Elisa

I hadn’t realized it had been ten days since I'd written. Time blurs when you’re always sick. Thank you, all who have dropped by with thoughts and hugs. I need them, and appreciate them.

I’m just back from Reading Week; rather, I came back yesterday. I spent the first weekend of it at the Ranch, hosting and having a really great time. I walked outside as much as I could. (Yes, Margaret, the roses are still there.) It took me forever to make it up the hill to the peace pole, but I got there. For the first time ever, I didn’t leave a prayer—I just sat with everything around me. And I walked around the refectory playing count-the-friends; I knew at least somebody in each of the groups.

Came back that Sunday night to go out and do field ed. Again, I’m in the right place. I love the work, and the people. The hours suck, but I knew that.

I spent the rest of the week with A. in the valley. I really wanted and needed to catch up on work—but instead I took a lot of naps. I don’t regret them.

I would have stayed this weekend and taken care of the cats, or perhaps gone back to the Ranch, but I had to come back for another training last night, and Elisa’s funeral this afternoon. She died on Monday. I miss her, and I’m more sad now than I had been. The service itself was wonderful—though crowded, and hot. I really, really wish I’d seen her more. Last I saw her was about six months ago, at church, shortly after my own diagnosis. I came back in the fall, busy and sick, and kept meaning to send her a card but didn’t do it. By the time I was back, my rector told me that Elisa had almost too much company. I didn’t talk to the person at church who was coordinating her visits. I wish now that I had just seen her once in the last while.

I’m not even sure what I want to thank her for—we weren’t even all that close. But she had a way of seeing people. And, she was funny as hell. In a sly, dry, blunt and honest way.

I know it’s a cliché, but you only have people while you have them. Notice the gifts all around you. This is what matters. Give your love, and your time.

I escaped a much more dangerous diagnosis by sheer dumb luck. I had the tumor for at least two years. Nobody was expecting me to get cancer; least of all myself. It happens. Elisa died. I live.

Love the people around you. Be a gift to them.