaceutical intake — best decision, ever! — the slideshow in my head was all over the place — and my blog writing reflected that. I sort of remember doing quite a bit of rambling and scrolling up and down to find out what I was rambling about. I don’t read my blogs once they are posted, so I’m doing this bit of memory recall from a time when I had no memory recall to speak of. My writing now is sort of a brain dump experience.
I’m okay with that.
My ‘life passing snippets’ come from wherever they’ve been stored all these years — a song might trigger one or two — my brother might unleash something during a conversation — my mother and Marjorie have triggered many because for weeks they’ve been going through boxes and boxes of photographs from my childhood. Their scavenger hunt in the basement and attic unearthed a treasure trove of things that date back to when my mother was a little girl living in Shelburne County, Nova Scotia. I’m going to tell you a bit about my mother. I’m not going to ask her for any help, so I may miss the mark on accuracy, but her story will be here.
Ruth Shirley Thomas
The blonde, blue-eyed girl of four or five held onto her older brother’s hand at the graveside of their father, Clark Robin Thomas. With them was their mother, Ruth Hannah Lyle Thomas, a woman in her mid-twenties, a widow in her mid-twenties.
The young family of four lived along the shore of the Bay of Fundy, a body of water between the mainland of Canada and the peninsula of Nova Scotia. The family was young and beginning to settle in for the long-haul, and then their lives were changed, forever. Clark Robin Thomas, a tall, strapping, red haired, bearded fisherman died hundreds of miles away from the waters surrounding his homestead. A good provider for his lot, Clark fished the coast of Canada three seasons of the year, then headed to Massachusetts during the coldest and most brutal months to work as a ship hand for a wealthy Worcester industrialist. I’m not sure how the connection between the two men came about, but each year Clark Thomas would leave his family behind and head to the States for a few months — it was in Worcester that he became ill with pneumonia and died.
It is said his widow, my grandmother, Meme, went temporarily blind from the shock of the news. Within a matter of weeks, the body of Clark Robin Thomas was escorted back to Nova Scotia by an employee of the Worcester industrialist. A handful of years later, the employee, Tom Duquette, married the young Canadian widow and moved her and her two children to the States, to live in the home that would one day become my childhood home.
A quick sidestep: One Sunday night, Donnie and I were talking about my plans for my funeral-that’s-not-really-a-funeral, but more like an open-house gathering.
“I’m keeping things simple,” I said. “There will be a milling about at the funeral home where people can take a look at some pictures and some of the things I’ve mentioned in my blogs, the Irish cable-stitch blanket Mom made me and the tablecloth from Hell I made her, and after a few words from Father Dude, and a eulogy by you and Donna, there will be a quick procession up and around the Lovell Street rotary, a quick pass by our childhood home and a quarter of a mile later, people can storm the Knights of Columbus hall for a party.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said with a catch in his voice.
The girl from 01603 is leaving her earthly home via that zip code.
Donnie thought it was great that we’d be passing the handyman’s special we grew up in. After a few minutes of my waxing poetic of the barn red house with white trim and pretty rose bushes outside the kitchen window, he said, “I don’t know who the hell built that house, but there wasn’t a damned 90 degree angle in that place. There wasn’t a wall that was straight, or a single corner that met. It was like someone threw a pile of lumber in the backyard and a gust of wind whipped the wood into a house.”
“And insulated it with newspaper,” I scoffed. “What the eff was that about? Behind the walls, there was newspaper, nothing else. What. The. Eff?”
“Damned miracle the tinderbox didn’t burst into flames.”
“I used to pull newspapers out from behind a baseboard and read them.”
“Jesus.”
Back to the story of my mother’s new life in America. On her first day of school, she met a girl named Margaret McKim, and the two embarked upon a lifelong friendship. Peggy passed away a handful of years ago, but she’s alive and kicking in my memories. I could always bring that woman to a fit of laughter, and that is what accompanies my memories of Peggy — her laugh, her wonderful laugh.
A wonderful windfall of the trips I take down memory lane is this: people have read my blogs and have fallen in step with me. And yes, we have arrived at the point of this blog.
Unleashing Memories — For Others
I received a text a few weeks ago from my niece, Kerrianne Barreto, née Hanlon. The young mother of three and busy nurse wanted to know if we could FaceTime. She heard her brother, Matt and his son, Shaun, spent time with me via that technology, and she wanted in. We scheduled our chit-chat for a Wednesday morning after her older two children were dropped off at preschool, and during a time she felt her youngest boy, Charlie, might nap or quietly play with his toes, or whatever.
Anyway, I was beyond thrilled when I saw the pretty, vivacious blonde on my cell phone. The thing about Kerrianne is this, she lights up the space she fills. She’s bright — like a little glare of sunshine when she enters an area. As such, you respond the way you would on a nice sunny day — you smile.
We had an awesome circuitous conversation about life as an OB (her mom, Noreen, is Tim’s sister. She is the owner of Breens Café and the Sam Malone of Cambridge Street — everybody knows her name).
Kerrianne said she got the biggest kick out of the blog about Mary O’Brien’s kitchen and the wall hanging with the walnut shells with each OB kid’s name on it. She said she hadn’t thought about that in years.
I told her that her dad used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen every Sunday, which amazed me then, and amazed her now. And we talked about Covid, and what being a nurse during these sad times means to her.
And then the conversation turned to me — she wanted the latest skivvy on my hospice visit and vitals and whether I was still Stable Mabel — and she smiled that Kerrianne smile when I exclaimed that I was. Then she marveled — lamented is probably a better word — at the whole stealthiness of metastatic breast cancer (yes, I know stealthiness is not a word, Andria, but it should be — I’ll be damned, it is a word. Go figure).
After that bit of go around, we got down to serious business — my blog. She’s been reading, and she’s been enjoying it — but, she took exception with my proclamation that I make the best lasagna. She didn’t belabor the point — probably because I’m on a time limit and shit, but she pressed in a bit about her hubby’s lasagna.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I got a text on Super Bowl Sunday.
Kerrianne: I’m dropping some food on the front step.
I leaned forward to look out my picture window and sure enough the busy mother of three, healthcare professional, was exiting her car with a tinfoil covered pan in her hands — a rectangular pan — the perfect shape and size pan to hold a lasagna, perhaps. She put it onto the front stoop, said she knew we were having French Onion soup for the game, and that the lasagna her husband Marcio made could wait until the next night. She waved and said, “Marcio’s parents are from Italy, you know. This is the best lasagna.”
And just like that, we were in a smackdown.
And this is what happened.
Tim put the Barreto lasagna into the oven Monday afternoon. A wonderful aroma filled the air and by the time the food cooked and cooled enough to cut and plate, my mouth was salivating. And when Tim handed me my dinner, I knew I was in for a treat. Most importantly, I knew from the get-go my lasagna and Mr. Barreto’s lasagna were going to be worlds apart — at least continents apart.
I ate.
I moaned and there wasn’t a breakthrough pain being felt.
I fired off a text.
Me: Okay. So apparently I don’t make lasagna. I sure the eff don’t make THAT yumminess. My lasagna has marinara sauce — you know like the lasagna in AMERICAN restaurants. THAT pan of loveliness is like some gourmet treasure. So, here’s the thing. I make the best FAKE lasagna in the world and Mr. Barreto makes the best REAL stuff. Thank you.
Several hours later I received a reply.
Kerrianne: I read Marcio your message and he was grinning ear to ear. He loves to make people food that they love to eat. I’m glad you enjoyed it.
Me: Bravo to Marcio. A job very well done. Muah!
Another food delivery came on Super Bowl Sunday. I slept through the event. Christine McTigue Mullaney, must have peeked in my front door and saw me conked out on my chair and went next door to Hannah’s and handed off an Irish bread and a lovely plant. When I woke, Hannah delivered the two and the note left by Christine. She said I could share her story.
Sheryll,
I wanted to thank you for sharing your blog. I don’t know how you have the energy but your honesty and humor are a gift. I have remembered things that I haven’t thought of in years when I read the blog. It puts a smile on my face, and at times a tear, but I expect that proves what a wonderful writer you are.
When I read the section about Auntie Fifi it brought me back to my kitchen at 176 Wildwood. Every holiday I would wait in anticipation for Aunt Fifi to stop by with her famous loaf. I loved her Irish Bread.
My mother once told her how fond I was of her bread, but how I wished she used more raisins. I couldn’t believe that my mom told her that, but sure enough the next loaf was “tweaked.” Auntie Fifi told me she had adjusted her recipe to make me a special loaf. Then she gave me the recipe card. Wow!! I felt so special. I try and I try, but never does my loaf compare to hers. Maybe you and Tim can enjoy this with a cup of tea!
Love, Christine
When Tim realized there was an Irish bread in our home — and that it was the creation from Auntie Fifi’s recipe, there was an audible moan. The reason? When I was diagnosed, Mr. Wonderful decided on the spot that he needed to get healthy — I should say healthier — because he needed to be here for our daughters for the long-haul. Solution? Become a vegan. With the snap of a finger, Tim did away with everything he’s eaten for sixty-five years and began consuming sawdust and nuts. Hannah has lived the vegan lifestyle for quite some time, so she took him under her wing and fed him things of the vegan world.
The thing about Mr. Wonderful is this: his strength is all about making decisions and commitments, and never shall either be broken.
Unless there’s an Irish bread thrown into the mix.
Mr. Wonderful went online, read the ingredients of a traditional Irish bread, found eggs and buttermilk. Another moan, then the shrug of his shoulder, “Oh, well. Looks like I’m cheating tonight.”
Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien had tea and bread for supper.
Christine, it was every bit as good as Fifi’s. A job well done, indeed!
Even the Irish One raved about your loaf.
Now, back to my mother’s trip down memory lane. It has been a bittersweet experience for Mom to look at photos from my youth, and from the big days of celebration — my graduation from high school, my wedding day, and the trips I made home from the hospital with my new babes in arm. The deeper she went in the boxes, the more she unearthed from her life — the life from which I came to be.
On a recent visit, she handed me an envelope. It was weathered by time, had a postmark dated January 31, 1946 from Nova Scotia, and was addressed to: Allan & Shirley Thomas, #10 Hobson Avenue, Worcester, Mass, U.S.A. It contained three letters, one dated November and another dated January, both written by my mother’s grandfather, and one note without a date written by my mother’s grandmother. I’m sharing the one from November.
Hello Tiddlywinks,
How are you getting along, by this time suppose you are big as ever and go to school every day. I bet none of the kids can beat you in school unless you are different from what you was when you was in Barrington. We got a rainstorm today and I am just keeping a fire going and doing nothing but eat and I guess I went to sleep in the chair once or twice. Mickey is stretched out good. I guess he has been eating something outdoors. He catches a rabbit sometimes. If he can find one. Asleep now. Grammy has gone on Cape Island for a few days. Wish you could see the big boy up to Donald fat as butter and come good. Always laughing. Hardly ever cries only when something hurts him. He is cutting teeth now and they are coming hard. Suppose you are giving music lessons now quite a piano player. So I hear. I went hunting one day with a couple men. We got a nice deer and saw several moose. Well guess must stop. Love to all, Grampy
The art of letter writing. It’s changed over the years — in fact, our generation doesn’t do it often enough. But, when people take the time, we find that the central elements of the practice haven’t changed one bit. My mother’s grandfather pulled his memories together and shared them with his granddaughter. Christine McTigue Mullaney pulled her memories together and shared them with me. She very easily could have dropped off the tasty treat she took time to bake without mention of her trip down memory lane, but she didn’t. She shared a fond memory about a woman who meant the world to her and to me.
I guess that’s the legacy of a life well lived.
Someone you care about might pull a recipe from a cupboard one day and spend time with you by kneading some dough.
Someone might dig through a memento box and find letters from their long lost grandfather and remember someone once called her, Tiddlywinks.
Imagine my delight knowing that I played a very small part in Christine’s memories of Auntie Fifi.
Imagine my pleasure in reading words from a man who died more than a half-century ago — words he wrote to his granddaughter — the child who would one day become my mother.
One day, my granddaughter, Hadley, will read my blog and she will learn about me and about the wonderful people who pressed into my life when I was losing it — when I needed their company the most — and when I needed the reminder that memories matter.
Mine and theirs.
At the end of the day, at the end of our lives— memories are all we really have.
So go make a few.