the 11th good thing about lydia

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look, i hate to do this.
i really do.

i don’t think i choose
death…

it’s just been around so much as of late.

a couple weeks ago we went to another funeral.
this one was for Crystal – one of Leanne’s oncology nurses
when she was sick.

Crystal was 34, had brown hair and shoes and a face and hands
that used to take a big needle and stick it straight into Leanne’s chest.

She also had a husband and three kids, including an infant.

And, since November or so, also had cancer.

Pain during intercourse.

That was her only symptom.
(as if we needed more reasons to not be having sex with each other)

Cervical cancer, undetectable by pap smear.  And then….poof…..
a couple months later and she’s gone.

Before she died Leanne wrote her a letter.
A few weeks later Crystal called.
She asked Leanne what it was like losing her hair.

Leanne had trouble answering.
Later I asked her why and she said it was because
she always knew
that hers would grow back.

On the phone that day,
she knew that Crystal’s never would.

—–

And so I had to explain, again, to Lydia about death.
And again I took this from her bookshelf

I think it was first read to me when we had to put my cat Otto to sleep
after he attacked our sexist mailman, Mr. Christmas, and tore
a chunk of flesh out of his arm.

I read it to Lydia all the time.
It’s my favorite kids book.
It’s probably my favorite book, period.

And so we sat on the bed and read the book
and talked about Crystal and how she looked in the casket
and her lonely kids and husband and coworkers
and how her hair would never come back.
not really.

—–

every time we drive by the hospital
where leanne used to be, i point it out.

it’s the same hospital lydia was born in.

do you remember, i ask?

—–

when i was in junior high my parents got divorced
and moved.  the new neighbors across the street from my
mom’s house invited us for “dinner”.

it was plain raw potatoes and salami on a plate.

later, against my will, i babysat for their little boy.

he was probably 5, the same age that lydia is now.

he rode a big wheel up and down bryant st.

i stopped him once and said:

“remember this.  remember everything.”

he looked at me like i was crazy.

—–

i wonder what lydia really remembers.
the gloves and gown that she dragged all over the ward,
leanne’s face – her jaw clenching from the neupogen,
the endless stream of visitors coming to help us,
the pills, the hair shaved off in the sink.

and then i wonder how leanne knew her own hair
would come back.

—–

in bed i close the book and turn out the lights.
i get close to lydia on the pillow.

“how do you want to die?” i asked.

“softly,” she said.

yes.

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Tags: cancer nurses with cancer, phone calls about hair, sexist mailmen