Rosemary
(Note: This is NOT part of the serial story. This is a real story.)
I named my blog “Gray” for a reason. I wanted to touch on/address all of the “gray” areas in my life. I thought this would, kind of, sort of become a metaphor for all the gray areas in life in general. Period.
But you know what?
Life is not always gray.
Sometimes it is perfectly black and white.
On Monday morning, my mother came up to me, tears in her eyes. She had just found out that one of her very best friends in the world had died the night before. All I could do was embrace her, hug her, this woman who just seems to be getting smaller and smaller.
She was mumbling something, I couldn’t tell exactly what. But it sounded like she was saying, “Why does he always take the ones I love the most?” I am not sure she said that exactly. But I think she did. (Of course, “he” should have probably been “He.”)
My mother is much more overtly religious than I am. It is possible, I suppose, that she actually said what I thought she said. It made me bristle. Inside, at least.
I don’t see life in this way. I don’t see God in this way. I believe in God. But I refuse to believe in a God who would purposely take people from us because we love them. That makes no sense to me.
I said something totally inane like, “Well, we all die sometime. I don’t think God is intentionally trying to hurt us.”
In the past few years, my mother has lost her mother, her husband (my father), her only sister (who was ten years younger than she was), and her high school sweetheart whom she ran into again a few years after my father’s death and with whom she hit it off spectacularly.
My mother is eighty.
Many of her friends have also passed away in the past few years. Many were older than she, many the same age, some a little younger.
I think Rosemary was fifty-nine. She would have turned sixty today.
She was this amazing, vibrant, incredible, wonderful woman. When I think of her, I see her smiling face, her sparkling eyes. I hear her laugh.
My mother loves to golf. At eighty, she is still an avid, active golfer. And she is incredibly good, too.
She has many golfing women friends. Of all ages. She regularly golfs with a woman who is about thirty-five. There really are not a lot of women who are eighty, who still golf.
My mother met Rosemary while golfing. And they became very close friends. Rosemary was a very special, very amazing woman. She was full of this contagious energy, which touched everyone she met.
About five years ago -- maybe a few more, I am not sure -- Rosemary had breast cancer. And she beat it. She was cancer free. She helped my mother run a “Race for the Cure” golf tournament to raise money for breast cancer research.
When I moved back here after my divorce about three and a half years ago, I knew who Rosemary was. Because my mother talked about her all the time. I started to talk with Rosemary on the phone on occasion myself, when she was calling for my mom; she was one of the few people who could tell my voice apart from my mother’s with no trouble at all.
And then Rosemary convinced my mom to convince me that I should play paddle tennis at the Y on her ladies’ team. We were the bottom of the rung team, basically a bunch of women who enjoyed playing paddle tennis and just wanted to hang out together and have fun. I didn’t have a paddle, and certainly couldn’t afford to go out and buy one. So, Rosemary gave me her “beginner’s paddle.” It was an older paddle that had made the rounds, so to speak. Someone had given it to her when she was first starting to play, and now she was giving it to me. When I found another woman whom I thought should start playing paddle tennis, I was to give the paddle to her. And so on.
Rosemary was my mother’s friend. She quickly became mine as well. We had set partners for our paddle tennis matches, but when we practiced we would often switch around and take turns playing with each other. I can remember being paired with Rosemary one day. We both had black sports pants on, but hers were Capri style. I halted play for a moment so I could hitch up my pants, so we could look the same – since we were a “team.” I will never forget the sound of Rosemary’s laugh. It was genuine and deep and real.
I remember seeing Rosemary at my mother’s surprise 80th birthday party this past summer. All of the ladies my mother golfs with had planned this elaborate surprise luncheon and party. It revolved around a golf tournament, the Grande Dame Tournament, and it just “happened” to be on my mother’s actual birthday. There were women golfers there ranging from about thirty to eighty-five.
Rosemary was beaming when she handed me a glass of champagne. All of the lady golfers were lining up on the 18th hole, waiting for my mother and her partner to play in. There was a huge banner spread out behind them, saying “Happy Birthday to our Grande Dame!”
Rosemary was radiant, happy, full of her usual joi de vivre.
It was in late September, or early October, that she told my mother she had been diagnosed with uterine cancer.
Out of the blue.
They said it was not related to her earlier bout with breast cancer. This was something different. New.
The prognosis was good.
At first.
Or maybe that was what Rosemary told my mother.
At first, it seemed relatively simple. They were going to have her undergo a hysterectomy and get rid of the cancer right away.
Only then they found there was some irregularity with her kidneys. And they would have to clear that up before they could operate.
And then. Suddenly. Other complications started arising. Which kept postponing the surgery.
And suddenly everything was a lot more complicated. And the cancer, it seemed, a lot more widespread.
They did chemo. And maybe radiation. I am not sure.
Rosemary lost all her hair.
She would come, on days when she felt OK, and play bridge with my mom and some of her other friends. She wore a wig. My mother was encouraged.
Even though some of my mom’s friends – you know, those women who know everything about everything and are determined to be the bearers of bad news – said that women with the kind of cancer that Rosemary had, at the stage it was in, did not survive.
My mother talked with Rosemary on the phone, encouraged her to come out when she was feeling well, and I think was hoping that Rosemary would get better.
She went to see Rosemary at home, late in December. When things weren’t looking so good. They had a special few hours together.
My mother kept in close touch with one of Rosemary’s closest friends, who was helping take care of Rosemary at home. Towards the end. When her husband was completely overwhelmed.
Rosemary had been in and out of the hospital so many times. She was retaining a lot of fluid. Was not responding to treatments anymore. They stopped the treatments. And sent her home.
They told my mother she would not live much longer. She would not make it to her next birthday, which was only weeks, days away. My mother was in shock.
Rosemary was not even sixty. She was this amazing, incredible, vibrant woman, who had already beaten cancer once. She had two young sons, in their twenties; her husband had just retired. My mother said prayers for Rosemary, and sent her notes and cards. And kept in touch by phone, even if only with Rosemary’s husband or caregivers.
One day, out of the blue, Rosemary called her. They had a nice long talk. My mother said she sounded like the old Rosemary. She was tired, but she sounded like Rosemary.
It was the last time they talked.
Rosemary passed away at 10:39 pm on Sunday, February 11, 2007.
Today she would have been sixty.
There are times in my life where I wish I could make that T-sign for “Timeout!” with my arms, and the whole rest of the world would freeze. And I could go off into a corner and cry my heart out.
Whenever I think about Rosemary, I start to cry.
I cannot be crying in my real life.
I cannot show emotion and sadness as I drive down the road, shop at the grocery store, work at the Reference Desk, teach my students, cook dinner, or do anything.
I cannot be crying.
Rosemary was one of my mother’s best friends. I know how I hurt, and then I think how much worse my mother must hurt. And Rosemary’s husband. And sons. And family. And close friends.
The world has lost a truly amazing woman.
I cannot cry.
But it is all I want to do.
And, in the end, it is what I do.
Happy Birthday, Rosemary!
I love you.
I named my blog “Gray” for a reason. I wanted to touch on/address all of the “gray” areas in my life. I thought this would, kind of, sort of become a metaphor for all the gray areas in life in general. Period.
But you know what?
Life is not always gray.
Sometimes it is perfectly black and white.
On Monday morning, my mother came up to me, tears in her eyes. She had just found out that one of her very best friends in the world had died the night before. All I could do was embrace her, hug her, this woman who just seems to be getting smaller and smaller.
She was mumbling something, I couldn’t tell exactly what. But it sounded like she was saying, “Why does he always take the ones I love the most?” I am not sure she said that exactly. But I think she did. (Of course, “he” should have probably been “He.”)
My mother is much more overtly religious than I am. It is possible, I suppose, that she actually said what I thought she said. It made me bristle. Inside, at least.
I don’t see life in this way. I don’t see God in this way. I believe in God. But I refuse to believe in a God who would purposely take people from us because we love them. That makes no sense to me.
I said something totally inane like, “Well, we all die sometime. I don’t think God is intentionally trying to hurt us.”
In the past few years, my mother has lost her mother, her husband (my father), her only sister (who was ten years younger than she was), and her high school sweetheart whom she ran into again a few years after my father’s death and with whom she hit it off spectacularly.
My mother is eighty.
Many of her friends have also passed away in the past few years. Many were older than she, many the same age, some a little younger.
I think Rosemary was fifty-nine. She would have turned sixty today.
She was this amazing, vibrant, incredible, wonderful woman. When I think of her, I see her smiling face, her sparkling eyes. I hear her laugh.
My mother loves to golf. At eighty, she is still an avid, active golfer. And she is incredibly good, too.
She has many golfing women friends. Of all ages. She regularly golfs with a woman who is about thirty-five. There really are not a lot of women who are eighty, who still golf.
My mother met Rosemary while golfing. And they became very close friends. Rosemary was a very special, very amazing woman. She was full of this contagious energy, which touched everyone she met.
About five years ago -- maybe a few more, I am not sure -- Rosemary had breast cancer. And she beat it. She was cancer free. She helped my mother run a “Race for the Cure” golf tournament to raise money for breast cancer research.
When I moved back here after my divorce about three and a half years ago, I knew who Rosemary was. Because my mother talked about her all the time. I started to talk with Rosemary on the phone on occasion myself, when she was calling for my mom; she was one of the few people who could tell my voice apart from my mother’s with no trouble at all.
And then Rosemary convinced my mom to convince me that I should play paddle tennis at the Y on her ladies’ team. We were the bottom of the rung team, basically a bunch of women who enjoyed playing paddle tennis and just wanted to hang out together and have fun. I didn’t have a paddle, and certainly couldn’t afford to go out and buy one. So, Rosemary gave me her “beginner’s paddle.” It was an older paddle that had made the rounds, so to speak. Someone had given it to her when she was first starting to play, and now she was giving it to me. When I found another woman whom I thought should start playing paddle tennis, I was to give the paddle to her. And so on.
Rosemary was my mother’s friend. She quickly became mine as well. We had set partners for our paddle tennis matches, but when we practiced we would often switch around and take turns playing with each other. I can remember being paired with Rosemary one day. We both had black sports pants on, but hers were Capri style. I halted play for a moment so I could hitch up my pants, so we could look the same – since we were a “team.” I will never forget the sound of Rosemary’s laugh. It was genuine and deep and real.
I remember seeing Rosemary at my mother’s surprise 80th birthday party this past summer. All of the ladies my mother golfs with had planned this elaborate surprise luncheon and party. It revolved around a golf tournament, the Grande Dame Tournament, and it just “happened” to be on my mother’s actual birthday. There were women golfers there ranging from about thirty to eighty-five.
Rosemary was beaming when she handed me a glass of champagne. All of the lady golfers were lining up on the 18th hole, waiting for my mother and her partner to play in. There was a huge banner spread out behind them, saying “Happy Birthday to our Grande Dame!”
Rosemary was radiant, happy, full of her usual joi de vivre.
It was in late September, or early October, that she told my mother she had been diagnosed with uterine cancer.
Out of the blue.
They said it was not related to her earlier bout with breast cancer. This was something different. New.
The prognosis was good.
At first.
Or maybe that was what Rosemary told my mother.
At first, it seemed relatively simple. They were going to have her undergo a hysterectomy and get rid of the cancer right away.
Only then they found there was some irregularity with her kidneys. And they would have to clear that up before they could operate.
And then. Suddenly. Other complications started arising. Which kept postponing the surgery.
And suddenly everything was a lot more complicated. And the cancer, it seemed, a lot more widespread.
They did chemo. And maybe radiation. I am not sure.
Rosemary lost all her hair.
She would come, on days when she felt OK, and play bridge with my mom and some of her other friends. She wore a wig. My mother was encouraged.
Even though some of my mom’s friends – you know, those women who know everything about everything and are determined to be the bearers of bad news – said that women with the kind of cancer that Rosemary had, at the stage it was in, did not survive.
My mother talked with Rosemary on the phone, encouraged her to come out when she was feeling well, and I think was hoping that Rosemary would get better.
She went to see Rosemary at home, late in December. When things weren’t looking so good. They had a special few hours together.
My mother kept in close touch with one of Rosemary’s closest friends, who was helping take care of Rosemary at home. Towards the end. When her husband was completely overwhelmed.
Rosemary had been in and out of the hospital so many times. She was retaining a lot of fluid. Was not responding to treatments anymore. They stopped the treatments. And sent her home.
They told my mother she would not live much longer. She would not make it to her next birthday, which was only weeks, days away. My mother was in shock.
Rosemary was not even sixty. She was this amazing, incredible, vibrant woman, who had already beaten cancer once. She had two young sons, in their twenties; her husband had just retired. My mother said prayers for Rosemary, and sent her notes and cards. And kept in touch by phone, even if only with Rosemary’s husband or caregivers.
One day, out of the blue, Rosemary called her. They had a nice long talk. My mother said she sounded like the old Rosemary. She was tired, but she sounded like Rosemary.
It was the last time they talked.
Rosemary passed away at 10:39 pm on Sunday, February 11, 2007.
Today she would have been sixty.
There are times in my life where I wish I could make that T-sign for “Timeout!” with my arms, and the whole rest of the world would freeze. And I could go off into a corner and cry my heart out.
Whenever I think about Rosemary, I start to cry.
I cannot be crying in my real life.
I cannot show emotion and sadness as I drive down the road, shop at the grocery store, work at the Reference Desk, teach my students, cook dinner, or do anything.
I cannot be crying.
Rosemary was one of my mother’s best friends. I know how I hurt, and then I think how much worse my mother must hurt. And Rosemary’s husband. And sons. And family. And close friends.
The world has lost a truly amazing woman.
I cannot cry.
But it is all I want to do.
And, in the end, it is what I do.
Happy Birthday, Rosemary!
I love you.
posted by delta at 11:49 PM
1 Comments:
words fail me.
I am so so sorry for your, and your mom's, loss. and for Rosemary.
you can always cry around me, you know that, yes? I will NEVER EVER think less of you or anything, and I can even cover the desk for you if need be : )
If I hug you tomorrow, try not to sock me one; it's just my way of expressing what i can't seem to find adequate words for.
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