July is hot in Texas. Very hot, but it is the month of
my birth, so I usually celebrate it with joy.
Not July 2024.
My dear friend, Mary Vaeth and I began the month of
June with optimism. She is a neighbor, and we met years ago at our monthly book
club, and we clicked at once. Even though Mary is twelve years or so older than
me, we had much in common. She loved reading, visiting and writing. We often
met for lunch.
One June morning, she invited me to her home for
coffee. I arrived and followed her into the kitchen. She opened the fridge,
removed her creamer, and added it to a cup of cold coffee sitting on the
counter. She then took her mug to the table. She forgot to ask me if I wanted
to make my coffee. I didn’t say anything, but we sat and talked.
My sweet friend repeated herself more than once, and I
knew something was amiss. Mary’s memory and vocabulary were exceptional. I kept
looking for unsafe behavior but found none. After our visit, I assured myself
she was safe. I left. I’m not always
with it early in the day, so I thought Mary might be like me on that morning.
Later, Mary’s daughter texted me to check on her mom. I cautiously related the coffee incident. Her daughter thought her mom should see a doctor. Her daughter cares, and Mary is fortunate to have her.
The doctor said Mary had health issues, but they
weren’t severe. So that’s good, right?
Or so we thought.
Mary had talked about going to a retirement home, and
she had found one she liked. It a matter of days, or so it seems now, her wise
and sweet daughter moved Mary to a new location where people could oversee her
care.
Mary was both happy and sad. A new challenge is like
that, don’t you think? We are excited to pounce upon a fresh adventure, but
reluctant to leave the old.
I visited Mary in her new home on June 18. We had a
marvelous lunch. She had met a few
people there, and she introduced me as her “famous author friend.” These new
friends invited us to sit with them, but there wasn’t room, and besides, we
wanted to visit by ourselves.
Mary ordered meatloaf, and I ordered shrimp and pasta.
We had soup and salad first and we both had chocolate cake for dessert. The
portions were small, but it was a scrumptious meal. Most of the residents were
older than me, and I guess their appetites were waning. However, snacks were
always available, and they had a happy hour with wine.
I found it was a good choice for Mary, but I knew she
missed her neighbors and friends.
Toward the end of June, Mary developed complications
and was admitted to the hospital with too much fluid on her body. Mary opted
for a procedure that has a better chance of keeping fluid from returning.
On June 24, my friend had the procedure. Mary survived
and was on the road to recovery. Or so we thought.
On June 26, she was improving. She was sedated and talking to someone. We
didn’t know who. Sedation does that to a person, but on the other hand, people
who are close to eternity often see and hear people we don’t.
Mary was Catholic, and she loved Saint Anthony. She
often told me, “We are on a first name basis. I sometimes call him Tony.” She
knew I was Baptist, and we compared our views. I’d call her at times, and say,
“ask Tony to help me today.” And of course, she would.
I visited her in the hospital on July 4, and she appeared in good spirits.
As Hurricane Beryl blew his way though Houston, and
Mary decided to fly away with him.
How do we replace friends? Family? We don’t. We splice
our hearts with inadequate band aids and live with broken spirits.
But our lives are better for having known and loved
these valued people.
