The dooryard was overflowing with cars; most of them rentals. I pulled up behind a large SUV and took a deep breath. “This is going to be awkward,” I thought. “Very awkward.”
I slid the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car slowly, stepping carefully onto newly fallen snow that had no business hanging around in early April. I climbed up the side steps of the house and as I lifted my hand to knock, the door opened unexpectedly. “You made it! Mom will be so happy. Come in.”
I crossed the threshold, melting into the crowd of siblings gathered there to pay homage to their dying mother. I had been summoned to join them; quite unexpectedly. I had met their mom several years ago during a professional visit to introduce services regarding her vision loss. Consequently, we met just two more times before her case was closed and filed away with my promise to return if needed.
Just yesterday I received a phone call from one of her daughters, informing me that her mom was rapidly nearing the end of her life and she was asking for me. I was baffled by the request, since we had met so briefly and so long ago. Here I was, however; a small stuffed poodle clutched in my hands; planning on saying all of the appropriate words before making a speedy exit.
After returning many hugs, I was escorted into the great room. Quilt racks were scattered about, each one displaying colorful, fine quality handmade quilts of every imaginable size. I noticed paintings on the walls, all hung at different heights and of all sorts of subject matter. Family photos, porcelain dolls, and baking contest blue ribbons were spread out on a small plastic table. All of these items represented her accomplishments in life; her masterful talents.
I saw her there in front of a sun drenched bay window, her tiny frame lost in a hospital bed. Stepping carefully around the many treasures surrounding her, I took her hand in mine. “Belinda,’ she said. “You came.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I have met all of your children,” I said. “What a nice family you have. It is so obvious that they love their mom.”
She glowed there before me, squeezing my hand tightly. “I just wanted to see you,” she said. “We became friends and I just wanted to see you …” Her light blue eyes glistened with anxious tears. I placed the stuffed poodle beside her pillow, a gesture that seemed to me nothing more than a miserable attempt to mask my own uneasiness. For some reason, this beautiful lady had invited me, a very casual acquaintance, to be with her and those she loved as she faced the surety of death.
“Cancer is terrible,” she whispered. “I pray that my loved ones and my friends never experience this.” I could have told her of my own battle with cancer and of my victory, but these moments were devoted to her. This was all about her.
I slid the poodle closer to her and spent the remainder of my time with her talking about her children and her grandchildren. She dozed from time to time; waking up apologetic and somewhat confused. I left her sleeping quietly, the little poodle against her cheek; the same poodle she held in her arms when she slipped away just a few days later.
We get so caught up in the business of life, my friends. We rush through our days, often not realizing just how powerful our interactions with others can be. This lady was a faint memory to me; a name on a list of past contacts I had made. I will never know what I said or what I did that lingered with her. We so often hear the expression, “I was humbled by the experience.” It has become a cliché used in acceptance speeches and expressions of gratitude.
As I sat with my friend’s hand in mine on that day in April, I tasted humility and I knew that despite all of the times I had stumbled, made mistakes, rushed through my days and nights, and taken way too many blessings for granted, I had finally gotten something right. It was an honor like none other I have known or may know again, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives in Connor with her husband, Dale, and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble. You may contact Belinda online at dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
