She's Sherrie

Jeff presented with his company colors by his men.   Jeff slept most of the time; I was at the hospital with him.  He was heavily medicated all of the time.  I don't think he was even aware that I was there.  Maybe he did because a couple of weeks before he died, he told me that his brothers and I were the only people in the world that cared about him.  So maybe he knew. On weekends I would stay there until two or three in the morning.  It was, I guess, a death watch.  One of the cafeteria workers, an older lady, was always so concerned about him not eating.  Technically I suppose she had to leave the food, and when she would come back to pick up his untouched tray of food, she would get tears in her eyes.  She didn't really know exactly what his illness was.  One evening she asked me what was wrong with him.  "Terminal colon cancer."  She looked horrified, "How old is he?"  "Thirty-four."  "I'm so sorry; I knew it was something

Always open. The two months that I worked before Jeff finally was placed in hospice care were hell. My mind was with my child; my body was at work.  I would leave work and go to the hospital.  The earliest I ever left was 12:30 am.  I had to be up at 5:15 to get ready for work.   The sicker Jeff got, the longer I stayed.  There were crisis nights when I only had an hour's sleep. It took a toll on me; the stress and lack of sleep were my two constant companions. After Jeff's surgery and recovery time of 9 days, he was released.  He was pretty much back to his usual self for about five days and then began to feel ill again.  He was in pain, and it was increasing every day.  His last meal was on July 5, the day after coming home from the hospital.  He tried to eat, but it was making him sick and hurting his stomach.  He stopped eating altogether.  On the day he died, he weighed about 75 pounds; at the beginning of his illness, he weighed 220.  He drank coke or Slurpees; th

National Christm as Tree 1968 Christmas 1968 would be the last Christmas as a young, carefree, not quite an adult.  Each year relationships during high school changed.  My life, as well as my grouping of friends, changed as well.  Shelley had been closer during my first three years of high school, Judy was now closer to me.  We were seniors, and that did seem to make a difference in interests and maturity levels. Judy and I both participated in the Distributive Education or Work-Study program, meaning we only attended three classes a day and worked the remainder of the day.  That gave us a nice break depending on our work hours of anywhere from an hour to two and a half hours before we went to work.  We had a lot of pleasant long lunch hours with our classmates before we "clocked in." Somewhere in early October, Judy stayed with my mom and me for a while.  It was like having a sister, but one that you liked and got along with.  We both went to school and worked, and

Christmas 1965 The Christmas Song Years This time of year, the mind starts to wander and reflect on Christmases that we have been a party to.  Old friends, family members, in-laws, ex-husbands, co-workers, bosses, they are all brought to mind.  Good times, bad times. Every memory is scanned by the brain, mine.  That can be a blessing and a curse, as I seem to have an overly active recall. That's right, I remember it all except for maybe my first two or three Christmases.  I remember a pair of red and white flannel pajamas that made me look like a  peppermint stick with red hair.  But I loved those pajamas.  That gift was received during my "good" Christmas years.  When we received lots of suitable presents, we had plenty of food to eat and a nice warm place to live.  Our apartment was filled with family and the wonderful smell of pies and cakes.  My favorite person in the whole world was there, my Uncle Jerry.  He always gave me the best stuff, but that wasn't

Today on my Facebook page, a friend of a friend posted a rant about taking the Christ out of Christmas.  It made me see red, not Christmas red, angry red.  The "taking the Christ out of Christmas" concept was pushed and still is to my knowledge by Fox "News."  This began a few years ago, and I see it hasn't died the death it deserves yet.  I did not want to block my friend, and Facebook wouldn't let me delete the post, so I stuck to the original poster.  I posted the following response on my page. FACT: Not all religions celebrate December 25 as Christmas. FACT: The term "Happy Holidays" has been used for years and years and years. (There is even a song Happy Holidays) If you are one of those folks that froth at the mouth because someone says Happy Holidays, your good Christian upbringing and nature should guide you to be tolerant. Nobody is taking Christ out of Christmas for those who celebrate it. YOU might be taking it out a littl

The Front Porch The last Halloween that we lived in Dallas, all 3 kids came home sick on Halloween and couldn't go out.  I painted my face to look like a skeleton and wore a hood and monk's robes. My face painting was AWESOME, I couldn't believe how well it turned out.  And as good as it looked inside the house, it was even scarier outside. I sat on the front porch on a planter right next to the door.  You couldn't ignore me. Groups of kids and their adults would walk up the walk, see me and then slow down.  They encouraged the kids to go ahead and knock on the door while they stood sideways looking at me.  They would tell the kids that it was okay that I wasn't real and don't be scared.  But they were.  I sat motionlessly.  One kid told the mom I was staring at him.  She laughed it off and touched my skeletal made up a hand.  I could have scared the crap out of her but chose to maintain my cover.  Everyone was scared.  Finally, many kids with a bunc

I thought that I would be able to write about the events leading up to my son's death from cancer before the anniversary date of September 29, well before that time arrived.  I found that writing about it has been so emotional that it reignites the horror show in my brain.  The sounds and the scenes burned forever in my mind, click themselves to the on position and play over and over. This day, my birthday, is particularly emotional for me.  It is the anniversary of the day that the hospice nurse told me that my son would probably die.  I wasn't even thinking about my birthday; I was consumed with the declining state of my son's life. When she told me, it hit me like a brick even though I had tried to prepare myself for it.  It was a reality, and it was crushing.  I remember looking at Jeff when she told me that his pale, thin body lay motionless in the hospital bed.  All of the days of torturous pain for him were almost over.  He did not deserve to die from this horr