A Gentle Death: Part 7 - Mending
By Barbara O'Neil Ross
Part 7: Mending
The year before John died I visited a psychic in California. I've had sessions
with Vivian before. She is a warm-hearted, jovial, sensitive woman whom I have learned to trust. Her insights amaze me. I told her I'm not good at departures and wonder how I can possibly get through the sadness and emotional turmoil of the next phase of my life.
“When the time comes, you will find that you have the strength.”
. . . . .
It is nine months after my visit with Vivian. The minister, David White, and I are putting the finishing touches on the memorial service. I've had six weeks to plan it since John's death. Incorporating John's suggestions, I have encouraged some of his close friends and family to write briefly of their memories. David and Joan will read these remarks. John's sister and children and two friends will speak about him. We have gone back and forth on e-mail honing these comments and reducing duplications. Organizing the service is a healing creative process, a way to distract me from the silence and the sorrow. I love reading what people remember about John and the tenderness and humor they express.
February 1st finally arrives - a raw white day. My beloved sisters and their families have arrived, and we are waiting in a side room at Christ Church. The church is crammed and I can hear the strains of “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place.” I know this is going to be a deeply satisfying tribute to my lovable quirky husband. I find a strange calm sweeps over me, and I think of Vivian's assurances. I have a great sense of anticipation. It's as if I have produced a play and look forward to the audience's response.
Sitting in the front row between my stepdaughter and sister-in-law, I am deeply involved in the words being spoken, and find I can actually sing the Navy Hymn without crying. Part of me feels as though I am watching from above. I am looking forward to the moment when the minister reads the story of “Old Fluff.” I have written up this family legend and know it will be warmly received, adding a moment of comic relief. At last it comes, and David reads it with just the right straight-faced expression:
John had a favorite old sweater, a tawny-colored wool cardigan, that he called “Old Fluff.” Holes, particularly in the elbows and wrist areas, had been patched and mended many times over the years. It was in a very frayed state when it was suggested one day that it might be time to retire this garment - NOT a welcome thought. About then John discovered in The New Yorker an ad for a Sweater Hospital in Maine. So he carefully bundled up the sweater and sent it north with a letter that said, “Enclosed you will find 'Old Fluff' - I hope you can revive her.”
Within a week a letter arrived:
Dear Mr. Ross:
We have received 'Old Fluff', but due to her critical condition, we have had to put her in Intensive Care , which will cost an additional $8.25. If you would like us to proceed with the operation, please let us know.”
A few weeks later “Old Fluff” came home, restored, and ready to start a second life.
The story is accompanied by ripples of hearty affectionate laughter from the congregation. For me it is a short interlude of profound joy.
