Traveling two thousand miles and more years than I would like to admit, I found myself at my reunion chatting with people I didn’t even know in high school. But I also found myself reconnecting with close friends that have drifted away over the years. I love that whenever we see each other, the time apart disappears.
But this time, Stacy looked different. After a few questions, I learned that her mother had lung cancer and had just received bad news from the doctor. She probably had only a couple of months to live.
The two of us became fast friends back in fifth grade when my family moved to a house right around the corner from her. We shared countless hours talking about whatever it is that young girls talked about, and probably still talk about.
Read more: Making the Call
In high school, however, we starting drifting apart, mostly thanks to boys. She was the first to have a boyfriend, and then senior year I was dating someone. That pulled us to different sets of friends. Once we headed off to colleges in different states, we drifted even more. She still held a treasured place in my heart as one of my best friends, but we truly were no longer close.
Through the years, I had always liked her mom. As I recall, she had been a model when she was younger, modeling hairstyles. And I seem to remember that she frequently changed her hairstyle. She was a small, striking woman whose powerful presence filled a room. She always had something to say, an opinion to give. Stacy was the youngest of three, and the frankness that her mother used with her was in stark contrast to the protected speech my mom used with me.
My clearest memories are of her either smoking cigarette after cigarette, or of her sitting at the kitchen table with an enormous pile of pistachios. She busied herself working to get the tiny treasured seed from the hard shell to distract her from picking up another cigarette. It seems to me that the cigarettes typically won.
To me, her mom was unconventional. Not only did she speak freely, but she had her own antique store down at Laclede’s Landing at the Mississippi River called The Finer Things. Visiting her store was an exotic adventure. I remember that some friends felt badly for Stacy because her mom never threw her birthday parties, you know, the ones with pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, a piñata, and a big birthday cake. But that wasn’t her style. And Stacy never complained – and she didn’t seem to be any too worse for the wear.
As we grew into adulthood, Stacy often mentioned how much her mom liked me and how she often asked about me. Every time she would say this, I would be completely caught off guard. I couldn’t imagine why she would have liked me. Of course, I was always polite to her, but I was taught to be polite and respectful to all grown ups. But I don’t remember actually having what could be called an actual conversation with her. In fact, I can’t remember having an actual conversation beyond general pleasantries with anyone’s parents.
When I had my own children, I watched as they easily chatted with their friends’ parents. And when I served as host, their friends didn’t hesitate to approach me to talk about what was going on at school and at home. Sometimes they would even confide in me. I never would have had such conversations, let alone initiate a conversation, with one of my friends’ parents.
In fact, I was talking to one of my high school friends recently about just this. I dated a guy during our senior year and then for three years in college. As we reminisced, it occurred to me that I basically never talked to his mom and knew nothing about her. But I spent a lot of time with his family: dinners, holidays, even weekends in the Ozarks. Yet I was so uncomfortable around her and remained mostly quiet.
Not only was I quiet, but, especially in junior high and in high school, I was so nondescript. No one noticed me. I was the perennial follower. And in high school, when I did take some leadership roles, no one noticed. I was constantly left out, my absence going unnoticed. In fact, at this very same reunion, the committee published a little book with information on each classmate and what they had been up to since graduation. And my page somehow was left out. How apropos.
So why would this woman who somewhat intimidated me, somewhat left me in awe, have noticed me?
At the reunion, Stacy explained what her mother had been going through since her diagnosis and once again reminded me how much her mother always liked me. Again, I was taken aback, surprised that she would have even remembered me. After all, her parents moved to Florida right before high school graduation, and I had only seen them a couple of times since high school and not in probably 10 or so years.
I asked if it would be ok for me to call her mom when I got back home to California. Stacy said her mom would love that.
Once back home, I was haunted by the fact that Stacy’s mother was dying. I had not yet lost my parents and was trying to imagine what it would feel like to know losing one was imminent. For days, I held the phone number in my hands, afraid to pick up the phone. What would I say to her? And to add to that, what do you say to someone who is dying?
One day, without allowing myself a moment to think about it, I simply picked up the phone and dialed the Florida number. A woman’s voice answered.
“Mrs. Finer? I asked. And yes, my friends’ parents were and continue to still be “Mr. ___ or Mrs. ___. No first names here, even at this age.
She knew right away it was me.
We spoke for about ten minutes. I told her a bit about what I was doing and where I was working. I asked her how she was feeling. Suddenly, I was no longer afraid. It turned out that I did know what to say to someone who was dying. I told her how sorry I was. She explained that her life had been so wonderful, that there was nothing to be sorry for. Besides, she said, she did this to herself – you know, all those years of smoking. But she was happy. She told me she was blessed to have married the greatest guy around and to have had so many wonderful years with him. She was blessed to know her grandchildren. Life was good.
She then told me to take care of Stacy, that this would probably be very difficult for her. At the time, that was unexpected, but now as a mom, I completely understand it.
I promised I would. I didn’t tell her that we lived 2,000 miles away from each other and rarely spoke. And then it was time to say goodbye. How do you say goodbye to someone when you know that this is the last time you will speak to her? A simple goodbye doesn’t cut it, and you can’t casually throw in the often said “See ya later” or “Talk to you soon.” Because you won’t. So I simply said “I love you.” She told me I deserve the best in this life, told me she loved me also, and hung up. I was overcome with grief, my body convulsing with each sob. But at the same time, I have never felt so good.
A year later, a friend and surrogate uncle to my children suffered a devastating heart attack. I had planned to visit him in the hospital as soon as he was allowed visitors. But then my young daughter got sick – a high fever accompanied by severe hives that covered her entire body. Days elapsed, and I could not get to the hospital. I was busy calling in sick to work and trying to calm my daughter. I finally admitted to myself that I would not make it, so I picked up the phone and called his room. When he answered the phone, he was in great spirits. I explained why I had not been to visit. Not to worry, he said. “I am not ready to go yet. The garage is such a mess; I couldn’t die before cleaning that up!” I was pleased to hear him so upbeat.
He graciously accepted my apology and assured me that he was doing great. Again, at a loss for words at such a scary time, I found myself telling him, “I love you!” before hanging up.
He was dead a week later.
At the funeral, shock hung in the air. Many people shared stories of why they didn’t visit Arnie in the hospital, of why they didn’t call. Some were busy, some didn’t think it was that serious, some didn’t want to be in the way, some assumed he had enough visitors and one more might just be too much, and some just didn’t make it a priority and find the time.
I was overcome with grief at the loss. But at the same time, I felt good. Even though I didn’t know that I would not be speaking to or seeing Arnie again, I had a sense of peace.
Picking up the phone is sometimes the greatest gift we can give . . . or receive.
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