Woman of the Book

Filled with trepidation, I dreaded the visit to the doctor; I knew something was terribly wrong, but I didn’t know exactly what. The doctor explained some options but would not get into specifics until he had the lab work.

My mind was reeling with possibilities as I walked out of the office. How would I continue working through the treatments? If I couldn’t work how could I afford the treatment? I was new to this job and this area. I had taken a new position with lots of promise, but now I was in a strange place with no family and no real friends. I didn’t have enough sick leave to take off for an extended period of time, and if I wasn’t working, I wouldn’t have insurance. I was so distracted I nearly tripped over the little black notebook lying on the floor outside the clinic. Mindlessly, I stooped down, picked it up and without thinking dropped it into my bag.

I forgot about the book with all the worries on my mind, but when I got home, I realized I had it with me and needed to find out who it belonged to. I flipped through the pages; there were no numbers or identifying names to be found, not even on the page that said, “In case of loss contact:” No easy way to determine to whom the book might belong. It was an interesting book, filled with beautiful handwriting. I knew I should have turned it in before I left the clinic, but I was too self-absorbed to fully comprehend what I was doing. Now that I was looking at the book, there was something mesmerizing about that flowing script that looked like a work of art. I promised myself to return it on my next visit if I couldn’t locate the owner on my own.

The book would not leave my mind. I opened it again and immediately knew this was no ordinary book, no day planner listing tasks to complete. This was someone’s private thoughts committed to paper, not intended to be shared. I felt a guilty flush come to my face as I continued reading anyway. I convinced myself I needed to read to try to figure out who was the owner of this treasure. The words were full of emotion - joy, sadness, pain, hope, despair and delight. It felt wrong to keep reading this personal account of some strangers’ struggle with life. But I could not tear my eyes away. The words were full of life, with all its mess and beauty. She wrote of her frustration with the aging process, but she was also vibrant and full of hope, even when she detailed her battle with cancer. Thinking of my own unknown diagnosis, I was both encouraged by her words and made more conscious of the fear always lingering below the surface of my mind.

By the time I was halfway through the book, I felt like I knew her intimately, this stranger whose name I did not even know. Her journey, her struggles were encouraging me to face my own struggles with greater courage. I could not stop reading, I continued the journey of the Woman of the Book’s life. I had taken to calling her that, it somehow felt right.

When I reached the end of the book, I was no closer to knowing the identity of this woman than when I picked up the notebook on the way out of the clinic. But I was intimately connected to this woman I did not know and determined to locate this beautiful strong stranger and return her private musings. And find the answers to the questions the book raised. I tried to forget, to put it out of my mind, but I returned over and over, studying her words, learning through her pain.

Eventually I went to the clinic and convinced them to contact the owner for me. I refused to leave the book for her to pick up the next time she came in, it was much too precious to leave with strangers. By this time, I felt like I knew her so well, I was no longer in the category of unconnected stranger. I was practically family. After much pleading, the receptionist at the clinic called the Woman of the Book and asked if she would be willing for me to meet her to return her property.

She agreed with no hesitation. We arranged to meet on Saturday, three days away. Those days could not pass quickly enough, each one seemed to last a week. During those days I read and reread the writings of Ms. Abigail. Now I had a name for this Woman of the Book. I wondered if anyone ever called her Abby. I wondered how she would react to me. Would she like me? Would she be upset that I read her private musings? Would she answer my questions?

After what seemed like an eternity, Saturday arrived. The drive across town was tortuous. I played a dozen scenarios in my mind, everything from greeting her with a hug to dropping the book at the doorstep and running away.

I arrived at a simple, well-kept home. Little black notebook in hand, I walked trembling to the door and rang the doorbell. Telling myself to take deep breaths, I waited anxiously for her to open the door. It seemed to take forever. When she opened the door and invited me in, I understood why it took so long, her movements were slow and painful, yet she carried herself with dignity. The smile on her face was welcoming and inviting. We made small talk for a moment, though my throat was so dry with fear I didn’t see how any sound was coming out of my mouth.

After several minutes I gave her the book and started asking questions. Personal, intimate questions about what she had gone through, and how she managed to endure, and how she kept such a positive attitude. When I asked about Bernie, and what had happened to him, her eyes lit up, and she told me hilarious stories of her escapades with her St. Bernard, and then tears came to her eyes when she told me about his death. She seemed to enjoy sharing her stories with me and wasn’t offended with my intrusive, sometimes bordering on rude, questions. She talked and talked and finally I could see she was tired and needed to rest. It was time to go, but I did not want to leave. Brazenly I asked if I could come back and see her again. She immediately invited me to come back the next day, and I gladly accepted.

I went back to see her that Sunday, and then again and again and again. Every time we met the time seemed to fly by, and I was never ready to leave. Abby was a treasure-trove of wisdom, nuggets of life. She talked about her sadness and fear after the passing of Arthur, her beloved husband of 48 years. About finding the courage to continue alone, and the trials and surprising joys she found along the way. Her simple words were an oasis of hope to me. Gradually I was beginning to believe that maybe I could survive my own challenges.

Being around Abby made me think about the way in our society we often devalue our older adults, and in so doing miss out on such a depth of wisdom. Abby, she did say I could call her that, she said it made her feel younger, was such an inspiration to me. She gave me so much hope, and so many practical ideas. I’m not sure how I would have survived my medical challenges without her.

The doctor’s report was not good, but it was not the worst-case scenario. There would be treatments, therapy, and a lot of hard work and pain, but the expected outcome was complete healing…eventually. It wasn’t easy to drag myself out of bed to endure another round of painful treatment, but with Abby’s encouragement I kept moving forward. As I was struggling with my health, she was fighting her own battles. All too soon her health went from not good to really bad. One night, she got her wish and passed quietly at home while she was sleeping. I was heartbroken, she had been my friend, my mentor, and my only family in the area. She had already gone over her funeral arrangements with me, so I knew what to do. She did not have any children or living family, so I took care of setting everything up. I was concerned that there wouldn’t be many people at the funeral, so I was completely surprised as the little church filled with a strange assortment of people. I heard stories of amazing things she had done. Little and big ways she had impacted other people and provided hope and help for so many. The service was a celebration of her life and all the ways she had made a difference.

I returned to Ms. Abby’s house after the funeral to clean up and prepare the house to be closed until her estate was settled. As I cleared off her nightstand, I saw a note and a small package. I was curious how it got there; I did not remember seeing it the last time I was in the room. The note was addressed to me. I opened it and through tear-filled eyes read Ms. Abby’s final words to me.

“I know you are sad, but remember you have much joy ahead. Life is hard, but you are strong. You can face anything you encounter. You are going to be fine. I can’t talk to you anymore, so I’m leaving you something to help remind you of me.”

I was overwhelmed, even when she knew she was dying, Abby had reached out to help. She knew losing her friendship was going to devastate me and had done the only thing she could to get me through the pain. She left a piece of herself. Slowly I unwrapped the small package. It was her little black notebook. I felt like I had been given the greatest treasure in the world! I cried at this beautiful gift she had left me. When I looked closer, I saw that there were two little black notebooks. One full of her writings, and another empty except for the first page, which read, “Remember to record the good days so you have something to hold onto during the bad days.”

Each day was getting harder, at times the pain was almost unbearable. I was at the end of my sick leave and I knew I could not continue working, but without a job I did not know how I was going to survive. I went back to the little black notebook for some encouragement, although I really didn’t know how it was going to help this time. I flipped through the pages looking for a good spot to read, and as I did so, something fell out. I picked it up and then almost dropped it. A cashier’s check for $20,000!

I was able to make arrangements with my office to take leave without pay, and they assured me my job would be waiting when I was healthy enough to return. The money from Ms. Abby was enough to enable me to not work for a time and be able to focus completely on my healing. I silently thanked Ms Abby, the Woman of the Book, for her precious gift to me, not only the finances to be able to take care of my health, but even more, the words that continued to bring me back to a place of hope every time I faced problems. Thank you, Ms. Abby and your little black notebook, for changing my life.