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I
used to be on the writing staff of a blog called Our Big Gayborhood – I wrote a piece about Cindy, But that blog is
no longer online, so I couldn’t send you a link – I have the document in my
archive.
My
relationship with Cindy is unique there is shared spirit, shared knowing that
isn’t really explainable, and an ability to feel what the other is
feeling. That sounds – and is wonderful,
but wonderful… isn’t all it ever is.
When
I was eight years old, I received an unexpected gift. Her name was Cindy. My Aunt June had passed away 2 years
previous. When Uncle Les married Aunt
Arlene, Cindy and her brother John, joined our family. Cindy and I were the
same age. From our first meeting, we just clicked. It didn’t take long before we were co-spirits.
Cindy had five brothers, no sisters and always wanted one. Although my given
name is Linda, and am Lynn to my family and friends… Cindy dubbed me “Lindy”
creating the dynamic duo of “Lindy and Cindy.” No one before or since, has ever
called me Lindy. As we grew up we remained confidants, co-conspirators and to
say we were close is such an understatement! We shared spirit. Our family had a
tradition that amoung the three families of cousins, we could take turns
staying in pairs at our Grandma’s house, but the rule was never could it
be two from the same household. It was
always… Lindy and Cindy that paired up. During one such visit, we forgot to
shut the back door and a blackbird got in the house. Grandma chased that bird from curtain rod to
windowsill, upstairs and down throughout the Chicago bungalow with a broom, as
we laughed and we laughed and we laughed!
Normally our little Dutch Reformed Grandma was pretty reserved, but she
was LIVID! She would quit the chase - every so often - long enough to chastise
us - enunciating “ sit on that couch… it’s not FUNNY, stop LAUGHING” which only
made the situation MORE hilarious – we collapsed against each other on the
couch and just dissolved into each other’s laughter! For the remainder of our
lives “remember the bird” was sure to reconstitute the moment and a guarantee a
retelling of the tale. When we were 15,
my father died unexpectedly. When Mom remarried, my family moved to Indiana
while Cindy’s family remained in suburban Chicagoland. Even with the changing family dynamics, our
bond was unchanged. We stayed in close
contact, but didn’t see each other as often as we would have liked. This of course was before cell phones, before
email… we would send each other long letters, or silly cards and clippings,
sometimes just one or two liners, quoting favourite lyrics, usually the
Beatles.
As
we reached adulthood, we were there for each other through marriage, Motherhood
and divorce, through celebration and despair. Cindy was there for me through
the devastating loss of my Mother, and called me every December 27th
to give me a long distance hug and let me know that it mattered to her that I
was hurting that day. I was there, when
her beloved brother Butch died of AIDS. When
Cindy’s son Zach got into a little bit of trouble, she made the difficult
choice to send him to live with his Dad, because she felt Zach needed a male
influence… she thought she would just die without him at her side each day. I
stood with her and we breathed together and cried together and tried to figure
out the next right thing to do. When I
divorced and later came out, Cindy was by my side and she embraced Jen as if
she had always been in my life. That is who she is in her innermost being. This is who we are.
There
would be days… that one or the other would just stop – in our tracks “Oh! Gotta
call Lindy / Cindy – she needs me!” and we would – and it was a lifeline
moment. One of those moments November
2005, I was furiously packing for an emergency trip to California – my son Josh
had been in a horrible accident and I had planned to call Cindy from the
airport. She called with “what’s going on… is Josh okay?” I nearly lost my son to that accident, and
Cindy was an amazing source of support. That is who we have always been to each
other.
Cindy’s
hadn’t been feeling herself for some time, but had kept it from me because of
Josh’s situation… she continued to work full time at a low paying job with no
health care benefits. Uncle Les had a sudden stroke in December 2005, and
although she was increasingly certain that something was amiss with her own
health, postponed pursuing answers because in her words “this is Dad’s time.” At
the funeral, I made her promise she would go to the doctor. One look told me things were not right with my
Cindy. When the dust had settled after the funeral, she went. I remember the call, and hearing her tell me
“it’s ovarian cancer Lindy, stage 3, they need to do surgery, then I need to
get on public assistance. I don’t have any insurance and the treatments are
really expensive.” Cindy employed the tenacity of a bulldog and the patience of
a Saint cutting through the bureaucratic bullshit, and she got it all arranged.
I prayed for insight and skill on the part of the doctors, for energy and
healing for Cindy, and for an understanding of what I could do to help her.
After
the surgery, while she recovered, we talked constantly, and I took on a new
role. She turned to me to research
treatments that were being proposed.
Cindy didn’t have a computer and proclaimed herself to be
technologically illiterate. It was easier for her to have me find stuff and
funnel it to her. So when the doctors
would propose a new chemo cocktail, she’d get the names of the drugs and call
me. I’d search out the most accurate and
up-to-date information I could find and get it to her via fax or snail mail. It
helped her to know what to expect going into her treatments. It helped me to feel like I was helping her
walk this difficult path in some way.
Cindy confided in me how long and boring the infusion sessions were. I offered an iPod, but Cindy thought it sounded
complicated, so I bought her a personal CD player and commenced making CDs of
music that she liked to help her pass the time.
I combed by digital collection for songs that spoke of life and love,
songs from the profound to the silly. I
compiled an assortment of musical journeys to help her pass the time and to
help her feel my presence during her treatments.
Over
the course of three years, hope waxed and waned. What a blessed gift the summer
of 2008 was! Cindy got to share some great adventures with her son Zach, even
tooling around on Zach’s bike a time or two.
She LIVED for that boy, that they had this wonderful time together was so
awesome! She was feeling good, and her
counts were in a good place. My prayers at this time were those of thanks for
the healing and the good times Cindy was experiencing with her son. Zachary was her life, she would move Heaven
and Earth for him.
From the time of her
diagnosis, Cindy asked me to be there for her.
“You’ll know what I need, when I need it… you always do” she said. Although I sure didn’t always feel like I
knew, looking at it now, I suppose I did. As various treatments did not bring
about the result we all prayed for, she called on me again. “Lindy” she said “I can’t talk to Zach about
this – I don’t want to hurt him any deeper, and I don’t want him to worry, and
I don’t want him to feel he has to come home!” Zach was in Austria as part of a prestigious
international education program. She
continued “I can’t talk to Bill (her fiancé), I can’t talk to Mom… they won’t
LET me talk about death, and I really, really need to, can you come?” We made a
date and I went. Driving to Chicago I
prayed, I asked for Cindy to be blessed with healing, but if that was not gunna
happen, I prayed for more good days than bad, and minimal pain. I prayed for
days of sunshine, and the physical ability to be out amoung her flowers. When I
got there, we talked about death, we talked about fear, we talked about faith,
and we talked about love. She asked me
to help with some household chores, changing throw rugs, and scooping the cat
boxes and stuff, and then she asked me to do a very difficult thing. Cindy asked me to help her get out her
jewelry boxes, and to pick out something for myself. Inside I was screaming, part of me wanted to
run from that apartment, get in my car and drive far away from all of it! But that was not what she needed; so we went
into her room, laid stuff out on the bed and lounged around together as we
picked out a turquoise and coral ring that she called “twisted sister.” She said “Look Lindy, I’m the turquoise,
you’re the coral, and we are all twisted together.” We hugged and we cried and cried. She said
she was going to wear it for a while, load it up with her energy, and then tag
it for me. I assured her that I was in
NO hurry and we laughed. We actually
laughed… in relief I think, that even this… could not keep us from being the
giggle twins that you see in the picture.
Then she asked me to look at what she had picked out as her funeral
clothes. [internal scream “RUN – run from this place!”] She held up the swirled blue and green skirt
and made it swish. “I always felt like a
butterfly in this, I know it’s too big now, but they’ll make it work.” I told
her it was beautiful and perfect. We put
everything away, and went to grab some lunch.
She was exhausted by that point in the day, but wanted to get out into
the sunshine and fresh air, so we hit the drive thru at Taco Bell. I will carry, all of my days the spirit
memory of her leaning over as we waited in line to pay and go, and saying “Thank
you for today – for always being my Lindy. I’ll ALWAYS be with you Lindy!”
Over
the next several weeks Cindy’s condition continued to deteriorate. We talked on the phone often and Jen and I
went to see her at the hospital. “I’m so
scared Lindy” she whispered as I hugged her.
She didn’t want her Mom, my Aunt Arlene who was sitting at the foot of
the bed, to hear. “Me too Cindy” I replied.
We held each other and cried so hard we shook. Aunt Arlene said “what are you girls laughing
about NOW” which did make us laugh and we cried in unison “the BIRD!” Hospice came in and Cindy went home. She wanted to be at home amoung her flowers,
and with her beloved Bill, and with her cats. In those last days, Cindy and Bill exchanged vows;
they were never able to marry. Bill was self-employed, with no benefits, but
his income would have made Cindy ineligible for the assistance that paid for
her treatments and for hospice care.
One
Tuesday afternoon Cindy called with an update.
She said that the hospice nurse was concerned about her rapid weight
loss. “I’m a stick, Lindy, and I hurt so bad.
I’m just so scared Lindy, don’t tell Bill I said that, he worries so
much as it is. They’re going to try a
different medication to help with the pain, so give me a day to let that kick
in, then call me on Thursday… we’ll schedule a visit. You give Jen a big hug for me and tell her I
love her for making you so happy… I love you Lindy!” I told her that I loved
her and assured her that I would call on Thursday. My prayers shifted again. I prayed for it to be over, for her suffering
to end. I asked our Divine Beloved to
take my Cindy home. I felt like a shit
to be praying that… but it seemed to be what she needed and I had run out of
prayers. I called again on Thursday
evening – I was on my way home from teaching a night class – I often called on
the drive home. Bill answered. I was alone
in the car, on my cell and driving. I asked him how he was, he mumbled
something I couldn’t even make out. I
asked “hey is Cindy awake, can I talk to her?” “Honey, Cindy’s gone, she died
this morning” he blurted out. “I’ve been on the phone all day, I thought Mom
called you” was his reply. That call on May 28, 2009 changed my life.
I
don’t remember the rest of the drive home. I could have been teleported home
for all I know. When I walked in the
door, Jen took one look at me and knew something was wrong. I told her about the call and we clung to
each other as we each poured out our grief.
When I walked into the funeral home a few days later, Aunt Arlene
accosted me, and said “I have something for you, Cindy made me come and get it
near the end – it was SO important to her, if I forget to give it to you,
she’ll kick my ass!” It was of course,
the twisted sister, with a little paper tag hanging from it that simply said
“Lindy.”
I had bariatric surgery 3 days after we said Toksa
Ake (until next time) to my dear co-spirit. This pic is from one of our last
visits, Cindy was very sick, so was I, just differently so. When I admitted to
the hospital they asked how I was doing, the usual questions. I didn't tell
them I was emotionally and spiritually devastated. I didn't want any of my
medical team to think I was too unstable for the surgery. I realize now that
the buttoning up I did at that time was not without repercussions. Of course I
grieved for Cindy in those first days, I mourned my loss, I cried and I wailed,
I wrote and I raged right up until the morning of surgery, but then I had to
just bottle it all up and put it AWAY, at least until I came home. Once I was
home, it hit me hard! My loss, the endless well of grief related to her passing,
the feeling of having part of my spirit yanked out – were not great tools for
healing from major surgery.
All of those
emotions are still.right.there.
There are times that
I cannot make my brain REALLY comprehend that a world exists without Cindy's
physical self in it. It hurts my heart... daily. At the most unpredictable
times, it just wells up and bubbles over and leaves me as hollowed out as a
jack-o-lantern.
I
cherish the twisted sister, and have it on always, but the gift I cherish more
is the gift of walking alongside Cindy as she faced her biggest challenge, and
helped her meet her death, on HER terms.
That is a rare and precious thing, and a thing that changes those who
walk that path… forever.
When
I lost Cindy, something deep, something of me, was ripped loose and just
flew away with her.
“Blackbird
singing in the dead of night. Take these
broken wings and learn to fly. All your
life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”
