I pulled out of the driveway to take Jim to work. He synced up his playlist and flooded the car with “Let It Be,” and I swung around the corner to see a cherry red pick-up truck charging up the hill and heading up the driveway of the Helen Purcell home.
And I gasped involuntarily. The woman driving the truck was short enough to be peering over the steering wheel, and I could see her shining blonde hair and the determined set of a high-cheek-boned face.
I gasped because Automatic Mind told me, “That’s TERRI.”
But Reasonable Mind said, “Terri doesn’t have a cherry red pick-up truck, and she wouldn’t be in Zanesville, anyway.”
And Grieving Mind demolished the whole thing. It said, “Terri died on Saturday.”
Jim turned at my gasp.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing, Buddy,” I answered. “We’re good. Case of mistaken identity.”
But Grieving Mind whispered, “What’s wrong is that Terri died on Saturday.”
When Terri got her shocking diagnosis early in January, her daughters started a special Share and Care for Terri Facebook page. It became a busy place, with people posting pictures and inspirational thoughts and words of encouragement. Early this week, after news of Terri’s death had filtered out, someone posted this: Be the things you loved most about the person who is gone.
It was on a pretty background and attributed to something called Bohemian Quotes, and I looked at it for a minute before I thought, “Whatever THAT means.” It struck me as glib, and in the raw, angry aftermath of a dear friend’s death, I didn’t want any suggestion that, “Here! Just do THIS, and it’ll all be good,” although I realized, deep down, that the person who posted it hadn’t meant that at all.
So I dismissed that little saying, but, like an ear-worm, it burrowed.
When Ott called to tell us about Terri’s death, he talked about the beautiful 48 hours that led up to it.
They watched her favorite movie.
She got up and into her wheelchair, and sat at the back door, where she told Ott exactly what he needed to do, and when he needed to do it, to maintain the beautiful garden she’d created.
She read, or someone read to her, her favorite children’s lit.
And deep into the night before she died, her beloved family gathered with guitars and voices, and they sang Terri’s favorite songs, a caring, loving chorus.Then, I think, she fell into her final sleep. I like to think that she started her journey on a wave of well-loved song sung by best-loved voices.
Be the things.
A lot of Terri’s things were about nurture.
She nurtured her garden, which was a magical place, with a medley of thoughtful, beautiful plantings. Terri tuned in to nature and the change of seasons. And she would write, sometimes, in her emails, about what was happening in her garden.
She had art in her garden, too, pieces that expressed something very special to her.
I am not a gardener, but last year, Mark noticed the resemblance of the hedge in the front yard to a sinuous caterpillar. We made it some eyes and a mouth and deedly-boppers; we painted a paver to look like Eric Carle’s book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I found and read a book called A Fall of Marigolds, and I painted a brick to look like that cover, and I nestled that brick in the marigolds, which are one of the few flowers the deer won’t eat. I thought I could paint the old three-wheeled grown-up bicycle in the garage black, plant its capacious basket with more deer-repugnant flowers, and paint a paver to look like the cover of The Wizard of Oz.
I had more ideas, too. Terri was excited. She and Ott were going to come, this summer, and see how far we’d gotten with the storybook garden.
On Monday, not even 48 hours after Terri died, the first drowsy daffodil in my front patch opened its sleepy, bell-shaped blossom.
Terri nurtured the people she worked for, and with. She came up with wonderful events. She facilitated art and music therapy activities for grown-ups and kids. At many of these happenings, the kids walked away with a blanket and a book. It was important to Terri that we encourage kids to read, and thus to dream, and just maybe, then, to be carried forward on the strength of that dreaming.
She hosted teas with gardening themes and crafting themes and themes of magical stories like Harry Potter’s. She conceived and created Women’s Enrichment events. She masterminded a yearly fund-raiser for her organization, the Soul Shine Blues Festival.
Terri listened to people. And she took the things she loved best and rubbed them to powder in her hands and distilled them into the work of everyday life. In the doing, she helped and fortified others.
I cannot cook in my kitchen without using something that came from Terri—my ceramic flour scoop that arrived in a surprise package one day; the metal mixing bowls, and the spices and sauces, that were part of the Soulshine basket that we won.
I have a drawer full of notes from Terri because she was the kind of person who wrote thinking of you notes and thank you notes in her bold and happy, artistic hand.
Our friend Debbie got a thank you note from Terri in the mail on the day that Terri died. In her last days, she was grabbing a pen and writing her thoughts and nurturing far-off friends.
Terri nurtured her home. She changed the decorations by season. In her last Christmas, sick and in pain and not knowing why, she would email daily about her progress in getting the trees up, setting out the children’s Christmas books she loved, putting her cherished decorations on the shelves. I have no doubt Terri’s last Christmas house was a magical thing to see.
The house and the garden and even the work activities, many of which drew her husband or her children into their mesh, were all about family, which was the thing Terri nurtured most fiercely. She loved her husband and kids and daughter-in-law and grandchildren, and her parents and sister and brother and her nieces and nephews and in-laws and extended family and special friends, her family-of-the heart, with the kind of unconditional love that we should all experience just once in our lifetime.
We talked in February when there was still some semblance of hope. We talked about the possibility of nurturing the body so it can set healing processes in play. We talked about the maybe of one last chance at chemo. And Terri said, “I think my grandkids need me here. Does that sound crazy?”
It didn’t sound crazy. It sounded right and true and heart-breaking. Of course those children need that kind of buoying, believing, visioning love.
Terri loved music, and her family reverberated with that. Ott plays professionally and Terri would go, almost weekly sometimes, to hear him. He played, too, in church, and he passed his musical gifts on to his kids. As a family, they can make a damn fine noise. Terri often posted video on Facebook.
In her last year, Terri got herself a dulcimer, and she was teaching herself to play it, to add a new and traditional dimension to the family chorus.
Terri had felt sick a long time before she was diagnosed. She called for appointments; she asked for tests. For whatever reason, her medical folks didn’t listen to her. It’s a pulled muscle, one told her. They recommended things to reduce stress.
I don’t know if it would have made a difference, in the long run, had she been diagnosed in August instead of January. But it tears my heart that no one listened to her.
There were other disappointments, too, in the days after her diagnosis.
I dealt with her illness by stewing in a broth of anger and resentment on, I thought, her behalf.
But it was clear, in that last weekend, in that last precious visit, that Terri had faced those hurts head on, and synthesized them. She had jettisoned her anger and come to acceptance. She forgave. She let it go, and she found, it was clear, the joy in every last day.
Each year, Terri picked a word that was kind of a token or a talisman for her. This year her word was ‘shine,’ and she did, in those three short months she had left. And she does, in a legacy too rich and lasting to let the glow diminish.
She inspired me to choose a word, too. My word this year is ‘courage.’ I was thinking about making bold changes and striking out bravely on new paths. I didn’t think I’d be calling courage into play to deal with my dear friend’s death.
Be the things you loved most about the people who are gone.
I have two regrets: I wish I had told Terri more often how important and wonderful her special qualities were. I wish I had tried harder to emulate them when she was here.
And I know this: no one, none of us, can try to do the things she did the way that Terri did them. She is irreplaceable, and the world is changed because she’s gone.
But we can—I can—carry forth the spirit of the things that Terri loved.
I can build that garden.
I can put a stack of CD’s in the car and pick one out to play when I drive to teach my night class. I will crank up the windows and bellow along, in my flat, hoarse voice that no one else should be subjected to, just loving the music.
I can see my house with new eyes and hang things and display things that say beauty to me, that speak to me of seasons and time and what’s important.
I can write a note to a friend.
I can give a book to a child.
I can remember, everyday, to tell the precious people in my family that I love them.
I can face my hurts and resentments head on, and let them go, taking the long, hard slog to forgiveness.
I can, as Terri did, appreciate and marvel at each and every day.
And I can let those regrets change the way I do the business of life. I can see, wide-eyed and mindful, the wonderful things that those I love put into play daily.
I see, I can say to them, your humor, your steadfastness. Your devoutness and devotion. Your imagination and artistry. Your gift of love and your gift of perseverance.
I see those things, and I can never do them the same way that you do. But I can appreciate them and I can emulate them, in my own way, through my own lens. Because you, and the things you do, are essential. The world needs those things.
And one day, this train is going to stop, and you and I are going to have to get off. Someone, though, will try to carry on.
Be the things you loved most about the people who are gone.