Sherry
called and asked if I’d like to help out with the care of my friend, Flo, whose
brain tumor’s growth now paralyzed her right side. Sherry was putting together
a list of people who could come in and sit with Flo. I swallowed twice, cleared my tightening throat, and said, “Sure,
when do you want me?” Flo and her
husband Don seemed really old to me at the time, but they were probably only in
their fifties. They had made it their
personal mission to help street kids and had a Gospel Mission down town which Don needed to tend
“I’ll put you down for the lunch hour on
Thursdays if that’s okay. Come about 11:00 and the next person will be there at 3:00. I’ve got the
shift just before you, and I’ll have lunch prepared. All you’ll have to do is take it out of the
refrigerator and help Flo if necessary,” Sherry instructed.
“No problem,” I said, “I’ll see you
then.”
I hung up
the phone, looked around the now-quiet kitchen, cluttered with breakfast
dishes, cereal boxes, milk, the ordinariness of my housewife’s life, and
swallowed the lump in my throat.
Whew! You never knew what curve
balls life would throw, and whether you’d be up for catching them. I made a
note on my calendar to show up at Flo’s at 11 am next Thursday.
At 10:45 that day I
left the house and headed north on West Seventh to Don and Flo’s. I punched in my favorite station and caught
the end of “Annie’s Song” by John Denver.
My thoughts floated on the notes trying to imagine what I was going to
say to Flo. What do you say to someone holding
her ticket out of this life? What did I
know about it anyway? Nothing! The only thing I’d had to deal with was my
mood swings around "that time of the month."
Why couldn’t I have the faith to move this mountain and have Flo leap
out of bed and dance? How did Jesus do
that anyway? The song ended with me lost
in my own wonderings.
Ten minutes
later I pulled up in front of their home, much like my own, "little boxes
on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky." Only the house number,
if readable, could guide anyone wanting to find you. I was surprised when Don opened the
door. His rotund frame and crew cut, his
ear-to-ear smile disarmed me; and I walked happily into his welcoming arms. “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked, as he patted
me on the back.
“Oh, can’t complain,” I beamed. Don had a way of banishing all my insecurities. “Come in and give Flo a hug,” he
commanded.
Not having
seen her for weeks, I wasn’t prepared to find my Big Momma lying in a hospital bed
in her kitchen wearing a post-surgery butch haircut. I didn’t want to act weird, but I froze...tears formed...throat blocked...breath stopped.
Big Momma was dying and I was here to help her negotiate the passage for
four hours every Thursday. I suddenly got
it.
Thank God for automatic
functions! My lungs kicked in and breath
entered, defrosting and grounding my body in the present moment. I forced a smile, walked over to Flo, bent
down and put my cheek next to hers, whispering, “Hi.” I didn’t trust my voice and told myself she
didn’t need a “Gloomy Gus” for a companion.
“Jesus, you’re always getting me into these challenging places. Help!” I sighed under my breath.”
Flo was
feeling fine on her Percodan and anti-depressant. Naturally conversational, she began giving me
updates on what was happening at the Mission.
What a relief! She hadn’t changed on the
inside! We chatted happily away, and before
I knew it she asked for her lunch. The
local Sunny-side radio station was playing music appropriate for an office, all
upbeat and light.
“I thought you’d have the Christian
station on,” I wondered out loud.
“I don’t get the same feeling from
their music,” Flo explained. I wondered what she meant and made a mental note to check out the differences on the way home.
After
lunch, Flo napped. I sat across from her
in an overstuffed chair and read C. S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce, an
allegory of heaven and hell. What a
writer! I could feel the expansiveness of heaven and the sharp, isolation of
hell. Lewis’ take on this counter-intuitive theology helped me as a feminist
and modern woman relate to the Biblical concepts.
Before I knew it there were soft
taps on the front door, and I rose to answer
it. Sherry greeted me and explained her earlier absence,
“I didn’t come this morning, so I’m taking the last shift today. Hope that
didn’t throw you. Next week, I’ll be here with you. Flo’s son is getting married, and she’s asked
me to bring her some dresses to try on.
It’ll take both of us.” This will
be interesting, I thought. Life goes
on; doesn’t matter if you’re dying of a
brain tumor, you have to get a new dress for your son’s wedding. Somehow this was encouraging to me, and it
surprised me that I felt so hopeful leaving when I’d felt so Tin-Woodsman-like
earlier.
The next
Thursday arrived before I knew it, and I once again rang the bell at the
Holmes’ home for our grand adventure.
Sherry answered the bell, and in a matter-of-fact way ushered me to the
kitchen. There, across the hospital bed
and across Flo were two queen-sized, floor length dresses in soft, shimmering
knits. Flo was grinning and I couldn’t
help smiling myself. “Well,
finally you’re here! I’ve been dying to model for you both!” she laughed.
I wasn’t prepared for her humor. “Doesn’t dying put a damper on things?” I
asked myself. Looking at Flo--one side
paralyzed, her fuzzy, closely cropped head, her eyes shining with life--I couldn’t
reconcile what I thought was reality with her relaxed and easy manner, even if she had good medication.
Sherri and
I pulled back her covers, and I climbed up on the bed to be on her left side, leaving
Sherry standing next to the paralyzed side.
“Are you ready for this?” I looked at Flo.
“What
do you think?” she smirked.
“Where shall we start?” I asked Sherry.
“I’ll roll the dress up so just the neck
opening is above her head, and then we’ll work it down from there.”
Okay, we got her head through easily
enough.
“Flo, let Nancy roll you towards her, and I’ll see if
we can pull this down over your other shoulder and put your arm in the
sleeve,” Sherry directed.
I bent over to take hold of
Flo’s right shoulder and torso and pulled toward me. It felt like five hundred pounds of dead
weight. Sherry pushed. I pulled. Flo
ended up on her left side. Sherry needed
help with Flo’s arm. As she pulled the dress down and I pushed
the limp arm into the sleeve, I lost my balance and fell across Flo; she rolled
back onto her back. The tension around
needing to be so intimate with Flo’s crippled body broke, and we both began to
laugh like a couple of crazies. Sherry
got caught up in our hilarity and doubled over with great guffaws. The kitchen rocked with our glee. Somehow we got both dresses on and off, and
Flo chose the outfit she’d wear to the wedding, "the blue one."
As I left
that day I reflected on what Flo had taught me--not to fear the worst, to live
fully in every minute we are given, to be grateful for drugs that help and not
to hold too rigidly to all my natural remedies and organic foods, to listen to
elevator music if that’s what helps you cope, and to be open and friendly to
any caregivers that offer their loving kindness. Maybe dying isn’t the worst
thing. Maybe I can do it when I get my
ticket. I just hope there will be the love for me that there was for Big Momma
as I go.
Words from the Song of Songs
according to Solomon rose to mind, “Place me as a seal over your heart, like a
seal over your arm; for love is as strong as death, … it burns like blazing
fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters
cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away.
If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be
utterly scorned.”[1]
“Flo, pray for us.”
