Lesson 4...Use your assigned quote and set the scene

"If I should"

Gertrude Stein said,

“You have to learn to do everything, even to die.”

But I must tell you, having tried it once; old Gert’s quote should have included better instructions or a syllabus with footnotes and a glossary.

A daily planner, with only one page, would surely be a help.
I guess I hadn’t planned on this moment being so scary.
So lonely.
So permanent.
That being said, I hadn’t planned on dying at the ripe old age of 42 either.
I’m not sure I know how to do this with poise. I mean I’ve put up an Oscar winning performance the past month. I have reassured, quoted the percentages, claimed an early victory, and even bragged about my plan to pose for Playboy after this is all over.
“Just wait until they do the women with scars issue! I’ll make us all rich,” I would tease,
“C-sections, breast tumors, hysterectomy,

and now a long and lovely open heart operation scar.”

“Mrs. Bevis,” a soft voice spoke as the ceilings lights flickered on,

“You need to take these meds within the next 30 minutes. I always like to give my patients a little time to get their last thoughts in order,

So, I’ll be back in a few.”
“Already? Really?” I asked, my voice cracking like that of pubescent boy!
“Now, remember, you will not awake again until after the surgery and you will be intubated and unable to speak. Do you have any final questions?” the nurse inquired nonchalantly.
“No, thank you,” my mouth said politely, while my mind screeched something about using the words ‘final’ and ‘last’ in this situation.
I glanced at the generic hospital room clock,

wondering how quickly 5:30 am would become 6:00am.
I needed to stop horsing around. Wasting my precious minutes.
I needed a prayer; a good 12 years of Catholic school, can’t miss, Holy Roller prayer.
“Bless us O Lord, and these thy …gifts…”
Are you kidding me?
Thirty minutes away from perhaps being on perpetual time and all I can remember is Grace,

the blessing before we eat?
Come on Donna, it’s 5:37 and you need to hunker down and get serious.

Think! Think.
You've seen enough movies, heard enough tent revival songs. Read enough memoirs.
You must have some profound words left to say,
Just in case.
Words with presence. Meaning.
Hurry up!!
How can you be so calm? No desperate death bed promises? No angst, disappointment,

fury at all you had hoped to do? No apologies?

Regrets?
Well, regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention, I did what I had to do….”
Donna, for the love God! How on earth did Frank Sinatra sneak into your might be,

could be, death bed scene?
And now that I think about it, how did I end up in this final act?
Intently staring at a clock, now reading 5:48, as if my life depended on it.
I mean really, there I was, minding my own business, raising a house filled with sons. A career that was more avocation than vocation. A darling husband, that I have cherished since first we met. And what about my family history of physically, though not always mentally, healthy folks? So how come 96 years old Nana Granny is still sucking down pureed pasta, and I’m lying here with a bad heart and matching aneurysm?
The ultimate buy one, get one free combo....No So Much.
Tick…tick…tick…5:54 am
Come on back, Donna. I have faith in you. Come on, focus.
You hear those squishy footsteps in the hall?
Breathe….breathe…You know, maybe, just maybe it is simply time for my earthly life to end and my eternal life to begin. And maybe, just maybe it will be fine.
Perfectly fine.
For now, I’ll just lay me down…..lay me down….
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I…
If I should…
“Mrs. Bevis, it is 6:00, and here are you meds. Now you just relax. Everything is going to be over before you know it,” the nurse reassured,

“In just a few minutes you should be sound asleep.”
Should…..If.....

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Hey Donna, you did good and if you come out this, I think you need to give old Gertrude Stein a second chance too.

Happy 30th Birthday Rino B.!

(This was originally posted two years ago,

but it was one of Rino's favorite blogs)

Simply Rino B.

I could see it in the nurse's eyes.

The darting looks between her and the doctors.
The whispers.

The fearful stares.

And as hurried movements and medical linguistics increased,

I knew our newborn son was in trouble.

It would be hours before Larry and I were solemnly informed

that we were the proud parents of a dying baby boy.

And like a modern midnight Mass reading, there was no room at the inn.

No nearby neo-natal unit with an empty crib.

Not one tiny bed for our precious second born son.

A transport to the Air Force base in Pensacola was ready, but he wouldn’t survive the flight.

The Last Rites followed an ICU Baptism.

IV needles taped firmly in both sides of his bloodied, shaved scalp removed any doubts that September 13, 1979 would be a day that changed our lives forever.

And tonight, as we toasted his 28th year and exchanged parent/child conversations about life, and grandchildren, and a wife…not necessarily in that order…

I touched his curly dark hair, patted him on the cheek.

I remembered the prayers and pleas offered from that hospital gurney so many years ago. And somewhere between that frantic ambulance ride down a moonlit

Bayshore Boulevard into the Tampa General’s preemie unit;

and his dark imported beer order this evening,

we were given an extraordinary gift.

Lawrence Richard III…our Rino B.

Tonight, Rino’s rascally dimpled grin, not so very different from the one that peered

at me from the rails of his big-brother Charles' hand-me-down crib,

appeared when we sang him the traditional birthday song.

It grew wider when Charles insisted that he had been handed the wrong fortune cookie …

the one that read...

“Your cheerful attitude is your greatest asset!”

“So,” Charles inquired dryly, “is there any chance that this cookie really belongs to me?”

No So Much!

Give it to Rino.

And he did. And we hugged.

And we howled.

And we told Rino how very much we love him.

And how proud we all are.

And then these fine sons, these boyhood buddies, stuck chopsticks in their lips like walrus tusks and made pornographic shadow figures in the flickering candlelight.

Do you two want to go to your rooms?

Happy Birthday my baby boy!

Lesson 6: Rewrite an old scene that you cherish.

The Eighth Stage of Grief!

I'm not sure why I secretly snapped this picture with my cell phone.

Or why I printed it for posterity.

My three, teen-age nephews, faces as grim as their dingy white sport socks, no shoes, tattered gym shorts, and three ill-fitting sport coats, all standing in Mother's kitchen.

Date stamped February 4th.

Perhaps one day the preposterous irony of this picture would be a story told without blubbering all over my keyboard?
Perhaps today is the day?
Dad had been gone less than 24 hours when we noticed Mom's new role as boss was exhausting her. Too much to do. And when we realized that sister number three, Sylvia's, sons were without proper pallbearer attire I suggested,
"Mom, why don't you take a nap and I'll go get the boys some clothes?"
Sister Sylvia's husband was employment challenged, and though she worked three jobs to keep her family afloat, their finances were always underwater, rarely coming up to catch a breath.
"Really Mom," I nudged," We'll just run up to the outlet stores and get the boys some church clothes."
Wanting no part of a nap or spending money unnecessarily in this recession,
Mom stepped away from the kitchen table, leaving her bowl of cold soup and casket flower catalogs.
"Put your wallets away!
No need to buy anything. Wait right here," she said, as she rushed back to her bedroom.

The creaky wooden closet doors opened and closed and into the kitchen marched this not yet merry widow, with three different suit coats.

Now, Sylvia's sons are built like nesting dolls.

Max is a six-footer with a muscular build. Zack, 5'10" or so, narrow and sinewy! Dear Dylan, the youngest, all of 5'7" with a fireplug physique.

Max was handed Dad's newest jacket. A brown and beige checked beauty!

And with the help of some twisting and contorting, there Max stood in his grandfather's jacket.

Max's thick arms, looked like they'd been swallowed by a hound's-tooth Anaconda.

His wrists and fingers dangling from the fabric's grip,

he finally summoned the courage to utter,

"Grandma, this jacket is too small."

Scrawny Zach stood by the stairs, draped in Dad's smokey black tweed.
The shoulder seams, hanging like raglan sleeves, near Zack's narrow biceps.
The lapels drooping like the wings of an underfed vulture.
"Grandma, this jacket is too big," he mumbled.
Dylan's face was red.
Fresh tears etched in his morning application of acne cream.
But there he was, swallowed by a navy blue frock, with tarnished buttons, that just moments before was a well-worn men's sport coat, tailored perfectly to Dad's 6'2" frame.
He stared at the pocket flaps resting below his gym shorts,
but before Dylan could utter a sound, Mom declared,
"Dylan, that jacket is just right!"
Softly, Dylan whimpered,
"But Grandma, when I put my arms down you can't see my hands!"
"Oh, Dylan," Mom reassured, "it will be perfect if you just stand up straight!"
As Mom exited stage left to hunt for matching ties,
the three caballeros, thankfully with no access to a mirror, looked at me for attire approval,
"So?" they muttered, "Do we look sorta Ok?"
"No So Much OK," I winced.
"Aunt Donna," Max whispered, "This is just wrong. Please, do something! It will be like Granddaddy's own clothes will be carrying him down the church steps.
Please?"

But before I could begin to preach about the little known eighth stage of grief,
doing what you're told,
a threatening voice echoed from the other end of the house.
"Don't anyone move!" Mom bellowed,
"I've found the matching ties and three pairs of dress shoes!!"