Good Morning on a Saturday.
Senator John McCain has decided to stop his treatment for brain cancer. My stepmother succumbed to the same deadly form of the disease at the age of sixty-nine, and every time I hear about another person being struck down, even at a ripe old age, I think about her journey.
Ruthie was a disciplined woman who watched what she ate and played tennis all year long. She was a redhead, a burnished copper, and wore earth colors like sage green and chocolate brown. She drove Mustangs, always beige with matching leather seats. She enjoyed a Martini before dinner, carefully measured. She was an excellent skier, a Congregationalist, and a seasoned world traveler. She and my father spent good chunks of time in Egypt, Turkey, at least half of South America, the Caribbean, Australia, New Zealand, three or four magical South Pacific islands, and several countries in Europe. She liked Austria the best but was also fond of Portugal that she said was a great cheaper than Spain. Ruthie was a diehard Republican who believed in fiscal responsibility.
After she was taken sick, she made it clear that she did not wish to spend the time she had left in a nursing home. My father was her principal caregiver, although he enlisted the services of a home health nurse who came in for a few hours every day. Beyond the special care requirements, my dad was determined to make her life as normal and upbeat as possible. He helped her dress in her autumn colors and took her for walks in her wheelchair. He also read her favorite book to her: Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Ruthie had said over the years that she wanted to be reincarnated as a gull but it had to be the kind that followed the ships to sea, not the sort that went hunting for food in a garbage can. Everyone in the family knew about the seagull thing.
Her conservative self went straight out the window when my father brought home a box of chocolate chip cookies from the bakery one day and set them out on a plate. She did not have one or two as she would have in her earlier life; she had half a dozen and also made it known that she wanted larger portions of mashed potatoes. After that my dad cooked up the meals that she wanted but never mastered her excellent meatloaf and seafood casserole.
She passed away peacefully at home on a gorgeous September afternoon, and everyone in their little neighborhood of senior citizens stood on their doorsteps as she was driven away in the hearse and later planted a tree in her memory. The day after she died my father spent several hours finding just the right words to be read at her funeral. Here they are:
As it had shined across him all his life, so understanding lighted that moment for Jonathan Seagull. They were right.
He could fly higher, and it was time to go home.
He gave one last look across the sky, across that magnificent silver land where he had learned so much.
"I'm ready," he said at last.
And Jonathan Livingston Seagull rose with the two-star bright gulls to disappear into a perfect dark sky.
Have a good flight, Senator. Ruthie will show you around when you land.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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