The most precious 2 hours

I had meant to take James for the afternoon so that Terry and her family could have a break—that way she could deal with all the doctors’ appointments and other things she needed to attend to without a 6 year old in tow. The play date was scheduled for Tuesday. However, the phone rang at 7:40 AM. Terry decided to change plans. She insisted that Zefram come over to her house for the play date instead of me taking James off her hands for the afternoon. I was shocked but Terry reassured me that it would be perfect. There was no arguing with Terry. She had made up her mind. Terry insisted that I start writing on my blog again. She was adamant. “You need to write” she told me. “Besides, it is all set up. My niece is coming over to watch the kids. It will be perfect. Go home and write” she told me again. It was an order more then a suggestion, so what could I do.

My problem with writing was that I felt inadequate to put the words down. After all—I am no one special—I am just a regular person, I happen to have dyslexia, and my voice does not do justice to the grand overwhelming issues that take place in the world. Although I thought that this was a perfectly good reason not to write, Terry thought otherwise. Whatever writers block I was having (and no matter how sorry I was feeling for myself) I needed to get over it fast. Terry’s call was no doubt the Universes way of giving me a good solid kick in the right direction. Nevertheless, I was shocked by Terry’s insistence to write. I could not believe the gift I was being given. Terry is dying from cancer. I am supposed to be giving to her, not the other way around. But one of Terry’s many endearing qualities is thinking of others even in the face of her own adversity. She is always trying to do good things for others—even at the very end. So with a grateful heart, I obediently dropped Zefram off and came home to write, determined not to squander the 2 hours I had been given by a dying woman. They were the most precious 2 hours that I had ever been given. These 2 hours were more special then gold or diamonds because in reality time is the only true possession that we have as human beings and how we spend it is so very important. I was thankful for the 2 hours and was surprised at how much I had accomplished upon my return to Terry’s house.

When I told Terry how I had spent my 2 hours she simply smiled at me over her walker obviously very satisfied. She said I told you that you needed to write. She was so pleased. Terry said that she had woken up that morning and had such a strong feeling that this was something that I needed—she said that she was moved by the spirit and that she knew that she needed to give me this gift. I also realized (in that moment) that it made Terry feel powerful to be able to give something back to me or anyone. Terry could not control dying, or what was happening to her. But she could control how people remembered her. In a strange sort of way, I realized that I had indeed given Terry a gift too; the gift of dignity. I had been willing to RECIEVE her 2 hours and that was as important as anything I could have ever done for her. This made her happy. So the next time I have an arbitrary 2 hours in my life I will think of Terry and really contemplate how I use my time. Terry has taught me so many life lessons in the short time that I have known her. I am forever grateful.

Terry’s Tenderness

I have been guarded about writing about Terry Hendrix. Nevertheless, she has been playing an extremely pivotal role in my life for over a year. Terry is the mom of one of Zefram’s friends in his pre-school class. I met Terry due to her overwhelming kindness on a field trip. She was one of the parent chaperones that day, and put my mind at ease that Zefram would be fine. Several weeks later when I had forgotten about a Mother’s Day lunch-in, Terry stepped in to take Zefram under her wing. So it is no surprise that when I had invasive surgery for my Plantars Fasciitis that Terry was there to drive Zefram to and from school while I was on the mend.

From the moment that I met Terry, I wanted to get to know her better. Outwardly, she is just like any other Mom, doing all the Mom things with her son James. But she had a fire in her eyes and sweetness in her soul that is rarely seen so abundantly. All you have to do is to take a look at her relationship with her husband to know that she is a special person. My friendship with Terry had the humblest beginnings, starting over our children and related common interests. I never knew at the time that I was on the threshold of a life altering experience.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008 was a beautiful day. The sky was a brilliant crystal blue. That afternoon I hobbled down the steps to say good-bye to Terry after she dropped Zefram off after school. Little did I know that I was saying good-bye to the way that I saw the world. The pain killers made me a little loopy as I stood there suspended on crunches. Nevertheless, I will always remember seeing Terry on the porch that day. She looked so lovely and radiant. Terry was always smiling and I was affected deeply by her jubilation for life. She stood about 5’3 weighing a hundred and twenty pounds beaming from ear to ear. I asked her, “What is your secret to happiness?” She simply said that life was short. Terry was a cancer survivor and she was resolved to living life to the fullest in every moment. I was shocked that she had gone through so much but was even more stunned by how magnificent she was in that moment.

The next day, Terry’s husband gave me a call. There was an ominous sound in his voice. Terry had experienced a seizure overnight and was in the hospital. In true Terry fashion being worried about others more then herself, she had her husband call me right away so that I could make alternate plans for Zefram. Two weeks of testing determined that the cancer had returned with a vengeance. This time the cancer had found its way into her spine and her brain. She started a regimen of chemotherapy and steroids and slowly her world and body morphed. Within months she looked like a different person. One day she joked that she felt like the Buddha except less enlightened. She was now bald and had the voluptuous figure of a Raphael painting. But the cancer never touched her spirit. This is the miracle of it all. The fire in Terry’s hazel eyes burned more intently then ever, and still does.

There have been many ups and downs for Terry and her family. The Medical Community can no longer cleanse her body of cancer, but she is resolved to face each day on her own terms. I constantly marvel at her strength and am touched by her love. Terry is a true hero. She is a hero for getting out of bed in the morning to spend time with her four year old son. Other times she is a hero in the way she smiles or hugs someone. Every task that Terry does, regardless of how simple or immense makes her a hero, because she is making a conscious decision not to go quietly into that dark night.

Terry has every right to be angry. Angry at the world, at fate, at God; but more times then not she drinks every moment in like sunshine like she is storing it up for a rainy day. Most would consider her situation the rainy day yet she still looks to the future. I am not writing the story of Terry for you to feel sorry for her. She of all people would not want that. I write this story because Terry has found the secret to life and happiness despite her circumstances. Terry has shown me that it is our relationships with one another that make us strong and make every moment worth living. Slow up and love well and often would be her motto. As for me, I will always remember Terry’s great tenderness. To be with her is to share a moment with God. Sometimes that moment is shared in smiles, sometimes in tears but mostly it is shared in her zest for life. Warren Zevon, the musician who passed away from Mesothelioma famously said when asked about his diagnosis “…you’re supposed to enjoy every sandwich”. This pretty much sums up Terry. It’s the simple things in life that bring us joy and contentment, and that is her secret to happiness.