Today, I had it all planned.
I’d go to Saratoga Springs, NY, with Dan (where I am right now). He’d go to service his client in the morning and I’d go to Starbucks to work until he was finished. I’d have 12 cups of coffee, write a blog, edit a story for a client, and then shop the strip until it was time to get into the Honda Element and head back south.
And everything went according to plan. Until this morning, when my mother called.
And now, I am here. Crying into a full-fat latte. Watching a group of tourists through the Starbucks window pose for a picture in front of the stone horse outside. Wondering how they can do it. How they can possibly go about life as usual.
Today, a very very dear friend of our family died. Well, actually, she was family. Not technically. But who cares. She was family. Our family.
She went early this morning. We knew it was coming. But that doesn’t help now. And when my mother said the words, “She died last night,” I am suddenly overcome by a barrage of tears. I knew it was coming. And felt sad. Of course, sad. But now, I am crying. And the water keeps pouring from my eyes like a small hole in the ecosystem.
You’d think the ladies in front of the stone horse would notice. Come over. Console me. “Are you allright honey?” But they don’t. They’re laughing as if they don’t have a care in the world. I feel like shouting, “Hey, yo. Somebody died today. A moment, please. I need a moment.” Go be joyful somewhere else.
Two years ago, she was perfectly healthy. Fine. Nothing wrong, except the usual aches and pains that come with age. But certainly not old. Barely 70. In the prime of life, still. Her children grown, with her own kids. Married. Working. Living like the rest of us.
She and her husband of 50 years, who’d survived his own bout of cancer, were living out their retirement. “They are a real love story,” my mother would tell me. More than once, I might add. “Such a handsome couple. Really. I have the pictures.”
Then, on her birthday, when she was supposed to be eating white cake, opening gifts, and marveling in her new nightgown and real jewelry, something else happened: She got a diagnosis of leukemia.
Leukemia. The gift that keeps on giving.
Another moment please.
The doctors said she’d survive it. Told her to prepare for a series of treatments that were really bad, but would see her through. That she’d come out the other side.
And she did. The “really bad” treatments weren’t so for her. “Apparently, they didn’t bother her that much,” my mother would say, eyes dancing. “Amazing.”
And while she ran the medical marathon that involved an endurance none of us can train for, she came out a winner. Sure, the disease would never go away, but she could live with it.
Live with it—like diabetes, and Turrets, and the memory of war in your brain.
She got well enough for the wedding. My getting married for the first time at 43 better than chemo–too powerful a force for her to miss. Not even life-altering disease could keep her from it.
And she looked beautiful. Sounded beautiful. Smelled beautiful. Hugged beautiful. Ate her chicken piccata beautiful. Laughed at my vows beautiful. Mugged for the pictures beautiful.
Her face glowed as I remembered it. Sure, she was a little thinner, but when is that a bad thing? And everybody looked happy. The family that surrounded her like petals on the face of a daisy. They looked happy.
She was alive. We all were.
I need a tissue.
Then, another diagnosis came. Two months ago. More cancer. Now in the lungs and the kidney (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). When you’re talking about cancer, the details are almost irrelevant.
But still, there’s chemo, radiation, hospital beds, urine pans, nurse’s lights, charts, cafeterias, needles, and, of course, the best cardiologists. We’ll treat it. You’ll beat it. You’ll see.
And my mother said, “That’s not good. It’s not.” And I said, “But they’re optimistic still, right?” And she said, “Well, yes, but still. I don’t know. Not good.” And I thought, “That’s just my mother being a pessimist.” And I said, “Well, she came through the last time.” And she said, “You’re right. She did. Maybe I’m wrong. I hope so.” “Well, let’s think positively,” I said.
And then we went on to talk about my belly fat or a reasonable facsimile body part thereof.
And so life went on. Our basement flooded. The roof leaked. The microwave died. I lost 11 pounds. We’re now seeing C. I threw Heidi a baby shower. I was asked to speak at a writer’s conference. Dan’s been traveling a lot for work. We replaced the carpet in the basement with some green shaggy stuff. I’m craving pizza.
Three weeks ago, when my mother was in the hospital, she called. “I hear mom’s in the hospital,” she said. “Is she okay?” I had to marvel. Here, this woman had been on the roller coaster of cancer for 18 months. And she’s asking about somebody else.
“She’s fine,” I say. “They think it might be her appendix or kidney stones.”
And after we talked about cancer and wigs and her kids and us kids and our new house, she said, “Will you keep me posted?” Of course, I said.
Today, I long to give her an update. Everything’s fine. We’re all fine. You’re fine too.
A few days after that phone call, my mother told me she was back in the hospital. Pneumonia. They were draining her lungs, but after a week or so of that, they realized, the fluid wasn’t just from pneumonia. It was from cancer. Tumors multiplying like cockroaches.
“She’s not coming out,” my mother said. I could hear her voice shake. “Pneumonia. That’s it.”
Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday. She’ll be 69. I ask her what she wants to do. She doesn’t feel much like celebrating. “This year, I won’t get a card from her. For the past 50 years, I’ve gotten a birthday card from her. This year, I won’t.” She’s been saying that for the past two weeks.
This weekend we took C to see Shrek 3, while the woman who owns a chip in my memory lay like a child in the hospital. On the psychedelic dream of cancer–and a cocktail of Adavan, Morphine, and Demerol. Curled up in an electric bed like a fetus in the womb. Her husband of 50 years propped up in a chair next to her, dazed. Her children in the corner, crying.
Comfortable. They were keeping her “comfortable.” Everybody’s comfortable.
This morning, I had it all planned out. I was going to write about this writer’s conference I’ve been invited to speak at, and book publishing, and running in the park, and my intense craving for cheese. I have my laptop and the little notes I keep over the weeks to jog my middle-aged brain into recognition.
But none of those things seem important. Maybe they will be next week. Or whenever.
But today, nothing else really matters, except the love we feel for each other and the ache in our bellies when it’s time for someone to leave. And, of course, the shadow of her spirit in our tears.
Today, nothing else really matters, but Carol.
My dear sweet Carol, may you be swinging on a cotton-tufted cloud at the greatest reunion imaginable, all those who’ve gone before passing you candy and golden nickels.
I will miss you.
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Today, I had it all planned.

I’d go to Saratoga Springs, NY, with Dan (where I am right now). He’d go to service his client in the morning and I’d go to Starbucks to work until he was finished. I’d have 12 cups of coffee, write a blog, edit a story for a client, and then shop the strip until it was time to get into the Honda Element and head back south.

And everything went according to plan. Until this morning, when my mother called.

And now, I am here. Crying into a full-fat latte. Watching a group of tourists through the Starbucks window pose for a picture in front of the stone horse outside. Wondering how they can do it. How they can possibly go about life as usual.

Today, a very very dear friend of our family died. Well, actually, she was family. Not technically. But who cares. She was family. Our family.

She went early this morning. We knew it was coming. But that doesn’t help now. And when my mother said the words, “She died last night,” I am suddenly overcome by a barrage of tears. I knew it was coming. And felt sad. Of course, sad. But now, I am crying. And the water keeps pouring from my eyes like a small hole in the ecosystem.

You’d think the ladies in front of the stone horse would notice. Come over. Console me. “Are you allright honey?” But they don’t. They’re laughing as if they don’t have a care in the world. I feel like shouting, “Hey, yo. Somebody died today. A moment, please. I need a moment.” Go be joyful somewhere else.

Two years ago, she was perfectly healthy. Fine. Nothing wrong, except the usual aches and pains that come with age. But certainly not old. Barely 70. In the prime of life, still. Her children grown, with her own kids. Married. Working. Living like the rest of us.

She and her husband of 50 years, who’d survived his own bout of cancer, were living out their retirement. “They are a real love story,” my mother would tell me. More than once, I might add. “Such a handsome couple. Really. I have the pictures.”

Then, on her birthday, when she was supposed to be eating white cake, opening gifts, and marveling in her new nightgown and real jewelry, something else happened: She got a diagnosis of leukemia.

Leukemia. The gift that keeps on giving.

Another moment please.

The doctors said she’d survive it. Told her to prepare for a series of treatments that were really bad, but would see her through. That she’d come out the other side.

And she did. The “really bad” treatments weren’t so for her. “Apparently, they didn’t bother her that much,” my mother would say, eyes dancing. “Amazing.”

And while she ran the medical marathon that involved an endurance none of us can train for, she came out a winner. Sure, the disease would never go away, but she could live with it.

Live with it—like diabetes, and Turrets, and the memory of war in your brain.

She got well enough for the wedding. My getting married for the first time at 43 better than chemo–too powerful a force for her to miss. Not even life-altering disease could keep her from it.

And she looked beautiful. Sounded beautiful. Smelled beautiful. Hugged beautiful. Ate her chicken piccata beautiful. Laughed at my vows beautiful. Mugged for the pictures beautiful.

Her face glowed as I remembered it. Sure, she was a little thinner, but when is that a bad thing? And everybody looked happy. The family that surrounded her like petals on the face of a daisy. They looked happy.

She was alive. We all were.

I need a tissue.

Then, another diagnosis came. Two months ago. More cancer. Now in the lungs and the kidney (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). When you’re talking about cancer, the details are almost irrelevant.

But still, there’s chemo, radiation, hospital beds, urine pans, nurse’s lights, charts, cafeterias, needles, and, of course, the best cardiologists. We’ll treat it. You’ll beat it. You’ll see.

And my mother said, “That’s not good. It’s not.” And I said, “But they’re optimistic still, right?” And she said, “Well, yes, but still. I don’t know. Not good.” And I thought, “That’s just my mother being a pessimist.” And I said, “Well, she came through the last time.” And she said, “You’re right. She did. Maybe I’m wrong. I hope so.” “Well, let’s think positively,” I said.

And then we went on to talk about my belly fat or a reasonable facsimile body part thereof.

And so life went on. Our basement flooded. The roof leaked. The microwave died. I lost 11 pounds. We’re now seeing C. I threw Heidi a baby shower. I was asked to speak at a writer’s conference. Dan’s been traveling a lot for work. We replaced the carpet in the basement with some green shaggy stuff. I’m craving pizza.

Three weeks ago, when my mother was in the hospital, she called. “I hear mom’s in the hospital,” she said. “Is she okay?” I had to marvel. Here, this woman had been on the roller coaster of cancer for 18 months. And she’s asking about somebody else.

“She’s fine,” I say. “They think it might be her appendix or kidney stones.”

And after we talked about cancer and wigs and her kids and us kids and our new house, she said, “Will you keep me posted?” Of course, I said.

Today, I long to give her an update. Everything’s fine. We’re all fine. You’re fine too.

A few days after that phone call, my mother told me she was back in the hospital. Pneumonia. They were draining her lungs, but after a week or so of that, they realized, the fluid wasn’t just from pneumonia. It was from cancer. Tumors multiplying like cockroaches.

“She’s not coming out,” my mother said. I could hear her voice shake. “Pneumonia. That’s it.”

Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday. She’ll be 69. I ask her what she wants to do. She doesn’t feel much like celebrating. “This year, I won’t get a card from her. For the past 50 years, I’ve gotten a birthday card from her. This year, I won’t.” She’s been saying that for the past two weeks.

This weekend we took C to see Shrek 3, while the woman who owns a chip in my memory lay like a child in the hospital. On the psychedelic dream of cancer–and a cocktail of Adavan, Morphine, and Demerol. Curled up in an electric bed like a fetus in the womb. Her husband of 50 years propped up in a chair next to her, dazed. Her children in the corner, crying.

Comfortable. They were keeping her “comfortable.” Everybody’s comfortable.

This morning, I had it all planned out. I was going to write about this writer’s conference I’ve been invited to speak at, and book publishing, and running in the park, and my intense craving for cheese. I have my laptop and the little notes I keep over the weeks to jog my middle-aged brain into recognition.

But none of those things seem important. Maybe they will be next week. Or whenever.

But today, nothing else really matters, except the love we feel for each other and the ache in our bellies when it’s time for someone to leave. And, of course, the shadow of her spirit in our tears.

Today, nothing else really matters, but Carol.

My dear sweet Carol, may you be swinging on a cotton-tufted cloud at the greatest reunion imaginable, all those who’ve gone before passing you candy and golden nickels.

I will miss you.
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