The Secret of Counting Gifts
by
Heidi Kreider
copyright 2012
~*~
dedicated to my warrior friends,
those who have battled breast cancer and won
and those who are currently in the fight
also
to the memory of those
who have gone on ahead...
save a place for me,
I'll be there soon!
~*~
chapter 1
“Can I get
you anything else, friend?” I ask, offering her the straw to her
ice water.
“No,”
Liz replies, taking a small sip. She can hardly swallow. Years of
battling cancer have taken their toll on my long time friend.
“Time
for gifts?” she rasped. “Here, now?”
“For
you, I have all the time in the world. And, yes, your gifts are on
their way,” I reply, with a small smile. Liz's time, though, is
running out.
Twenty-eight
years ago, I met Liz for the first time. Eighteen years young and
full of life, we thought we could conquer the world as college
freshmen. From the first time we, literally, bumped into each other
in the hall of the Williams Dormitory, we have been inseparable.
Blissfully, we thought we had forever to live life together. We
rented our first apartment together, stood up for each other at our
weddings and held each other's babies. She held my hand when I
buried my father and I stood with her when her husband walked out.
It was I who encouraged Liz to pursue her dream of song writing when
she lacked purpose, and it was I who found her agent. When my son was
deployed, it was Liz who framed his Army portrait and put it on her
mantle. I think Luke is as much her son, as he is mine. And, it was
Liz who threw the party when Luke returned from Afghanistan. No one
throws a party like Liz. The boundaries of our lives blurred long
ago.
“You?”
she quietly asks me. Even in her death, she still looks out for
me... asking me how I am.
We
both know where we stand. Twenty-eight years have not been enough.
Yet twenty-eight years will be all we will have. She will soon go
and I will be the one left. Weeks ago, she began the process of
letting go. We talked about her last days. She insisted that I
gather her “living gifts” as she calls us. She wants her family
around her for her last breath. I spent the earlier part of today
gathering. Her gifts are on their way. Much to my chagrin, she also
made me executor of her estate. It will fall on me to be sure that
her funeral is what she has requested... “please don't wear black,
no hats and for goodness sake, have a party...with balloons!” And,
it will be my responsibility to finish the plans for her daughter,
Jenny's, wedding. Jenny has already asked me if I would walk her
down the aisle in place of her mother. It's funny that I would even
object. As she said... “who else could do it?”
I
don't answer Liz's question, of how I'm doing, right away. Silence
is our companion. I look at her frail body lying in her big queen
bed here at the Estate and I memorize the laugh lines around her
eyes. Much is spoken in the quiet. I want to savor this moment
because I cannot stop time. Seconds, minutes, hours have blended
into weeks, days and years. Together all of those blur into sweet
memories and forgotten stresses that make up a life long friendship.
“I'm
okay. The list is long today,” I answer.
An
understanding passes between us. She knows my list, for she has one,
too. Together we count the things for which we are grateful. It was
her idea to count. As her sickness progresses, Liz's list gets
longer. She has become the most grateful person I know. The days
when our lists intersect are my favorite days. I feel, as if, for a
moment, I am as grateful as she is. Although, we both know this is
hardly true.
“Tell
me first,” she wheezes. I cringe at her labored breathing. I hate
being here with her. Yet, my love for Liz is greater than my hate of
her disease.
I
chuckle. This is a game we play. Liz first came up with the idea of
counting our gratitude gifts together. As the IV dripped the chemo
poison, yet again, last spring, she read a brilliant book aloud to
me. The book spoke to both of us. From that day forth, we began
keeping a gratitude journal, and sharing our lists of thanksgiving
with each other. Of course, she soon learned not to tell me her
gratitude list until I gave her mine. Apparently, I cheat. I didn't
realize it was cheating to say, “Oh, I'm grateful for the sunshine,
too!” when she said it. She never believed me when I told her that
I honestly hadn't thought of it before she mentioned it. Not only is
Liz much more grateful than I am, she is also more thoughtful.
“Ok,”
I say. “Today, November 10, my list is this... you.”
“What?”
she groans. “Cheater!”
“Well,
since I've previously been called a cheater, I figured I might as
well behave as one and list you again. Besides, if you would stop
interrupting me, I will tell you why I'm listing you twice.”
“Go
on” she whispers, closing her eyes.
I'm
touched anew at how much this dreaded disease has changed my friend.
Though still witty and feisty, she no longer has the strength for
long banter or conversation. My heart constricts. For a moment, I
close my eyes as well. What will I do without her?
“Well,
Ms. Elizabeth Renee Ashley-Bower,” I begin taking a deep breath, “I
am deeply and truly grateful for all you've taught me and all you've
been to me. Shall I refresh your memory?”
“Again?”
came the moan from the bed next to my chair.
“Yes,
again! And, again and again and again,” I laugh. “I will tell
you this for as long as your ears are willing to listen to it.”
“They're
listening,” she looks and attempts a smile. My eyes fill with
tears.
Ours
is a friendship filled with tradition. We have Christmas traditions,
birthday traditions, Easter and Mother's Day traditions. We revel in
tradition and have been known to break out singing “Tradition!
Tradition!” from
Fiddler on the Roof,
which, of course, embarrasses our children immensely. Liz and I have
a habit of developing traditions around just about everything. Now
our traditions are coming to an end. Our first Friday pizza tradition
started in our early college days and ended last month when Liz could
no longer chew well. Counting our gifts has become a tradition, just
as telling this story has. When Hospice moved in, ten days ago, we
started our last tradition. Each and every night, I tell her our
story, these details that we still remember. Together we count all
the gifts of gratitude that came along the way. And, as is true to
our relationship, we rarely agree on what constitutes a gift.
“Love
you, friend,” her voice hardly above a whisper. “Find the
secret.”
“Secret?”
I question, holding her hand. “What secret?”
“Secret
of counting gifts,” she whispers, closing her eyes again.
~*~
“There
you go. You're all finished with your freshman registration. We're
so glad you chose to come here. If you step over to that table
there, you will get your dormitory assignment and you can move in,”
the student hired as the university's welcoming committee pointed to
a table a few feet away. “Good luck!”
“Can
I help you?” an older woman asked, as I approached the table
labeled “housing.”
“Ah...
yeah... um... my name is Kristen Murphy.”
“Murphy,
Kristen... you are in Williams Dorm, 3rd
floor North, room 312,” she read off the master list in front of
her. “You should find your resident assistant in the lobby of
Williams. Her name is Julie. Here is your key. Replacement cost is
$7. Good luck this year!”
I
carried my key, my student ID and the registration packet to my
parents' car. My brain felt mushy with information overload. I
wondered how I would find my classes, remember all the information
that I was just given, and not lose my key. A small part of me
wanted to turn around and go home. Instead, my Army chaplain father
drove us across campus to Williams Dormitory and to Julie.
“Feels
like just yesterday that I went off to college,” my mother rambled.
“Isn't this exciting for you, Kris? I just know you are going to
have such a great time here!”
Fortunately,
before I was required to give an answer, my dad found a parking place
in front of Williams Dormitory, my new home away from home... or so
they say. Home is a concept I had never understood. Because of my
father's Army career, our little family moved regularly. We never
lived in one house long enough to make it a home, or to even really
memorize the address. I lived in many houses. I had never been
home.
“Welcome!
My name is Julie and I am your RA. That's short for Resident
Assistant. Are you ready to get moved in?” A small girl, with a
name tag identifying her as 'Julie', cheerfully asked, as we walked
through the open lobby doors.
“Oh,
great!” I muttered to myself. Perky little Julie belonged on the
pep squad as a cheerleader not on the dormitory staff as a resident
assistant. She wasn't big enough to be anyone's RA.
“Pardon?”
Julie asked.
“Please
don't mind our daughter, Julie. She's just tired.” Although
“being tired” was my mom's excuse for everyone's negative
behavior, I was thankful for the excuse and took it.
“Yes,
I'm ready,” I replied, faking a smile.
~*~
