Unspent Dreams

Every time my phone rang since last August, shivers would go up and down my spine. As time wore on, I hoped it would be the call so the suffering could end. Yet I dreaded hearing the news. I couldn't picture Shonna not being here anymore.

On October 16, the phone rang, and it was from Shonna's number. She hadn't been able to use the phone in a while, so my stomach was twisting and turning again. To my surprise, it was Shonna. Her sister had dialed the phone for her and was holding it to her ear.

"Will you sing at my funeral?" Shonna asked, weakly.

Her entire family was hoping she would make it until Christmas. She did. I sang at her funeral two weekends ago.

As I got ready to go to bed back in October, after talking to Shonna on what would be our final phone chat, and I saw the jars The Lizard and I had been collecting for Shonna for three years. Before she was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 2006, we brought her fresh Palisade peaches every year. She canned peaches. She always shared. After she started chemo the first time, we made all kinds of plans. She was going to teach me to can when she got better. I was going to help her can peaches.

We were going to make a quilt together. She wanted to watch The Lizard in the Triple Bypass with me. She wanted to help with Makeover Madness -- every year. She wanted us to go to Estes Park for a weekend with her and her husband. She was going to write a book, and she wanted me to edit it. She wanted me to design a dress for one of the dolls she planned to make. She was going to teach me to direct music. She wanted us to come over for dinner when she felt good again. She wanted to go to the balloon festival in Albuquerque one more time.

Shonna never got better. Chemo took more and more out of her each year, as did the ferociously spreading cancer. But she gave it her all. She fought that cancer monster for four years and two months. Her last six months were filled with pain and suffering, yet still she clung to life for the treasure it was. Each time I visited her, she seemed to be drifting further from us. On Christmas Eve, she told me simply, "It won't be long now."

"It" took nearly another month.

Now that the pain and suffering have ended, I feel relieved. I miss the Shonna I knew before her third diagnosis. I miss her bubbly enthusiasm and her magnetic laughter.

Most of all, I wish we had been able to do all the things we'd planned. I wish she could have taken that one last second honeymoon with her husband. I wish her final years could have had more joy and less pain.

And yet, the things I did do with her are more important than the things we didn't do. The things I gave up to spend time at her bedside would never have brought me the joy I felt performing simple acts of service.

Bottom line is there are many things I'd like to do with family and many of my friends. Sometimes I allow life, commitments and work to dominate my schedule. I had always thought I will be able to do what I want next week, next month or next year.

Bottom line is if there are things I want to do with those I love, I shouldn't wait. I CAN'T wait. Not now.

With Shonna, I didn't have much choice. We didn't make our grand plans until she wasn't able to do most of the things we schemed. Now the time has come not to allow miles, time or the economy to prevent me from living my dreams, showing my love, spending time where it counts most.

Bottom line is I spent the last six months doing what I needed to do and being where I needed to be. I gave Shonna foot massages. I covered her hospital room with balloon festival photos. I sang to her. I read to her. I was there.

When the day comes that Shonna and I meet again, there will be no regrets, except maybe over the blasted peaches I expect to ruin because I was never properly taught to can. But I'm sure we'll have a good laugh over that.

If you take anything at all from this, my moody ramblings, please let it be to spend the time your loved ones need. If you can't be cheering cyclists or admiring hot air balloons, just give the gift of time. In the end, that's all that matters anyway.

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