Connie

She’s always called me the daughter she never had.  Connie was a childhood neighbor, a friend of my mothers.  I used to babysit her two boys.  She taught me how to bake and how to iron shirts.  Her husband was an engineer for Boeing in the 1960s and he wore a white shirt and tie to work every single day.  She paid me five cents to iron a shirt when I needed a little spending money.  I don’t iron shirts today without thinking of her and the way she taught me to iron them.

Boeing transferred their family back east when I was fresh out of high school.  We wrote letters, we called often.  When the news came that her husband left her, I was more than a little distraught.  How could he do such a thing?  She was the quintessential mother, devoting all her time to her family.  She had to get a job.

Fortunately, her employer was more than accommodating when her youngest boy, Curt, got diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease and she had to schedule her work around his treatments.  My little Curtie, the one I babysat since he was three years old and loved dearly, fought that disease for three years.  When Connie called to tell me Curt died, I thought I was going to die right along with him.  He was just 21. 

Connie had to bear the weight of losing a child alone.  Robbie, her oldest son, moved back home and in just a few short years, he too was diagnosed with cancer.  It was more than anyone should bear.  She was sure it was the well water from their home in eastern New Jersey.  Sure it was the chemical companies dumping pollutants into their water source.

Even after chemo and Robbie’s oncologist declared him cancer free, the treatments left him permanently disabled, permanently in pain, not able to work.  His cancer has recently returned.

I’ve visited Connie and Rob many times over the years.  They’ve come out my way to visit us, too. After my son was born, Connie was here.   She’s always loved me like a daughter.

A few years ago we were visiting her when Hurricane Sandy struck.  I was so thankful we were there to clean up her property after the storm did its damage.  She’s too old for this, I thought.  She needs to move.  I could see then she’d slowed down.  Her memory seemed to be failing, as she’d write down everything, keeping notepad and pen close at hand.

I hadn’t talked to Connie for months - too busy to call.  I got worried when my birthday rolled around and I didn’t get a card from her.  I’ve always gotten a card from her.  Sometimes the cards were the size of posters arriving in the mail.  She loved sending me crazy things, always reminding me how much she loved me and missed me.

I called her last week. “Hi Connie!  It’s Mickey!” I said, like I have a thousand times before.  “Hi hun, where are you calling from?” she asked.  “Home,” I said.  “Where’s that?” She asked.  She didn’t know who I was.  I told her “Seattle” and she said, “Oh, we have friends in Seattle,” and then went on talking to me like I was a complete stranger.  When I went to say goodbye she asked me my name.  She asked how to spell it.  I had to give her every letter more than once.

Everyone has a story that will break your heart.  Her story broke mine many times, and now, continues to do so.  Sometimes love really hurts.