AA Gifts & Baskets Idea & Advice Blog

He stared at her, and then suddenly bent double.  This was a much worse pain than any so far.

She was helpless.  Nothing in the world could do to relieve it, except to get him into that hospital.  She clutched him to her, hardly noticing what she was doing, and smoothed his hair.  Edward, Edward, help me, her heart cried.  Edward where are you?  And like her son, in that moment, she felt despair settle so heavily on her and she was sure that her husband was no longer there to help her.

Suddenly the boy straightened up.  “All right, it’s gone. It wasn’t too bad,” he lied, and even managed a faint watery grin.  “Pack my bags then, and let’s go.”

She felt dizzy with relief.  Whether she had capitulated before the force of her arguments, or whether it was the chastising warning of that last pain, she couldn’t say.  She didn’t stop to think.

He watched her lug a case out from one of the cupboards and starts to put his things in, not so quickly or neatly as he had seen her pack for summer holidays, but she didn’t make bad speed.

“Shall I put some books in for you to read, Peter?  Which would you like to take?” and she ran her eye over the brilliant backs of the covers.  Adventure in the desert, the jungle, the town, and the country; adventures on the sea, below the sea, up mountains, in planes.  War books and animal adventures.  His world, from the escape from the safety and security of the room.

He surprised her again; cold, sharp, surprise settled on her.” I don’t want any.  I don’t want them anymore. Throw them out.  No, burn them-don’t give them away.  I don’t want other boys to-“

He broke off and turned his head away.

“But, Peter, you’ve always liked adventure books.”

“They’re not true.  There silly.  The only people who get killed in them are the “bads”-“goods” in those books all get through their adventure and come home and tell their families all about it.  My father wasn’t a “bad”.  But he didn’t come home.”

She finished the packing in silence and went done to phone the hospital and to tell her daily woman what was going on.  Mrs. Walters pointedly removed the cigarette from her mouth and dropped ash on the floor and just listened.

“In hospitable?  Poor little soul.”

“Don’t talk like that Mrs., Walters, he might hear you.  I’ve had such a trouble to persuade him, but he’s agreed to go quietly, and get it over with, and I think it’s the best thing.  He had a very bad pain this morning.”

Mrs. Walters clucked sympathetically and put the cigarette back in her mouth.  “Well. What I say is, I do admire you, and the you’re taking it, Mrs. Farley. If it were my boy, I’d be off with my head with worry, not knowing if I’d ever see him again…”

“Of course, I’ll see him again,” Claire said crossly, but it wasn’t any use arguing with Mrs. Walters.  She did keep the place clean, but she firmly believed that her ideas were right and everyone else was staggeringly wrong.  Claire left her and want upstairs to ready.

The Milkman came.  Peter went to the window and looked down.  He hadn’t gotten his horse anymore which Peter thought was a pity.  The milk float was a mistake.  It whirled miserably, and it was so slow that the other traffic on the road made all the usual noises of frustration until it could be overtaken.  No one likes the milk floats.

But it reminded Peter of the holidays when the milkman had brought his boy round to collect the empties.  The boy had been a year older than Peter, and had boasted about his visit to the hospital to have his verracus burnt off.  More pain than torture in the Middle Ages, the milkman’s boy had said firmly.  Peter decided that it might be a good idea to dust go down and have a word with the boy’s father just to check [without disbelieving his mother’s story, of course but she was the sort of pretty, distracted-looking young woman who often get things wrong.]  If that hospital was a Christmas hospital and whether it was likely that they’d have fun there, which he personally which he could never bring to believe.

He crept downstairs. The pain had eased up a lot. He didn’t waste time worrying about why it should do that, but began to plan his verbal opening.  The Milkman liked to joke and tease.  He would start off by getting in quickly.  “Hello, hello, hello, here’s a young gentleman with a posh speech on his tongue to make, I can tell at a glance!” the milkman was fond of saying when Peter was about, and it was irritating.  Peter knew he must start talking first.  Should he ask bluntly: “Is the Joseph and Mary really a

Christmas

Hospital?” but come to think of it sounded silly.  The Joseph and Mary began to carry weight on its own; the sound about it that is at once suggestive.  It might perhaps be better to find out if it was really called that, or if someone else told his mother the wrong thing.

The milkman was being quiet for once, Peter discovered.  Mrs. Walters was doing all the talking “Stood out against going into the hospital all this time he has, poor little devil, but his mother’s got him to agree at last.”

“Yes, well-“the milkman said, hoping to bring in the story about his boy and the verracus.

Mrs. Walter’s wasn’t going to have that.  “What I say is, shall we ever see him again?  Not a bad kid, that one.  I said as much to his mother.  If it was me, I said I’d be asking my self if he’d ever come out again.  Well I mean to say-hospitals are all alike.  Once they get you in, you never come out.  Look at my Perce-“

Pierce Walters was a tall thin, weedy man who came to do the odd jobs.  He had been by way of being a hero to Peter, because he had the bare minimum of tools which he treasured, and he kept them in a shabby old bag he carried as if it contained gold.  Out of the most unlikely bits of wood and rubbish, that no one else wanted, Mrs.’s Walter’s late Husband, had fashioned things, slowly with a care that had been born of waning energy, but the little boy hadn’t known this.  He hadn’t known that Percy Walters’ days had been numbered then. He only knew that he had liked him and that he had been persuaded to go into the hospital and had never came out.

He didn’t stop to hear of the other similar cases.

Mrs. Walters had known and was loudly citing for the milkman’s benefit, nor that would he have realized that they had been hopeless cases from the state.  He only knew that Mrs. Walters was saying roundly that he would never come back to this dear house again, never see his father when he came home…if his father ever came home.  And Mrs. Walters was speaking in that loud, confident, ringing tone of one who was sure of her facts.

He turned to go upstairs again, but the pain came on again and this time he went grey with it.  His Mother came down and at the same time heard the taxi pull up at the door.

“Are you ready, darling?  Do you think that you could help let you get ready?  We really ought to be getting going.”

He looked at her, his faced pinched and grey and somehow much older. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”  He asked of her, and to her fevered imagination, it was the voice of Edward, lighter weight, of course, but the same tone, the same choice of words.

“Why do you say that darling?  I thought we agreed that it was for the best,” his Mother cried.  Her distress communicated itself to him and he believed he was lost, and that she knew he was lost, but there was nothing else she could do.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said and he let her help him.  Wrapped in a grim frozen silence borne of grief and despair, a quiet, nagging fear that was worse than the noisy terror of a normal frightened child.  Peter Farely allowed himself be conveyed to the Christmas Hospital.

One Saturday when I was working at my funeral home, an old lady called me up and said she wanted to make her own funeral arrangements. I picked her up at her home and drove her to the funeral home, which isn’t standard procedure, but if a person has no means of transportation, it is something I will gladly do if I have the time and the staff.

For someone who said she was ninety-one, she was a little fire cracker. She was boisterous and energetic, and she seemed like the type that would definitely live to be one hundred.

She told me something quite different, however. She said that she would be dying soon. Then again, she also said all her relatives hated her and wished she was dead. I listened sympathetically, thinking I was most likely overhearing the ramblings of a paranoid old lady.

She paid for her funeral. When I drove her home afterward, I met her son, and he was as nice as could be. Nobody hated that lady, from what I could tell.

She called me up a few days later with a question about her funeral arrangements. I did the best I could to guide her in the right direction to get her problem solved.

And then I said, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Her response was so bizarre that I’ll never forget it.

She said, “There’s nothing you can do for me now, but I’ll be dead in a couple weeks and then you can embalm me.”

I wrote her off as a crazy lady. But two weeks later she died.

Her son came in to sign all the papers for her funeral. He said he didn’t have a clue what his mother should wear, so I got to go back to her house and pick out her outfit. I’ve never done that before. I always dress people in outfits their families have chosen, but I never got to pick one myself. Being ninety-one, that lady had a lot of vintage outfits and some really cool clothes, and it was nice being in charge of deciding what she should wear.

This was one of the few times when I felt like the person I was taking care of was a friend, and that I at least had a hint of what she was like when she was alive.

When that lady told me she was going to die, which she did more than once, I always brushed her off with remarks like, “You seem very healthy to me”, or “Don’t be silly - you’re going to make it to one hundred!” It seems like accepting the possibility of death is rude. But I wonder if I should have talked about it with her rather than pushing it aside.

I imagine if you know you’re going to die, it’s hard to find someone who will talk to you about it. It’s strange that even I am uncomfortable acknowledging death.

With every passing year, as her health declined, I found myself praying that she would make it to the next Thanksgiving meal, the next birthday, the next Christmas… The cancer could have taken her at any moment, but we celebrated every holiday like there were many more to come. Sometimes, in the back of my mind, I would ask myself if this would be the last…

No matter what the occasion, a deep sadness throbbed from within, plaguing my holiday thoughts with the threat of a correct medical prediction. She wasn’t supposed to be here, according to all of the doctors, but four years after her diagnosis, she was still going strong. Throughout the years, we were hit with death sentences of two weeks to two months, but she proved them all wrong. It was an emotional roller coaster that sometimes left us not knowing which way was up.

Since my mother-in-law was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I think we all needed something to grab a hold of in order to embrace impending challenges. Although pink was the designated color of breast cancer awareness, we first thought it stood for all cancers and used this color to show our support and love for the matriarch of my husband’s family, who was battling colon cancer. The color became our shield. We all wore pink ribbon pins on our jackets and pink rubber bracelets on our wrists. If we came across anything pink, we had to have it.

One particular Christmas was an event that I will never forget. The tree looked like an angel standing in the middle of the living room. It was a vision of white and gold. Under the tree, an explosion of cream and gold-wrapped presents sparkled. For the majority of my mother-in-law’s gifts, we decided to go with the color pink.

Propped up in a straight back chair in the middle of the living room, my mother-in-law looked exhausted, but she still forced a smile. With her grandson beaming beside her, she slowly unwrapped her gifts. With each offering, she lit up with anticipation. Pink robes, pink poodle socks, pink hats, pink pajamas, a pink beaded bracelet with pearls…

The exchange of gifts seemed neverending, but when the gift-giving session was finally over, the joyous moment soon passed and was replaced with reality. I don’t know if I was the only one thinking this, but at that time, I pondered whether or not this would be the last time the Christmas tree lights would shine in her presence. A silence set over the room and glancing at my mother-in-law, I detected a shade of disappointment on her face. Did we miss something? Should we have done more? What was she thinking at this precise moment? All of these questions raced in my head.

The following Christmas, the straight back chair was empty and the answers to my questions had become quite apparent. My mother-in-law taught me to appreciate each day, including the little things in life like just being able to get out of bed every morning. I feel she must have been thinking that her presents paled in comparison to the best gift of all… life.

It’s been seven years since the death of my sister. Yet, it feels in many ways like it was yesterday. Time has a peculiar way of sneaking up on us. Even today, one of the most difficult issues in dealing with her death is talking to others about it.

My experience was by no means the most difficult situation a person has had to deal with, but the circumstances of my loss have given me valuable insight into the grieving process.

It was May 7, 1999. I was out with college friends and my girlfriend celebrating my completion of my Bachelors degree. Commencement ceremonies were scheduled for the next morning. In the middle of our friends’ band’s set, my dad called my pager and left the numbers 911. I was suspended in a mixed feeling of confusion and urgency. I called him back and learned that my sister Heather had been in an automobile collision and was being flown by MedEvac to the University Medical Center in Fresno, CA. I turned to my girlfriend, Jessi and told her what my father had said. We rushed to her truck and told our friends we had to go.

Immediately, there was a very surreal feeling to the entire situation. I found myself talking to myself, reassuring myself that everything was going to be alright. Jessi kept ringing in my ears messages of “emergency” and “helicopter,” fading in and out as my senses scrambled to understand the seriousness of the matter. The basic message I got from Jessi was “grave danger.”

When we arrived at the hospital, my senses continued to decline. Shock set in. I ran into the entrance. I was informed I had to go through a metal detector, a rather simple procedure which I do quite regularly. This evening, the simple request pushed a button in me. I broke into tears and shouts informing the woman of my situation and how my sister was in there. Her logical mind informed me that if she was in there it was likely I couldn’t do anything to help her. She told me that Heather was in the best possible care. She continued to inform me that if I would just calm down and go through the metal detector I can get into the building.

Although I consider myself a logical person, this had no bearing. It took the stern, but gentle guidance of my girlfriend to take me towards the metal detectors, assist me in emptying my pockets, and walk me through to the other side.

Shortly after arriving in the general waiting area, the rest of my close family and friends arrived. We were then escorted through the hospital up to the Intensive Care Unit and to a waiting room. We were met by a lovely woman who was a volunteer with the organization known as TIP (Trauma Intervention Program). She immediately took us into her care. She informed us of the current status of my sister, and told us that she would communicate between our family and the hospital staff. Anything that she could provide for us she would, she assured us.

Unfortunately many of the details of this experience are a blur. The ones that remain played a tremendous role in assisting me through my entire grieving process.

First, I was surrounded by family and loved ones. My parents and grandparents were all there. This was by no mistake. They had traveled to be with me and my family for my graduation. My aunt was there. So was our good friend. While waiting in limbo for some understanding of what Heather’s condition was, we passed the time trying to comfort and encourage one another. We recalled stories together. We cried together. We prayed together. It was the most emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausting experience of my life. I kept hanging on to the hope that she would pull through.

I wanted to believe that God would make her well again, that she’d come out of it okay. Despite the knowledge I had of the injuries she had sustained, I wanted her to remain with us.

After hours of tears, laughter, prayers, and even a little sleep, I was awoken by the TIP counselor. She told me that my parents wanted to talk to me out in the lobby. I was still groggy with prayers on my lips and sleep in my eyes. I just barely remember being taken out to my parents holding one another in the hall. They looked at me. My mother called me to her. With tears streaming down her face, she told me that they had decided to tell the doctors to stop. They had done all they could do for her. We had to let her go.

After that, tears. Yelling. No, this isn’t happening! I recall an “I hate you for this!” To whom that was directed exactly, your guess is as good as mine. They walked me towards the door of the operating room. My mom wanted me to have the opportunity to see her.

As difficult as that was, what I saw has forever transformed my life. I saw something that resembled my sister, but had nothing of her spirit. I saw an operating room, a table, medical staff exhausted and grief stricken. I don’t think I completely realized it at the time, but this gave me a type of closure, something very important for one who is grieving.

I still had many stages in the grieving process to experience, but for the moment at least, I was experiencing a level of acceptance. It was still so immediate and surreal that I don’t think I comprehended what was happening. I knew that I was extremely sad, and that I felt extremely robbed. I understood, however, that what I saw on that operating table was not my sister. There was no life there, and she was full of life. This made things easier, somehow, and I managed to get the strength to make it to my apartment to lie down for about an hour. I woke up, showered, and got dressed for my graduation. When people ask me how I managed to attend a graduation in the midst of such an emotional time of my life, my response is “how could I not?” My choices were clear. I could admit total defeat and quit, or I could do what I knew my sister would want me to do and graduate.

For me, more than anything else, understanding that Heather was a spirit has been the most helpful thing in finding peace. That spirit was what I had come to know and love. I even admired her. I still do. As often as possible, I let the spirit move me and do things that she and I would have done: midnight runs to Taco Bell, dancing in front of a video camera, or eating graham crackers with chocolate frosting. I say things that I could imagine her saying. I was fortunate enough to receive some of her possessions. These things are all important for allowing her spirit to live on.