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Divas learn lesson from (gasp!) men

By RONDA RICH

Ronda Rich is the author of “What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should)” and “My Life In The Pits.” She lives in Gainesville, Ga.

My brother, the only scion of my father’s name, lay dying. The blood poisoning that had consumed his body, had thrust him into a coma and set off myriad problems so numerous that the doctors had placed him on life support and offered little encouragement.

I would like to say that he was fighting valiantly to push himself back from death’s door but with a spirit as savagely shredded as his wounded body, I don’t know that he had the strength or the inclination. Death, I suspect, looked peaceful to him, offering a reprieve from his torment.

So, we prayed and were grateful that preachers, would-be saints, extended family, friends and the congregations of many churches offered up pleas on his behalf.

There were even a few, who had not spoken to the Lord intimately in many years, who sank to their knees and begged woefully on his behalf. Those were probably the most powerful entreaties of all.

The first night, as death’s whisper grew louder in our ears, my sister and I slept on the floor on the critical care waiting room. I huddled close to her, desperately seeking warmth for both my body and my battered soul.

Excruciatingly, the hours passed and then gradually the days as slowly, he began to inch his way back to the land of the living. And though the doctors repeatedly stressed the length and extent of his impending recovery, they could only marvel and say that, again, science and spirituality had blended together into a formidable tag team.

My brother, a devotee of wrestling long before it was cool, would love that analogy.

In the midst of the trauma and drama, the divas learned a surprising lesson. We had long been proud of our strong, nurturing sisterhood, the kind that offers a shoulder to cry on and a cream of mushroom soup-laced casserole when the battles of life grow intense.

We believed that men missed out on the emotional bonding that we celebrate but we discovered that they bond in a different way.

It wasn’t surprising to see the stream of women who filed through to drip tears on the handsome cheek of my unmarried brother but what we were unprepared to see was the number of men who stood by his bedside and cried.

And, in the days to come, they were able to tell us things we needed to know. Things that they knew about our own flesh and blood that we didn’t.

“He don’t eat chicken,” one volunteered as I tried to feed him chicken pot pie but he stubbornly shut his mouth and shook his head. A stroke had, initially, left him unable to speak.

“He only eats his bacon crisp,” another warned.

“Don’t put cream in his coffee! He drinks it black.”

“For his steak, he mixes ketchup and mayonnaise and makes a sauce.”

This collection of loving, colorful characters knew other things of importance, too. Which bank he used, where his spare keys were, which color he liked, which sister was his favorite, where personal files were stored and which race car driver he liked most.

A person’s life is best viewed through the eyes of others and the eye-opening view I got of my brother introduced me to someone new. It also made me realize how much I don’t know about my friends.

So, I called my best friend of 20 years, the one who has been my rock, the one who knows many secrets of my heart, and asked a couple of important questions.

Now, I know where her spare keys are hidden and that her favorite color is red. We divas, from now on, will be paying more attention to the little things. We may even need to send a thank you-note to the guys for the lesson.