Sunday, November 17, 2002
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Sunday, November 17, 2002 |
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A reminder of life's brevity By
MARY JANE HOLT A friend died yesterday. A new friend. Somebody I wanted to know better. And now it's too late. For a year now, my husband and I have been members of the community club in Gay. We meet once a month, except during the summer. Members share a meal and catch up on local, and not so local, news. Then we all go our separate ways until the following month. Glenda, the wife of the club president, is my friend who has died. At each meeting, Daniel and I shared a table with Glenda and Jerry. At first, I found it odd that Glenda did not eat the meal that was prepared by the host families. In time, I learned she was fighting colon cancer. In her own way. On her own terms. She was an educated patient. Very informed about her disease. Very determined to beat it. She fought hard. She fought in the name of Christ. She fought with all her might and exhibited a phenomenal faith. She couldn't bear to leave her grandchildren. She wanted to see them grow up and marry and become all they will become. Some would say she lost her fight. I think it is those of us who are left behind who know real loss. I know it has been very hard for me to get into this column today. I feel sick inside, disappointed with myself. I had known the first time I met Glenda that I wanted to get to know her better, yet I put it off. I am sorry I did. There is no more constantly recurring theme in my writing that that which serves as a reminder of how short life can be. You know I know better than to put off certain things. Glenda and Jerry, Daniel and I, and three others were on the host committee for the November community club meeting. She and I talked several times about the menu. Two weeks ago I went to her home to discuss the upcoming meal that we would prepare. I took her a red rose from the bush at my side door. When I handed it to her, she stood, walked across the room and placed it in a lovely crystal vase on the living room coffee table. As she settled breathlessly back into her favorite chair, she told me her doctors just had given her bad news. The tumors were growing. Fast. Only months were left, at most. They had just told her that very morning. It was my first time in her home. We talked about death. That was only two weeks ago. Not months. I waited too late to really get to know Glenda. As late as last Saturday, she was determined to participate in meal preparation, even if she had to ask her daughters to make dishes for our monthly meeting. I said no. I insisted that she focus on her health and let her daughters focus on her. I wanted to go to her side. I wanted to take advantage of the time I knew she had left. I wanted to know her better. But I stayed away. I knew the short time she had left belonged to her family, not to me. So I cooked pork loins and cheese biscuits in preparation for our meal of the month. I coordinated with others who had offered to assist with the meal. I prepared a short program. We had the meeting. Glenda was unable to be there. I missed her. On Sunday, yesterday, Daniel and I took a long walk, then settled in to watch the Falcons and Steelers. I had wanted us to ride over and check on Glenda when the game was over. She only lived three miles away. The call came while the game was in overtime. Once more I was reminded that death waits for no man or woman. Glenda had died in her sleep while Daniel and I had been watching the game. I didn't even know she had gone back to the hospital on Saturday. Her funeral will be on Wednesday. Indeed, I have been made aware yet again of how very short life can be. And once more I have used this space therapeutically. The lump in my throat has grown smaller as I have typed. I trust my attempt to sort though some of my feelings at this keyboard serves as a reminder to you that there may be somebody you need to call or visit or try to get to know better, before it's too late.
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