Thirty
It is so important to allow yourself the time to be creative, because without creativity how can you imagine possibilities? For me, it’s always been knitting and crochet and they have opened the door to limitless possibilities.
—Candi Jensen, author and producer of the
Emmy-nominated PBS TV show,
Knit and Crochet Today
Lydia Goetz
As I’ve mentioned, A Good Yarn is closed on Mondays; that’s when I schedule my doctor, dentist and other appointments. I also catch up on paperwork and accounting.
I’d also started leaving part of every Monday open to visit my mother. Thankfully Mom was only in the hospital overnight. Ever since her fall she seemed so frail to me, and I noticed that her mind wandered more. Some days she seems lost in the past. A couple of weeks ago, I swear she didn’t know who I was. Margaret and I both feel we won’t have her much longer, so it’s important to spend as much time with her as possible. Moving her into an assisted living complex had been a difficult decision, but more than ever, we realized it was the right one. Mom seemed to decline with every visit and she still missed her home, but we’d had no other choice, Margaret and I, since she couldn’t live by herself anymore.
At least the situation with Casey had improved in the past week. The real change had come after the day she’d sought out Alix. Despite my tentative inquiries, neither one of them had divulged the topic of their conversation.
Whatever Alix said had helped Casey. I just wish she’d told me where she was going. I’ve hardly ever seen Brad so worried, fearful that she’d decided to run away again. My husband had come to care as deeply about Casey as I did.
“What are you doing today?” Casey asked as I finished packing lunches for her and Cody. She attended day camp with him unless she came to the shop with me.
“I’m getting groceries, and then I’m going to visit my mother,” I said, adding a small bag of corn chips to Cody’s lunch. Those were his favorites, and he’d eat them every day if I let him.
“Can I come with you?” She’d dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, her usual attire, with flip-flops.
The request surprised me—and it pleased me, too. “I’d like that.”
“Cool.”
Casey tried to sneak a cookie and I slapped her hand. “Not before breakfast.”
She grabbed the cereal box instead. Before long Cody had joined her, and they sat side by side spooning up Rice Krispies and making exaggerated slurping sounds, which I chose to ignore.
I dropped Cody off, then Casey and I went to the grocery store.
She didn’t have a lot to say while I steered the cart through the aisles and carefully followed my list. I noticed, however, that several items showed up at the check-out stand that I didn’t remember putting in the cart. I allowed the cake mix and the cantaloupe to pass without comment, but removed the teen gossip magazine before it reached the cash register.
Holding it up, I looked at Casey, who shrugged as if she had no idea how that could possibly have landed in the cart. I replaced it in the magazine slot, poking her in the ribs. She laughed and so did I.
We brought the groceries home and made short work of putting everything away. Then we drove to the assisted living complex.
Casey had met my mother before but only briefly and only with the whole family present. Because this was her first real visit, I felt I needed to prepare her.
“Mom’s mind is fading,” I explained. “She’s having some memory lapses.”
“What’s that mean?” she asked.
“She might forget your name.”
“That’s okay.”
“And she’s often confused.” I didn’t want to say too much—didn’t want to frighten Casey or negatively influence her opinion.
“I get confused sometimes,” she said.
I grinned. “Me, too,” I admitted. It was probably best for Casey to form her own judgment.
I parked the car and exchanged hellos with the friendly staff as Casey and I passed through the wide foyer to the elevator, which would take us up to my mother’s small apartment.
Tapping at her door, I let myself in. “Hi, Mom,” I said cheerfully. Margaret and I had positioned her sofa in the living room, with the afghan Margaret had crocheted in lovely fall colors spread over the back. Across from the sofa were her favorite chair and the coffee and end tables that had been in the family home. There was no room for anything else.
The kitchen had a miniature refrigerator and a microwave, a sink and a few dishes, but that was about all. I cleaned out her fridge every week, tossing the open cans of tuna fish and the moldy cheese. Naturally I had to do that when Mom wasn’t looking. She hated to discard anything.
Her bedroom was compact, too. There was just enough room for her bed, a nightstand and her beloved sewing machine. Mom didn’t sew these days, but that machine had been a major part of her life for so many years, she’d never feel at home without it. Despite the restrictive quarters, Margaret and I had found a spot for it.
Mom glanced up from the television. When she saw it was me, she brightened. “Lydia. You brought Hailey with you.”
Hailey was my sister’s daughter. “No, Mom, this is Casey.” I slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “She’s spending the summer with Brad and me.” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure Mom would remember Brad. Some weeks she did; other weeks she looked blankly at me when I mentioned his name.
My mother tilted her head quizzically. “Have I met you before?” she asked Casey. “I’m so forgetful lately.”
Casey slid her fingertips into the pockets of her jean shorts. “Not really.”
I’d brought Mom to the house for dinner one Sunday afternoon shortly after Casey’s arrival. Casey had spent most of the day in her room as if she felt she was intruding on family time. I’d tried to coax her out to no avail. There’d been a couple of similar occasions, including one at Margaret’s, but as far as I knew, Casey hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with my mother.
“You do look familiar, though,” Mom said with a frown.
Casey sat on the sofa next to her chair and studied the TV screen. “What are you watching?”
I could’ve answered for her. My mother was enthralled by the cooking channel. Paula Deen was her favorite, and she watched her show faithfully, as well as four or five others. She used to write down the recipes, which she passed to Margaret and me, and she asked for cookbooks every Christmas. Mom didn’t cook anymore, but that didn’t alter her desire to create wonderful meals for her family. She’d given up writing out the recipes, and that concerned me. I was afraid she’d lost—what? Her sense of purpose? Her belief in a future? I suspected her ability to follow the instructions was already gone.
“Paula Deen’s baking cookies this morning,” Mom told Casey, who appeared interested in what was happening. That didn’t surprise me, considering the cookies and cakes she’d baked herself.
I headed into the bedroom to gather up Mom’s laundry, which I washed for her every week. The washer and dryer were down the hall and shared by the residents on the second floor.
“Lydia was a terrible cook as a child,” I heard my mother say. “I couldn’t trust her in the kitchen.”
“Really?” Casey met my gaze, giggling delightedly.
I’d heard the story of how, at age eleven, I’d burned peanut butter cookies to a crisp countless times.
“I’ll get the clothes into the washer and be right back,” I said. Sometimes Mom had trouble remembering my name, but she recalled in vivid detail a long-ago incident from my youth. Maybe because it had been repeated so often over the years.
Judging by Casey’s rapt attention, I doubted either of them heard me leave. After I’d loaded the washer I returned to find both Mom and Casey laughing, whether at something on the TV or a shared joke I didn’t know.
Since Casey was keeping my mother entertained, I went back into the tiny bedroom to make her bed. Mom would be so embarrassed to realize she’d left it unmade. When I was a kid, my mother had been a real stickler about tucking in the sheets and smoothing out the blankets each and every morning. Having a properly made bed was right up there with brushing my teeth and saying my prayers, and it was a habit I’d never abandoned.
As I worked, I noticed that the laughter between Mom and Casey continued. It was so unusual to hear my mother laugh that I poked my head out the door to see what was so amusing.
The TV was actually off, and Casey sat on the floor at my mother’s feet, doubled over with glee. When she caught sight of me, she pointed in my direction. “You read Margaret’s diary?”
“Mom, are you telling tales on me?” I asked in mock outrage.
Mom nodded. “Your sister was so upset, she marched into the backyard and burned her diary. Your father said we were fortunate no one called the fire department.”
Casey found that equally hilarious and laughed even harder. Mom did, too. Happy tears rolled down her weathered cheeks until she reached for the handkerchief she kept inside her sweater pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
It was true. At seventeen, I’d snuck into my sister’s bedroom, searched for her diary and read page after page. As luck would have it, my sister had discovered me there, sitting on her bed, completely enthralled with what she’d written.
To say she was furious would be an understatement. Margaret had ripped the book from my hands and stormed out of the house, demanding that my parents “do something.”
What Margaret didn’t understand—or for that matter, my parents, either—was that I was starved for a normal life. In my view Margaret was a normal teenager and I wasn’t because I had cancer. I craved my sister’s life and the only way I could get a glimpse of normal was by reading her journal.
“She’s forgiven me now,” I said, then added, “I think.”
Casey looked at me archly. “I wouldn’t have.”
“Thanks a lot, kid.”
“Do you keep a diary?” Mom asked Casey.
She shook her head.
“Good thing.” I said, hands on my hips. “I’d probably read yours, too.”
Casey grinned and turned back to my mother, wanting to hear more tales of my sinful past.
We stayed until it was time for Mom to go to the dining room for lunch. She sat at the same table every day with three other widows. They all seemed to get along well and I was grateful she had at least this social interaction, since she rarely participated in events or day trips planned by the staff.
Casey escorted her to the dining room while I finished folding and putting away her clean laundry. Then I hurried downstairs, meeting the two of them as Casey helped Mom into her chair.
“Bring Hailey again,” Mom said, smiling up at me.
Casey didn’t seem upset that my mother thought she was my niece. “I’ll do that.” I gently hugged her goodbye. This was probably the best visit I’d had with her since the move. She was almost her old self again, and I had Casey to thank for that. The girl had been enthralled with my mother, even when Mom repeated the same stories over and over.
“I’m so glad you came with me,” I said as we walked toward the visitor parking lot.
“Your mom’s funny.”
“I know.”
“I don’t have grandparents,” she said a little sadly. “I mean, I never had one I actually remember.”
I wasn’t sure how to comment.
We were driving back to the house when Casey suddenly turned to me. “What was it like to have cancer?” she asked.
The question caught me unawares. My mother must have brought up the subject, although I couldn’t guess how much or how little she’d said—or remembered.
“It wasn’t a lot of fun, that’s for sure.” I thought it was preferable to keep the details to myself. I recalled how disturbed Mom and Margaret had been when I lost my hair during chemo. Good grief, that was the least of it! The drugs, the vomiting, the horrendous headaches that incapacitated me. Going bald was nothing.
Nearly a year of my life had been spent in the hospital. I’d be home for short periods of time, and then something else would happen that would force me to return. I didn’t like to think about those years.
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen. I’d just gotten my driver’s license.” I kept my answers short and considered trying to change the subject. I didn’t, because Casey obviously wanted to understand.
“What was the worst part, other than feeling sick all the time?”
“The worst part?” I echoed. “I think it was missing out on all the fun in high school.” It was so much more than being unable to attend football games or dances. All my friends were dating and exploring their independence. Not me. Instead I’d been in the hospital for months on end, hooked up to IVs, in such physical and emotional pain that I didn’t have the strength to open my eyes.
I’d desperately longed to be like everyone else. I was so sick of being sick.
“Did you ever go to a dance?”
I nodded. I’d gone with my girlfriends.
“Did you have a special dress?”
Unexpectedly a lump filled my throat. “Mom made me one, and it was beautiful.”
“A date?”
I shook my head and managed a laugh. “The boys in my class tended to date girls who weren’t bald.” I’d generally worn a kerchief, since the wigs I had were so hot and uncomfortable.
“You lost your hair?” Casey asked in horror.
“Margaret has pictures. I think she took them as revenge for reading her diary.”
Casey smiled, but then her expression grew serious again. “It was hard having cancer, wasn’t it?”
I could make light of those years but decided on honesty instead. “Yes.”
She was quiet for several minutes. “The cancer came back, didn’t it?” she finally asked. “That’s what Cody told me before.”
“When I was in my early twenties. The fact is, it might still return. Life doesn’t come with a guarantee that just because I’m a nice person the tumors won’t grow again.”
We pulled into the driveway and I turned off the engine. I climbed out of the car and waited, watching as Casey continued to sit there, apparently steeped in thought. A moment later, she joined me.
“You’re a brave person,” she said quietly.
I laughed because I certainly didn’t think of myself in those terms. Looping my arm around her neck, I brought her head close to mine and kissed her hair. “Oh, yes. That’s me, all right.”
“You had cancer twice and you...you still let me live with you this summer.”
That part, at least for this day, was pure joy.