Last Wednesday I had a hard time getting started. Wednesday mornings are devoted to Quilters (which I love), but I was fighting with myself to get out the door. I hadn't been to a meeting in over a month due to the holidays, the incredible 4+ foot snowfall, and car troubles. So why wasn't I chomping at the bit to go spend time with my old hags?
I finally talked myself into it, knowing that my spirit would be buoyed by being in the presence of the ladies.
When I arrived, I was pulled aside to get caught up on a few business matters. The signatures of the members that can write checks on the checking accounts for the group had been passed from two of the oldest gals in our group to two younger members.
On the surface, you'd think that wasn't a big deal, right? In most organizations, the "treasurer" position changes annually. But I've been in this group for about ten years, and the same two people had that position for the entire time.
The underlying reason for the change is what hit me like a ton of bricks. I scurried into the other room and burst into tears. We buried one of our members just two weeks ago — and she was one of the younger members, only in her sixties! The passing on of the checkbooks came because the two older members, both widows, have become increasingly sick over the last year. This checkbook passing was an unofficial and formal expression of our collective understanding that they will not be with us much longer.
The one gal, J, is in her late eighties. She has heart trouble. She had bypass surgery before I ever entered the Quilters group. She's cantankerous and generous. Over the past year, she had to go from doing one of the jobs that requires standing to one where she can sit. She's connected to an oxygen tank all the time now ... and not nearly as cantankerous as she used to be. I sort of miss that caustic tongue.
The other, R, is in her early eighties and has a myriad of health problems. She's the gal we laughingly call "Mother Superior." Every week, the parish priest stops by Quilters to say hello to all of us. Then he and R sit at the end of the room telling stories and laughing together. They've know each other for decades and are great friends.
R is ... like a mother to me. Really practical and pragmatic. Firm in her ideas of how life works, but has room for other opinions. She's fairly liberal in thought. Really kind. Really 'stout' of character. She's one of my closer friends in the gang. She helped me feel like part of the group early on.
R is really not well now. Over the last months, it's become apparent that she can no longer live on her own. The son that lived in town died a couple years ago. Another son is half way across the country. Her daughter is in California.
R landed in the hospital last week following a horrible fall. After a couple days, I finally found the courage to call her, then visit her. Wonderful visit. Now she's moved to a care center for further recovery. When released, she'll be moving to California to be closer to her daughter.
It's that knowledge that sent me into tears.
(And again, tears, as I write).
My friend Susan followed me into the other room, took me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye. "You know what the Buddhists say, don't you?" she asked me.
I shook my head. "No. I don't. But I'd like to."
"The only constant ..."
"... is change," I muttered.
"You do know." Susan squeezed my shoulders.
Sure. I know this. But watching R decline and knowing she is moving away is just a bit too much like watching my mom in her last year of life. I'm sorry for her pain. And I'm feeling sorry for myself that I won't have her confidence, her grumbling, her kindness, her naughty jokes, her being around me any more.
And because of that, I've been avoiding calling her or visiting her since she moved to the care facility.
I'm determined to swallow that discomfort today and contact her. It won't be long until my tomorrows with R will be quite different from my todays.
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