She Will Take Care of You

Today, the life of someone I met only three times will be celebrated. She was 69 years old, just short of three score and ten. She is survived by a daughter and son and a granddaughter and grandson. Only the daughter lives nearby; the others live on two coasts and in a foreign country.

The first time I met Judy, she wore a red bandana to cover her head, robbed of the beautiful grey hair I later saw in photographs taken only last July, when she, along with family here in the states, traveled to Scotland for her son’s wedding. The night of our first meeting, I was in the company of our mutual friend, Steve. We all sipped wine and casually watched the television—shows that had become tradition for Steve and Judy—while we also explored a little of our commonality. The toll of disease was apparent on her face, but not in her demeanor.

A few weeks later, I accompanied Steve on another visit. I brought roses—pink ones. After Steve and I had trimmed the stems and put the blooms in a vase, I sat them on a low table near Judy and commented that I had brought pink because I didn’t know her favorite color. “Yellow,” she replied, smiling. “My favorite rose is yellow—the Yellow Rose of Texas,” I smiled back. “I’ll bring yellow next time.” The day of this visit, knowing in advance from Steve that Judy’s disease had claimed more of her, I told my friend Suzi that I was anxious about going to see Judy. I don’t give myself much credit for having strength in the presence of someone with a death sentence hanging over her head, even though I had plenty of practice with my own mother over a five-year period. What do you say to someone you barely know? This is one time where the elephant in the room doesn’t really deserve much attention. “Don’t worry,” Suzi advised. “She will take care of you.” And Judy did.

The last time I saw Judy, her son had traveled from Scotland to be with his mother, even though he already had plans to be in Santa Fe some time in the next three weeks. We know what we must do. On that Friday evening, Judy didn’t wear the bandanna. Silver down crowned her head. I took yellow roses, the best of the lot from the local supermarket. They were still in their bud stage. Steve, Richard and I had wine. The television was on but muted. I expressed interest in seeing pictures of Richard and John’s wedding last July. Among the images was mother, Judy, smiling and robust, at her son’s special event, only six months before. Where does the time go?
We had good conversation. Richard returned to Scotland on Monday.

Steve told me on Tuesday that Judy was in the hospital, and that she had carried the yellow roses with her. They opened during her three-days there, he told me later. By Thursday, with less than a week passed since our last visit, Judy had finished this part of her journey. Only a week since we had seen Judy and Richard, enjoying one another’s company—only a week since we had made plans for Richard and John’s visit in early February. We would pick them up at the airport. There would be no February trip to Albuquerque to welcome Richard and John. Instead, Steve and another friend traveled to Albuquerque to gather Richard. His mother had died at one that afternoon.

So today I am reminded that there are no random events in our lives. I have been blessed to grow a little more—to learn once again that we all take care of one another in some way, no matter how small it may seem at the time. I have witnessed another son having to say good-bye to his mother. If I am blessed, I will continue to learn about how friend mourns the loss of friend. I won’t be at the celebration of Judy’s life this afternoon. My golden opportunity is a sweet memory of a few hours shared. Yellow roses have become more than symbol and legend in my homeland.

She Will Take Care of You—Santa Fe, New Mexico (February 2, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis