Dearest Doris

Dearest Doris,

I can’t believe it has been over four years since you left this world. I didn’t have a lot of friends, and even fewer close friends. You were the closest. I never had a sister, but if I did, I could only hope she would have been someone like you.

It was so difficult to watch a vibrant, outgoing, person like you, so full of life, be tortured for years by Parkinson’s disease. As tough as it was for me to watch, I can’t even begin to comprehend how you fought it and battled it valiantly for so long. The last year, you were not able to communicate any more. You physically existed, but there was nothing there when I looked into your eyes. I could only hope your mind had deteriorated along with the physical body. My greatest fear was that your intriguing mind was fully aware of what was going on around you, but you were unable to let us know. I know you feared that, too because we talked about it.

It was over 40 years ago you first came into our group at work. You were our secretary. Yes, it was so long ago that offices did have a secretary. And you were the best. That first day you came in with a huge smile, and with an enthusiasm seldom seen in the workplace. I wondered if you would be that perky every day. You were. We became very close friends. You called me JB and I called you DB. Our friendship continued to grow.

We went through a lot together. Over the years you were there for my divorce, new marriage, three kids and then eventually, that divorce as well. You were never blessed with children of your own so you sort of adopted mine. Their Aunt Doris was at all their Christenings, First Communions, graduations, and even the wedding for the oldest. When the second child got married and you could not make it to that wedding, it was the turning point. I knew the horrible disease was winning.

When you were first diagnosed, I was not surprise and I knew you weren’t either. We both saw the tremors getting worse and knew what that probably meant. You wanted to deny it for as long as you could. Then the anger set in and our long talks began. You wanted to know why, why you? Why anybody? How come there is not cure for this horrible disease? Will you feel any pain? When will you stop recognizing your loved ones? Will your mind continue but not be able to express it. Most of all, you feared losing control of yourself and feared needing to be cared for by others. This over whelmed you and that I could relate to.

One of the many things we shared was our very strong sense of independence. Having to ask for help was not easy for either of us. You knew that about me so well that during the last divorce you knew I could not ask for but that I needed help. So you came to me. Without you I would have lost the house and the kids and I would not have had a place to live. You were the only family I had, proving family isn’t defined by who your parents are, but by how you love each other.

During one of our talks I remember I yelled at you. That was the only time ever in our relationship that I yelled at you. Your body was starting to fail, but your mind was still sharp and you told me how you did not want to live with what you knew the future held for you. I could tell by your tone what you were considering and that is when I yelled at you. I yelled about faith, how I wanted to see you in the next world but you would not be there if you did the unthinkable. I yelled about not giving up, you never know when a new pill would come along to help you. A cure could be just around the corner. I yelled about how your husband would be devastated and mad that you gave up. I yelled how you would never see your garden again.

Oh, your garden. The path to your front door was bordered on both sides by the most beautiful, colorful flowers. Somehow you had flowers that peaked at different times so you always had something in bloom from early spring until late into the fall. I still try to do that in my flower garden. Sadly, I have not perfectly your technique yet. But you keep inspiring me to try. Every spring I think, OK what would DB plant here to keep the blooms going all season. I know you look down at me then and smile, maybe even chuckle a bit, but your memory still keeps me motivated to try to make it better every year.

And who can forget your vegetables. You had cucumbers, green beans, lettuce, and hundreds of tomatoes, just to name a few. Oh how I miss those tomatoes. Freshly sliced with just a dash of salt. Nothing comes close to tasting like a DB tomato.

I don’t know if my yelling had an effect, but you never talked again about ending it. You chose to continue the fight. Your husband John was there every step of the way and never once did I hear him complain. The first time I visited where he had to feed you was tough – on me. You seemed to accept his care and he just chatted along with whatever we were talking about while he placed the spoon to your mouth and then loving wiped away what was missed. Both of you just seemed to accept that this was totally normal. It was me fighting back the tears.

After dinner we were still chatting while John cleaned up the kitchen. It was always sweet the way he made sure we had some girl-talk time, just the two of us. After a few minutes you got quiet and then leaned towards me and in a soft voice asked me to tell ‘them’ to go home. I was so glad John had warned me about the delusions that had started so I knew about the ‘them’. I softly told you that I would make sure you were safe and then in a loud voice I said “OK everyone. It is time for all of you to leave. Doris and I are having a private conversation.” I turned and looked at you and I could see the relief in your face and we continued our conversation.

The downhill slide continued for another year. It got to the point that you could no longer communicate at all. But I continued to visit. I always brought you some fresh flowers. I didn’t know if you could see them or not, but just in case you could, I hoped they reminded you of your beautiful garden. I would sit and tell you all about what the kids were up to, what was going on in the office, and other idle chitchat.

Then John became the focal point of my visits. Oh how he loving cared for you day and night. I asked if he felt it was time that you might need professional care and he did not even take a second to reply. You had been a team for 62 years and he was not going to let anyone else care for you. I was worried about the toll it was taking on him, but he was not going to budge. He did finally get someone to come in a few days a week to help, but there was never any doubt. He was your care giver.

I remember very clearly the day he called me at work. It was 1:32 in the afternoon. When I saw his name pop up on my phone I knew why he was calling. You were gone. Even though I was expecting the call any day, I still felt a cold chill go over me. You, my best, closest friend, someone I loved dearly, was gone.

I cried because I was sad, but I know in my heart some of those tears were happy tears. Not happy that you were gone, but happy because you were now released from the tortured body that held you captive. Your soul was now free to explore the eternal gardens. And I know one day I will see you there.

Miss you, DB

Love,

JB