October 16, 2010

A Woman In A Store

I can't write about my sister. Nearly three years on, I still can't write about the day she died, or the events preceding it. However I think about her constantly, and her loss informs everything I do, and feel.

On Saturday I wandered into a shop in Bondi Junction. It was the day before my birthday and I was looking for a gift for myself. As I ran my hands along a rack of grey tops, a woman entered the store with her two small sons. She was short, blonde and plump, with an open, friendly face and a no-nonsense manner.

"Okay kids, sit yourselves down, we have to do this quickly," she said. The boys sat obediently and she began sorting through racks.

"This will be good," she said. She grabbed a dress and threw it on the counter. "And I think she'd like this... and maybe this..." Clearly the woman was not buying for herself, and I was impressed with her quick decision making and evident generosity. I'm not at all sure why I struck up a conversation, but something compelled me to approach her.

"Are you buying a gift?" I asked. She turned and nodded.

"They're for my friend," she told me. She glanced around at her boys and mouthed the words. "She is D-Y-I-N-G of cancer. I can't take it away, but I thought I could at least buy her something to make her feel nice."

I hadn't expected that response at all. I was quite overcome. "That's so lovely of you," I said.

The woman shrugged. "She isn't well enough to shop, and even if she was she doesn't have any money. And I do have money so at least it's something I can do for her."

We began to talk, and the story unfolded. The woman's friend, I'll call her Lisa, is the mother of three children. Perfectly healthy up until a few months ago, she had an x-ray after physio treatment failed to relieve a bad back. The x-ray revealed extensive cancer in Lisa's spine, which itself was secondaries from a primary in her breast. Surgery, chemotherapy and radiation all failed, and Lisa has only months left to live.

"She's my best friend," the woman told me (I never did find out her name). "I'm taking care of her kids every afternoon. I want to tell Lisa all about what they do everyday and the things they say, but I can't, because it will make her sad that she can't be seeing it herself."

The shop was warm but I had goosebumps.

"I try to stay positive and upbeat," she continued, "but sometimes I just want to cry with her."

I knew the feeling. "You can cry," I told her, and I felt like crying myself. "She knows you're sad. It's okay to be sad together. It's a terrible situation."

She nodded. "I never had much money growing up, and then I inherited a lot. I've got more than I need. But money's become obsolete to me now."

I could absolutely relate, and I told her so. When money can't buy health, wealth becomes useless.

"I just deposited $90,000 in Lisa's account," she said. "I told her I don't want thanks and I don't. I can't make her better. I can just help her financially. She was on a hospital waiting list and I made sure she could be seen as a private patient. It's all I can do."

We talked for a few more minutes as the woman chose clothes for her friend. I told I thought she was doing a beautiful thing, and that, sadly, it was all she could do. We said our goodbyes and I left the store.

Then I thought, as I do so often, about the fragility of life. I thought of how much money can buy, but how ultimately it cannot buy the most important thing of all. I thought about friendship, and love, and how incredibly precious these gifts are. I thought about how lucky I am for being alive and healthy. And I thought of my sister. But then again, I think of my sister constantly.

I can't write about my own loss. But I can tell you this story, and, though the details are very different, the themes are much the same.

And my heart aches for Lisa, and for her friend.

30 comments:

  1. Tears rolling down my face here. Such a moving story. My heart breaks for everyone struck down by this terrible disease and their families. Thank you for sharing - what a difficult moment for you too. You are just so, so beautiful. xxx

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  2. This lump in my throat... These tears... This heart swollen with sadness...

    Grief is one of life's great levellers isn't it? But I also find it inextricably entwined with a sense of gratitude and a heightened sensitivity to the beauty in life. You have shared that here. These children sitting quietly, friendship, love.

    Thank you Kerri for your quietly poignant story. xx

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  3. Kerri I so understand this. Some things are too raw even years after it all takes place.
    I don't know if you know this quote, but I often think of it in relation to someone who I loved and lost and still can't talk about coherently. It's from Thornton Wilder's book about 5 people who dies when a bridge collapsed.
    "But soon we die, and all memory of those five will have left Earth, and we ourselves will be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough....There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning."
    Lisa was helping to make a beautiful bridge
    xxxx

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  4. The woman you met is amazing. Thank you for being so brave to share that story. xx

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  5. And this is the story of my friend, Karen. Now. Today.

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  6. Trying to find the words to say ... what impact friends have on our lives ... the importance of them and their love, so much more important than day to day stuff that we can get so wrapped up in. Thank you for telling this story. And I am sorry for the loss of your sister xx

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  7. Oh Kerri, this is the first thing I've logged onto today and now I'm sitting here crying.
    I have a friend who is dying- secondaries from breast cancer in her lungs and heart. She won't die today, or tomorrow, but she will die in the next few years and I have no idea what to do. We are not besties, but we are close. Our husbands are childhood friends and lifelong teammates. We got engaged (by coincidence) on the same night, shared an engagement party, got married 10 days apart and had our sons 10 days apart. She won't say that she is dying or even admit it to herself, but we know she is. Because she won't talk about it, can't accept it is happening to her, I haven't known what to do- but now I do. When I get back to Melbourne in a few months I am going to go and buy her a dress. She LOVES fashion and would probably choose better than me, but who cares. It's something I can do, for her, but more importantly *about* her. Thank you. Beautiful piece. xxxxx

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  8. Oh Kerrie, you had me sobbing.... Beautiful story

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  9. Your blogs are always wonderful- the total gammut of emotions!
    I am writing through tears like a few others!
    I'm so sorry about yr sister. SO unbelievably painful. But the words you said to that stranger in that shop were just so beautiful.
    You are are wonderful. You would have helped her and yourself that day.
    My family have suffered the heartbreaking loss of a baby recently- and I totally appreciate how you cannot talk about the loss that is so close to you.
    This post - and other amazing blog posts about death of loved ones- somehow gives comfort.
    The human spirit is a wonderful thing.

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  10. That is a beautiful, amazing story. What a friend.

    So very sorry to hear about your sister. Who knew that behind your lovely, sunny personality, which shines through in your writing, lay such sadness?

    A year or so ago I met up with a woman I knew only a little, through my son's school. She talked all evening about her own sister's death from leukemia, only a year earlier. She showed me pictures and told me how her gift was to raise her sister's two daughters as her own. I felt privileged to hear her story.

    My husband, only the other hand, lost a brother twenty five years ago, and still cannot talk about it comfortably. Everyone is different, I suppose, and some of us may be never ready to talk. That's okay.
    Take care x

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  11. Jerri,
    this is a story with great lessons. We need to be reminded of them. But Why do we need to be reminded?
    When my children were 6 & 9 I faced open heart surgery. I was a single parent.
    I sat in bed propped up with 9 pillows...waiting.
    Those children were mine sitting quietly.
    Friends stepped up in amazing ways.
    Took my children to school, collected them, shopped, cooked, cleaned, visited, took my 2 with their families to special events...and they worried. Some came and sat in the rocking chair in my bedroom to talk through their fears, to talk through mine.
    All the 'what ifs' were explored.
    Some of those friends were there for me 8 years earlier when I'd had my first 2 open heart surgeries.
    A few were still there when I had my 4th ten years ago. They have been there for me through every mundane illness along the way; for me there are no mundane illnesses.
    Every day is full of risk & wonder.
    Every day brings gratitude.
    Everyday has the dearest for friends.
    Lisa and her friend are reminders.
    But why do we need reminders...
    Treasure every day every moment
    and tell your family & friends you love them. Often. And lastly act like you love them...
    And Kerrie please let your grief out somewhere somehow or it might make you ill, later.

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  12. Goosebumps.

    Thank you, Kerri.

    I have no words.

    xxx

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  13. I have tears. I have too few words.

    Tears for you, shared in memory of great loss - my father died of cancer 11 years ago, so have the awareness of that gaping hole that sits within, every day. And for the lyrical loveliness of your words, tapping into your hidden pain to share this incredible message with us.

    Tears for the grace of that woman in the shop, who so beautifully exemplified all that is pure and wonderful in human nature.

    And more tears...

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  14. Oh, Kerri, beautifully written. You made me cry.

    Which wasn't all that hard as I found out this morning that it's extremely likely my dad has Motor Neurone Disease (think Tuesdays with Morrie). I feel completely helpless. And I'm probably saying this here, because if I say it out loud to a real person I'll lose it.

    I think he's OK for dresses but maybe I should buy one for myself? To cheer me up, like.

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  15. Thanks for sharing this story Kerri, like others above, it moved me. Funny how random meetings can have such an impact, isn't it?
    What I take away from this story is the amazing strength and endurance of true friendship. How it is something to be treasured.
    My best friend and i have been a little absent in each others lives recently due to distance and the general treadmill of life (kids, work & well, just stuff). She has been my rock through some of the toughest times of my life, and i hers. I don't want to wait till tragedy hits to let her know how much she means to me. I'm going to ring her tonight and tell her i love her and check that she's OK.
    Thanks for the reminder of being there for our friends, in good times and bad...
    Thank you

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  16. Thanks for relaying the story and for the reminder that our health, friends, family and love we share is really all that matters in the end. Can never have too many reminders of that. I also loved Sarah's quote above in her comment - so true.

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  17. My eyes are puddling up too..don't know what to say.I am sorry about your sister (hugs)
    Cancer is also one of life's great levellers ...all ages, all walks of life and money provide any guarantees.
    Yes life is fragile and precious.
    Sadly maybe being a private patient gets you a little easier time and through the health system quicker.

    Good friends like this lady has help ease the incredible burden.I hope she can cry with her friend too.
    Thank you for sharing this story .
    I've been reading Dr Chris O'brien's 'Never say die' ... a reminder that no matter what we have to live each day to the fullest.
    My husband had a 'malignant' cancer diagnosed over six months ago now, it was treated with intense radiotherapy.
    It continues to be a difficult time ...every day I worry ...because of the uncertainty.
    We try to get on with normal things and we just don't talk about it.

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  18. I worked in jewellery retail for just over a year and it was amazing how many people would come in and tell you their sad stories. The other staff and I would often have to duck out the back for a cry.

    Thanks for sharing this.

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  19. Kerri, selfishly, this reminded me of a time a couple of years ago when I was in Melbourne and my sister called me sobbing to say she had a very serious cancer in her jaw. That's what I thought about when I read your Notebook article.

    As it turned out, her GP had made a very serious and careless error of judgement in prematurely diagnosing without a specialist's knowledge, and also, as it turned out, the lump was benign. That error of judgement was made when she was barely out of hospital having given birth to her first child.

    She was operated on in RPA by the wonderful and now late Dr Chris O'Brien who was an amazing neck and head surgeon - and who, so sadly, died of a brain tumour last year. He was wonderful in reassuring my sister that it was quite possibly a benign tumour - and he was right.

    Even now, my feelings of just thinking that I was going to lose my sister are so raw that I can barely bring myself to imagine what you continue to feel.

    I know this post was about someone else's beautiful gesture - and it was eloquent and evocative of what you intended. But I am just thinking of you now - and sending a hug. If I had lots of cash I'd send you another leather jacket too and a bathtub of Nutella. More hugs. x

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  20. This is why I continually strike up conversations with strangers - their stories can enlighten us, and equally, break our hearts. Bravo Kerri

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  21. Thank you so much for sharing all this with us.

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  22. Kerri, you are one of the few people who could tell this story the way you did. Cancer is a cruel ,cruel disease. It rarely gives up, and you have to fight it all the way. Heart rending stuff. Thank you. XXX

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  23. Its so very hard to talk about our own losses - its sort of easier to keep them buried (and protected) deep inside...its not that we are hiding them...its just that to start talking about them though tends to open the flood gates and all those beautiful strong memories come flooding back....then it takes time to re-group.....You never ever forget your loved ones that have passed - it just sort of gets easier over the years, and talking about them is a comforting way to remember them......xxxxx

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  24. There is such depth in your post Kerri that I am in awe.
    You made such a raw and personal journey into a beautiful and touching story of love, care and friendship.
    Eloquent, down to earth, moving and totally shared with love.
    The love of and for your sister never diminishes, even though she is not physically present.
    Meeting with, and talking to the lady in the shop was something very special for you and for her.
    Kerri, no-one can tell another 'how' to grieve. This is a personal and private issue.
    Thank you for your witty, comedic, intelligent and sensitive writing on your blog.
    Love, Denyse XX

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  25. How fortunate Lisa is to have a friend like that.

    You know my thoughts & prayers are always with you and your sister, Kerri.

    xxx

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  26. Oh you acutally made me teary. You are such a beautiful writer xxx

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  27. Kerri, selfishly, this reminded me of a time a couple of years ago when I was in Melbourne and my sister called me sobbing to say she had a very serious cancer in her jaw. That's what I thought about when I read your Notebook article.

    As it turned out, her GP had made a very serious and careless error of judgement in prematurely diagnosing without a specialist's knowledge, and also, as it turned out, the lump was benign. That error of judgement was made when she was barely out of hospital having given birth to her first child.

    She was operated on in RPA by the wonderful and now late Dr Chris O'Brien who was an amazing neck and head surgeon - and who, so sadly, died of a brain tumour last year. He was wonderful in reassuring my sister that it was quite possibly a benign tumour - and he was right.

    Even now, my feelings of just thinking that I was going to lose my sister are so raw that I can barely bring myself to imagine what you continue to feel.

    I know this post was about someone else's beautiful gesture - and it was eloquent and evocative of what you intended. But I am just thinking of you now - and sending a hug. If I had lots of cash I'd send you another leather jacket too and a bathtub of Nutella. More hugs. x

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  28. Jerri,
    this is a story with great lessons. We need to be reminded of them. But Why do we need to be reminded?
    When my children were 6 & 9 I faced open heart surgery. I was a single parent.
    I sat in bed propped up with 9 pillows...waiting.
    Those children were mine sitting quietly.
    Friends stepped up in amazing ways.
    Took my children to school, collected them, shopped, cooked, cleaned, visited, took my 2 with their families to special events...and they worried. Some came and sat in the rocking chair in my bedroom to talk through their fears, to talk through mine.
    All the 'what ifs' were explored.
    Some of those friends were there for me 8 years earlier when I'd had my first 2 open heart surgeries.
    A few were still there when I had my 4th ten years ago. They have been there for me through every mundane illness along the way; for me there are no mundane illnesses.
    Every day is full of risk & wonder.
    Every day brings gratitude.
    Everyday has the dearest for friends.
    Lisa and her friend are reminders.
    But why do we need reminders...
    Treasure every day every moment
    and tell your family & friends you love them. Often. And lastly act like you love them...
    And Kerrie please let your grief out somewhere somehow or it might make you ill, later.

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