Some weeks it seems my life is nothing but a seven-day stretch of making PB&J sandwiches, policing homework, letting cats in, folding laundry, hustling for freelance work, letting cats out, and then the cycle begins again. The doldrums take hold and I’m this close to reaching for a Harlequin Romance novel for a little escapism. Then, well, then there’s last week.
On Thursday, February 28th I went to dinner with a group of friends and had a long overdue chat. Some of my very favorite ladies were in attendance and after having rescheduled the dinner four previous times, I welcomed the laughter and conversation. Every time we get together a new inside joke is created. “Did she say, whore up? No, honey, I think she said order up. Okay then.” Ohhhh, you had to be there. I was still smiling when I got home that night, changed in to my comfy snowflake pajama pants and started scrolling through Facebook updates. Then I received a private message from my cousin, and my smile disappeared.
Although I knew my Uncle Lewis had not been well for some time, I was unprepared for the message I received. “Lewis was taken to the hospital. . . nothing more doctors can do. . . Hospice coming tonight. . . doctors do not expect him to live through the weekend.” I stared at the blinking cursor but had no immediate reply. Uncle Lew, the handsome rugged man pictured to your left, has been a fixture in my life for 42 years. The strong man with the broad chest and tattoos, whose life-uniform consisted of a light blue button-down and generous amount of Brylcreem, always had a smile for me and doted on me like I was one of his own. I understood he was sick but could not grasp the finality of my cousin’s words.