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Authors: Nancy Stephan
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of the rack to the other. The next day, I’d
slide them all back again.
Nicole had converted three of her six dresser drawers in an effort
to organize her supplies. The top drawer was full of medications. The middle
drawer contained her “Get Right” supplies. “Get Right” was what she called her
insulin. The bottom drawer held oxygen tubing, blood pressure cuff and
stethoscope, TED hose, gauze and bandages, and whatever odds-and-ends medical
equipment she had accumulated. It would seem that her medicine would be the
first and easiest thing for me to get rid of, but it was one of the hardest,
and eventually someone else had to do it for me. I decided it would be best to
leave Nicole’s room for last.
The attic was
the next space I decided to tackle. I pulled down the folding stairs and
climbed just high enough to get a good panoramic view: Nicole’s sewing machine,
several bolts of fabric, a set of bed frames, Christmas decorations, and boxes of
books were closest to the opening. Although I have no problem climbing up
things, I dread climbing down, so when we moved in I had handed the boxes up to
Nicole and avoided going up there at all.
I reached
for the box nearest to me and carried it down the stairs. It was an unusual
box in that, unlike the others, it had a separate lid and was sealed with several
rounds of tape. It was not a box that I had packed. I sat on the
floor, cut through the tape with a box cutter, and lifted the lid. Inside were
two smaller boxes and underneath them several folders. I removed one of the
boxes and pulled up the lid. My eyes filled with tears as I discovered the
contents. It was late evening, and I didn’t budge from that spot until early
the next morning. Spread out before me was one of the greatest gifts Nicole ever
could’ve left me.
Part 2
1973—2008
Life belongs to the living, and he who lives must be
prepared for changes.
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Chapter 8
After Nicole
died, I received a package in the mail from Aunt Betty. The enclosed letter
said, “I’ve been holding on to these things, and I probably should’ve given
them to you long before now.” I opened the thick, yellow envelope and gently
removed the contents: photographs of my mother as a girl, photos of my two
aunts, Betty and Jean, my mother’s black and gold tassel from her Purdue
University mortar board, and the guest registry from her funeral.
I opened the
registry and read through the list of names. Aunt Betty’s and her husband Ed’s
names were together on the first line, and Della Kay Elms, RN, a nurse with
whom my mom worked, was on the last. There were 96 signatures in between.
As I read
through the names, my eyes fell upon my own writing. Then, in a flood of
memories, I recalled at the funeral having asked Aunt Betty if I could write my
mom a note. She’d said, “Yes,” and I’d begun writing the note in the
registry. Aunt Betty stopped me and gave me a piece of paper to write on
instead, saying that the book was not for notes, but for “people who loved
mama” to sign their names. At that, I had scribbled over what I’d written and,
in my best cursive, simply signed Love Nancy. My signature is the 14 th and nestled between Bobby’s above and Stevey’s below. Now, 35 years
later, as I ran my fingers across that child-like signature, it was as if I’d
signed it yesterday.
Also among
the things in the envelope was a neatly folded letter encased in a clear
plastic sleeve. I unfolded the six yellowing pages, holding them by the
corners afraid that if I handled them the ink might disappear beneath my
fingers. It was a letter Aunt Betty had written to my mother when my mother
was in the hospital. It was addressed “My Sweet Sue.” Though my mother’s name
was Emma, she was known to everyone by her middle name.
The first
page catches my mother up on what had been going on: School would start earlier
than
slide them all back again.
Nicole had converted three of her six dresser drawers in an effort
to organize her supplies. The top drawer was full of medications. The middle
drawer contained her “Get Right” supplies. “Get Right” was what she called her
insulin. The bottom drawer held oxygen tubing, blood pressure cuff and
stethoscope, TED hose, gauze and bandages, and whatever odds-and-ends medical
equipment she had accumulated. It would seem that her medicine would be the
first and easiest thing for me to get rid of, but it was one of the hardest,
and eventually someone else had to do it for me. I decided it would be best to
leave Nicole’s room for last.
The attic was
the next space I decided to tackle. I pulled down the folding stairs and
climbed just high enough to get a good panoramic view: Nicole’s sewing machine,
several bolts of fabric, a set of bed frames, Christmas decorations, and boxes of
books were closest to the opening. Although I have no problem climbing up
things, I dread climbing down, so when we moved in I had handed the boxes up to
Nicole and avoided going up there at all.
I reached
for the box nearest to me and carried it down the stairs. It was an unusual
box in that, unlike the others, it had a separate lid and was sealed with several
rounds of tape. It was not a box that I had packed. I sat on the
floor, cut through the tape with a box cutter, and lifted the lid. Inside were
two smaller boxes and underneath them several folders. I removed one of the
boxes and pulled up the lid. My eyes filled with tears as I discovered the
contents. It was late evening, and I didn’t budge from that spot until early
the next morning. Spread out before me was one of the greatest gifts Nicole ever
could’ve left me.
Part 2
1973—2008
Life belongs to the living, and he who lives must be
prepared for changes.
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Chapter 8
After Nicole
died, I received a package in the mail from Aunt Betty. The enclosed letter
said, “I’ve been holding on to these things, and I probably should’ve given
them to you long before now.” I opened the thick, yellow envelope and gently
removed the contents: photographs of my mother as a girl, photos of my two
aunts, Betty and Jean, my mother’s black and gold tassel from her Purdue
University mortar board, and the guest registry from her funeral.
I opened the
registry and read through the list of names. Aunt Betty’s and her husband Ed’s
names were together on the first line, and Della Kay Elms, RN, a nurse with
whom my mom worked, was on the last. There were 96 signatures in between.
As I read
through the names, my eyes fell upon my own writing. Then, in a flood of
memories, I recalled at the funeral having asked Aunt Betty if I could write my
mom a note. She’d said, “Yes,” and I’d begun writing the note in the
registry. Aunt Betty stopped me and gave me a piece of paper to write on
instead, saying that the book was not for notes, but for “people who loved
mama” to sign their names. At that, I had scribbled over what I’d written and,
in my best cursive, simply signed Love Nancy. My signature is the 14 th and nestled between Bobby’s above and Stevey’s below. Now, 35 years
later, as I ran my fingers across that child-like signature, it was as if I’d
signed it yesterday.
Also among
the things in the envelope was a neatly folded letter encased in a clear
plastic sleeve. I unfolded the six yellowing pages, holding them by the
corners afraid that if I handled them the ink might disappear beneath my
fingers. It was a letter Aunt Betty had written to my mother when my mother
was in the hospital. It was addressed “My Sweet Sue.” Though my mother’s name
was Emma, she was known to everyone by her middle name.
The first
page catches my mother up on what had been going on: School would start earlier
than
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