The stats on this little blog exploded today (I don't mean like a bomb, just a significantly higher number), and that after a record number of hits yesterday. So I went to take a closer look (yes, like big government, I know what search engines or other sites from which readers come). Almost a fifth of today's traffic has been from Harry Weisenberger's blog, www.caringbridge.org/visit/harryweisenberger. (Or see my post "Work is the Motivation for Motion" Fourth down from this one.). As I looked the links over (counted them up, 75 folks just checking in to read what I wrote about Harry), I thought, goodness, Harry is a lucky, lucky man. Talk about a support group! He is a man blessed, not only by his personal attitude and a loving family, but literally by an army of other loving folks lifting him with their thoughts, prayers and even a little cheerleading. Go Harry's team!
However, Mrs. M., didn't have any of that. She was in my chemo group back when I had just been diagnosed. She was not just a little grumpy, she was cold, silent and downright off putting--without saying a word. There was no warrior to warrior banter with Mrs. M., and when she finally spoke, at least to me, it was just a few sentences. She was a remarkably thin lady, in her late 70s (best guess) and took her bags of fluids stoically, staring out into the room, not even reading a book or taking a nap. Just sat and took in the fluids. Overtime, you could tell she was not making any progress. One day, I was sitting next to her. She was reading a letter, actually more of a note. For a moment she smiled, more just a movement up of her thin rouged lips, a grimace you might say with some satisfaction behind it. She turned to me, held up the piece of paper and said, "from my daughter. They live in Seattle. They would come to see me if they could." Then she paused, looked out into some other place, I think far, far away, and whispered, "I'm sure she would." Those are the only words I ever heard her speak.
That peaked my interest. Maybe just because I am nosey. Whatever, I learned that Mrs. M. lived alone; had no family in Augusta, no support group, even from a church. Just an elderly lady, bitter, full of pride, fighting cancer--alone. And the words came back with a melancholia that weighted me down: "They would come to see me if they could." Pause. "I'm sure they would."
It is easy to count to your blessings, if you just take the time to count them. It is one of Harry's wonders. He knows how to do that, each and every one, no matter how large or small. But how do you count your loneliness? You are old and weak and cancer is eating you to death and all you have to show for it is an apartment full of memories, maybe a television and once in a while a note from a daughter in Seattle. "They would come to seem me if they could." Pause. "I am sure they would."
Like Harry, I have friends and family and associates who are concerned about me. While they don't check in constantly, they do check in enough to remind me I have a lot of blessings to count. For Mrs. M., about the only thing that checked in was the junk mail. I felt that she had become not only lonely, but faceless, as if her name was "Dear Occupant."
I guess her daughter did finally come...for the funeral. I have always wondered if Mrs. M. died of cancer or sheer loneliness. How much worse could living through a crisis be?
I have learned there are thousands of Mr. and Mrs. M's in this country (and most everywhere else). Many organizations work hard to provide help and support, but sometimes they just don't reach them. Often because they don't want to be reached. A professional social worker is a person; not a loved one. And we all need our loved ones, much as we need medicines and nutrients. Loved ones make life worth living, whether it is family or a just a good old dog like my Jeb. But nothing beats people. Mrs. M. had no people; I felt she really didn't have one in Seattle. Oh, I don't doubt there was a person there, a biological child. But a daughter concerned about her mom. No, I am not so sure, but that is just a hunch.
So goes the old song with its basic truth. One is the loneliest number. Not just in romance, but in life itself. It may not only be the saddest, but also be the deadliest.
Hi, this was certainly a thought provoking blog. We look forward to every day and "our" David Foster's newest entry. You are a very good writer and we are hooked. When you were not feeling so good we worried about you and would check several times a day to see if you had written. We have been reading your daily entries for 2 months now. Yes, we printed off the earlier ones also. You are helping so many people and we wanted to express again how much we appreciate you. You are like a friend! We shared your site with a couple in our church and he has had similar background with his fight with RCC and also is an outdoorsman. His wife thanked us for introducing them to your blog. My Warrior is doing great and is on his 8th round of Sutent. Please know you are helping many! Ellen and Richard in Oklahoma
Posted by: Ellen & Richard Johnson | October 17, 2007 at 08:41 PM