I settle in at my office desk on Monday morning this week with a writing task before me. But despite my aspiration, words do not come. I wait patiently, with knowledge gleaned from a lifetime, that desire is only a snippet of the compositional formula. If all it required was motivation, legal briefs would be pounded out easily, books would unfold like wrapped presents, and heartfelt thank you notes would flow effortlessly.
But I am not writing a legal brief, a book, or a thank you note. I am penning a card to Janice, someone who is dying and only has weeks to live.
It is telling that Hallmark does not have a category of cards for this occasion. It would have been a relief to have grabbed one with a pre-scripted, perfectly formulated maxim for someone who is terminally ill. But no such luck. Instead, I reluctantly move into the Blank Card section, with only cover stock artwork to choose from. What design is appropriate for someone for whom life is soldiering on for such a short while? Pictures of bucolic cabins, peaceful flower arrangements, and serene sunsets all beckon but they taunt me with their inadequacy. I select a card with an elaborate, origami bird depicted on the front, the intricacy of which parallels the task at hand.
I jot some notes on a piece of paper, waiting for inspiration. I refuse to search the internet for advice, believing that it would be a crutch for the honesty that is required of me. The recipient is a paralegal that I worked with more than thirty years ago when I was an associate attorney, a talented woman that I admired. Due to age differences, and those related to employment categories, we were never close friends. But I depended on her seasoned experience to guide me through the intricate and sometimes bureaucratic pathways of a large law firm. When I left the firm, we did not stay connected, although our paths would cross in conversations with mutual friends.
I sit, trying to stifle a growing sense of anxiety at my limitations. I still the urgent voice in my head that tells me the exercise is beyond me. I have heard that Janice is on hospice care and does not want visitors and that she rebuffs grief-stricken outbursts. I sense that reliance on religious truisms or sentimental platitudes is inapt. I ponder what I would want to read if I were in her situation, what would make me smile or reminisce.
I glance around the room, and my eyes focus on a large, hand-painted cup and saucer with an appealing bright blue and white design, sitting on a bookshelf. It was a present from Janice long ago for an occasion that I do not remember. I walk over and pick up the cup and take in the aroma of the wood chips that nestle within it. To my surprise, the chips’ distinct scent – earthy, almost citrusy – is still evident after all these years. My eyes soften as I return to my desk.
I write about her gift, which has traveled with me through the decades of job changes and office relocations. A part of her has been with me and will remain so. I remind her, with a chuckle, of her patience with me - an inexperienced associate – and I thank her. I remark about how the journey she is on is one that we will all take, and I wish her serenity.
I address and stamp the envelope and put it in the outgoing mail. Because today is a national holiday, it will not be picked up by the carrier until tomorrow. I feel a sense of urgency though I have just learned of Janice’s illness. But Thanksgiving, the prognosticated end date given to her by her physician, is still more than a month away.
Three days later I receive an email from a friend that my card reached its destination that very afternoon. Unfortunately, Janice had died hours beforehand and was unable to read it.
Janice passed away bounded by love and in the presence of her daughter as well as her life partner. My card will be opened and read when her grieving family has the resources to give it its due. My wish is that they will read it and smile and that my awkward sentiments will cause them to pause. I want to remind them of the person I knew in a memory about which they would otherwise not known.
I hope your passage was peaceful, Janice.