Please Go

Dear Mimi, 


I wanted you to go. I prayed for it, harder than I've ever prayed for anything. I even begged your still form, once.


Even in the moment, I felt guilty for what I was doing. I love you so much, and couldn't bear to think of your bedroom without you in it, let alone an entire plane of existence. And yet, I was hoping you would leave at any minute. As your breathing slowed, we fell into a pattern of stopping whatever we were doing and watching you until you took your next breath. We were simultaneously willing you to take your next breath and hoping fiercely that you wouldn't. At least I was.


The easy thing to say is that we wanted it for your own sake. We didn't want you to suffer anymore, I didn't want you to suffer anymore. Not that you made any of it look like suffering. You fought and you clawed and you railed the heavens, and you napped and watched Oprah and curled up with me in your bed and read books to your grandson. And it wasn't easy for any of us, so I can't imagine how it was for you. And of course, we wanted the cancer to end. And we knew you would have hated the week in the hospital, and we wanted for you to go to peace and love and shining joy and eon-long worship sessions lead by our friend David Jones. 


But, the ache-in-my-chest honest truth is that I also wanted it for us. For me. I could feel us fraying at the edges. The tumbler of life with cancer had already polished off our edges, and I felt us wearing down, wearing away. Simultaneously trying to carry the weight of the situation, always striving to lift you up and support you, protecting and helping you above all things, while also living complete lives of our own. The first few years were easy. We were strong and full of that foamy and sweet hope that clings to your face and goes straight to your head. We KNEW things would get better, we knew YOU would get better. We had buckets of our Hope Brew left over to pour over our friends and extra tankards to clink with the strangers we met in the chemo room. 


When you started to lose weight, I felt everything grow heavier. You were delighted. I was aghast. There is that strange feeling when everything suddenly seems a little out of place, and things start moving in an unexpected way - you can't tell if you are moving, or if the world is moving around you. I started to feel that way, and I realized the drink in my hand had started to go flat with the knowledge of one too many medical journal articles, and 500 too many family meetings about the place the cancer was this time, and the sobering realization of how long we really had been 'at it'.


I described it to SisterCousin at the time by saying that the gut feeling of 'this sucks but it's going to be okay' was suddenly and irrevocably gone. And as much as I did my own fighting and clawing and railing, it would not come back. People around me, looking at me, might think I lost my hope. In fact, I read it on a few shocked faces when they realized I wasn't praying for you to jump out of the hospital bed. There was still brew in my cup, and it was even still called Hope. It just started to change. Foam doesn't last forever. As much as we would like it to and as much as we pretend that it does, it simply does not. And as much as I would like to think I could have held us up, that we could have held you up forever, I know we could not have. 


I found myself staring into my cup, and hoping for whatever was to come next. Because the thing is, I really can't imagine. Even watching it so closely and sharing in it so intimately with you, I can't really imagine or understand what it was like for you to live through everything you did. Not really. I can infer and transfer and fer-fer, but I can't really know. 


At the end, your strength was gone. You were starting to fade from your body even before the hospital. And our arms, steadfastly holding on and up, were weary. I began to look forward to setting down my burden, to anticipate my life without you. Because even though this world -- that sometimes seems filled with your absence -- is scary, and littered with pockets of longing for you, it is nonetheless easier. I don't fear or worry for you. I know you have peace, and I have peace about you.


We could not have held on a minute longer than you did. But we didn't let go until then. We were huddled on the floor together for a week knowing we were done. Unable to lift up any longer, but still holding on. All together. 


But we didn't lose hope. I didn't lose my hope. Not even for a fraction of an iota of a whisper of one thought. I just reached the grace at the bottom of my cup. And when I did, there was nothing I wanted more for you than to go. 


Love, 


A

Tea in Heaven

Dear Mimi, 


I was reading through your travel journals, something I would not have done before you left. I wish I had, they are such a unique view into our travels, and I would love to talk to you about them. 


You recorded your Russia 1997 thoughts into an unassuming blue notebook. 

Towards the end of our trip, you wrote this:


At end of mtg. I didn't minister - no strength, and my Russian lady, friend whose feet I'd prayed for, came + found me. I'd prayed w/her on diff. days, but never w/an interpreter, so we'd never exchanged words that were understood, but many hugs that were. 
She came, with her bags, and I cleared the chair next to me. We hugged + spoke + prayed. Had our picture taken + I said 'Spa-si-ba'. She said 'Spa-si-ba E das vi dan ya' - my 1st Russian goodbye. We prayed more w/ea. other, took turns speaking words we knew the other couldn't understand, and not being bothered by the lack of translation at all. when there was an announcement about having to empty the auditorium, we hugged with tears, and I told her I felt we'd be very close friends if we could live closeby, and that I could imagine us having tea together in Heaven. As she left, she stopped every 2 steps and looked back at me - I remained turned backwards in my seat so I could see her - at the top of the landing she blew kisses and made hand gestures about her heart being with me.


Thinking about a tea party with you and your Russian lady makes me smile. Thinking about all the lives that you touched, all the hearts that were and are with you, and the way you really and truly cared about every person you met, makes me proud to have come from you. Save a place for me at the tea party.


Love, 


A

Mooly, A Definition

Dear Mimi, 


As far as I know, it started with your co-worker and friend Aida. To the three of us, 'Mooly' meant something beyond cool, original, and not necessarily trendy. In fact, mooly-ness probably decreases with trendiness. We, of course, were VERY mooly. 


I don't know why the word 'mooly' is...the word 'mooly'. Was it a word Aida had been using and shared with us? I was 7-ish, was it maybe a nonsense word I made up? Was it the product of a tongue twist? Is it possible we were talking about the unruly moon? Maybe we were talking about cow noises and drooling? I guess it doesn't really matter, as the definition seems to apply to the word itself.


And, you are still the mooliest person I know.


Love, 


A

Now I'm Going to Have to Explain Mooly

Dear Mimi, 


I found a picture frame in your dresser drawer. It is so 'you', yet at the same time, so 'me'. The frame is so much the both of us that I can't remember if I gave it to you, or if it was something you bought and I just happened to love. It was so, totally, mooly. I don't even want to remember whose it was or where it originated as I love our intertwining too much. I absconded with the frame, and it is now on my bookshelf. There is not a picture in it yet, but I'm pretty sure I know who will be in the picture I choose. 


Love, 


A 

Hop on the Potty Train

Dear Mimi, 


Living with a three year old is hilarious. Remember when my three year old thought his Thomas the Train tent was the 'potty train' he overheard us mention? He was so frustrated that he didn't get to go potty in that train. 


Recently, I introduced him to the joys of running around barefoot. Dad had the pleasure of listening to me try to explain the difference between 'bear' and 'bare'. I was not successful, and we now speak of putting our 'bear' feet when we take our shoes off. 


Wearing my bear feet and missing you, 


A

Notes From You, Volume 1

Dear Mimi, 


You wrote little notes and stuck them all over the house. Tiny reminders of things to do, bets you didn't want to lose track of, friends you made, things and people to pray for and about. And personal pep-talks. Written-word cheerleaders dressed in Sharpie, shouting out encouragement in your own hand. These notes are still posted around your kitchen:

Love, 


A 

Mashed Potatoes

Dear Mimi, 

You loved mashed potatoes. I mean, you LOVED mashed potatoes. They were the comfort food of all comfort foods in your eyes. You once told me that you wanted to fall asleep with a bite of mashed potatoes in your mouth so that it would be first thing you enjoyed the next morning. A different time, you told me that you wanted to die with a bite of mashed potatoes in your mouth. Something I've noticed about dying - most people (with some obvious exceptions) don't get to pick what they eat immediately before. Unless of course, they decide to go to sleep with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. Because I'm pretty sure that scenario ends with a feast with Jesus at the Banquet Table, and not so much with the hoped for early morning treat. 

Love, 

A

To Hell With Fear - 1997

Dear Mimi,


I found a collection of photos you put together to chronicle your first battle with breast cancer. This photo was the first in the packet and was labeled, 'Nov 97 - Before Surgery.'


I recognize that room - it is the living room in our Hopkinsville house. I know all the details: the loveseat you sit on, purchased when we first moved to town; the walls painted in the proper Morgan-Dohner palette; the sweatshirt you are wearing, which you painted to read, 'To Hell With Fear'; the couple with you, a local pastor and his wife, his name is some arrangement of consonants - L.B.? L.T.? W.L.?


I remember every thing in that room, except the look on your face. You are smiling, but your eyes are red, you have been crying. And when I look very closely, I see something unmistakable. Yet, it is as unfamiliar a piece of your landscape to me as if you had grown a mountain next to your nose. You were scared. I can see that as clearly as I can see the other details in the photo. I know it as intimately as I know the items in that room. 


I didn't know you were so scared. Or, if I did, I chose to ignore and forget. Or, I was trying so hard to not be scared, I couldn't see it on you. Or, I was too busy learning to be funny to provide levity.


I wish the me that I am now could sit with you on that couch in 1997. I would know how this all ends and could tell you that you have many more years, most of them cancer free. I could tell you that we all make it out of the battle relatively unscathed. I might even tell you about the beautiful grandchildren you would get to play with. Or, I might just snuggle up next to you and finally say, 'It's okay - I'm scared, too.'


Love, 


A

Everyone Who Knows You Will Know What a 'Mimi' Dress Looks Like

Dear Mimi,


I am wearing a 'Mimi' dress today. Even though I am sitting at my desk, in my office, having driven here in my car, from the house that I own...I feel like a little girl. The dress fits me. The sleeves are not too long, I do not trip on the bottom -- but I am amazed that this is so. Am I not eight years old? Shouldn't we be in the house in Orange? These mis-matched earring on your ears, and this dress tented around my frame? If I close my eyes, you are teaching me about purple eye shadow and how to properly clean a paintbrush and not putting stock in anyone else's opinion of me.


When my co-workers commented on my lovely dress, I did not tell them it was yours. I couldn't. If I did, wouldn't they see through me? Wouldn't they see the little girl, dressed up in your clothes? 


Love, 


A