I met Judy in my formative years of teaching Lamaze. We started to teach almost at the same time. Actually, she was in the second wave of new recruits and I was in the first. What a beautiful old soul! There was such wisdom in her eyes and she never spoke only to be heard, she spoke only when you needed to hear. She was the epitome of "Don't sweat the small stuff".
As new recruits, we did not get to teach as a team right away but we taught almost exclusively together when we were finally able to do so. What a great tag team we made; she being quiet and I being animated. Our classes got the best of two worlds and it was interesting to see the class almost split up gravitating to the teaching style they felt most comfortable with. As time went on, she became a little more animated and I became, believe it or not, more quiet! We became so comfortable with each other that we would finish each other's sentences and thoughts while teaching. We looked forward to our teaching nights.
We sat together at meetings and I learned to speak only when I needed others to hear and she learned to speak up with a little more spontaneity. She would kick me under the table when she felt that I was not making my point and I would kick her when I felt she should be speaking up. We would drive back from some of these meetings and she would let me unload only to respond, "It always comes out in the wash."
I am reminded of the night that a special meeting was called because the group of instructors was split on the philosophy of service delivery. That afternoon it had started to pour and as the evening set it, the rain had turned to freezing rain. Bill was quite upset when I informed him that Judy was on her way to pick me up. We drove, let me rephrase that, we slipped-slided all the way across town. The meeting proved to be quite difficult with half the instructors handing in their resignation. We got back into the car and slipped-slided all the way back home. She stayed for tea and we debriefed on the events of the meeting. I was so upset! She sat back and simply said, "A forest must burn down before it can regenerate." Wise.
This was also the night I found out that she had been living with cancer for four years. While chatting, she became visibly upset and there was a distinct odour in the kitchen. She moved to the bathroom, then called out. She wondered if she could borrow a change of clothes. Her colostomy bag had leaked. I ran upstairs to find her a change of clothes and Bill looked up wondering if I was going anywhere. I told him it was for Judy. I came back to her and she reached out to get the clothes but not before I became fully aware of the smell eminating from the bathroom and caught a glimpse of the bag. I had been smart enough ... dah ... to bring down a washcloth, towel and soap.
When she came out, she placed her soiled clothes into a plastic bag and looked up at me. A smile broke across her face and she said, "I can see that this is going to require another cup of tea!" She called her husband to let him know that she was okay and that she would be a little later than expected.
She opens up the discussion with, "Don't worry, this is the good kind of cancer!" I was floored. A good kind of cancer? Is there such a thing? She proceeds to inform me of the type, the maintenance and what she had been through since her diagnosis. She tells me that her cancer is the kind that travels between organs and that every so often, she goes back into the hospital where they proceed to clean around all her organs and then puts them all back in, leaving her open in a cold room until the swelling comes down before suturing her back up. A spring cleaning of sorts. She shares this with me, all the while she wears a smile. She had had two such operations before and smacks me across the face by informing me that she was due for another cleaning. I had noticed that she was not her old energetic self but thought it might have something to do with the fact that they had just adopted a son. The only part she did not like about this whole process was the time spent waiting for the swelling to come down. She hated being cold. She left that night hugging me with the same intensity she always did, promised to give me a call tomorrow as she always promised and agreed to call once she got home to let me know she was safe. I went upstairs and crawled into bed and brought Bill's arms around me and cried. He did not ask the question, waited until I was done and listened when I was ready to share.
The next day, I went out shopping. I bought a beautiful nightgown pattern, purchased the softest, thickest flannelette I could find. I only had a week to get this thing done. I modified the pattern so that the arms could be snapped around an IV tube and could easily be laid across her like a blanket if need be, or tied up to give her privacy. The bottom of the nightgown had a drawstring that could close up the nightgown to keep her feet warm and I made a set of booties and mitts trimmed in lace. I finished in the early hours on the morning she was due to leave and I rushed out to her place before work so that I could deliver my package. It was a hit! Just as I was about to leave, she says with a smile, "You know, I expect to have the matching housecoat when I get back." Optimism. I joined in her enthusiasm, went back out to purchase another pattern and more flannelette. This time, I made the nightgown without modification and sowed the matching housecoat. Optimism spilling over.
She did come back, got stronger and when came time to make the decision of whether or not to adopt the half-sister of their adoptive son, there was no hesitation. I never asked the question, but because we were so comfortable ending each other's thoughts, she simply said, "We are all going to die one day. The difference between you and I is that I know I will die sooner than later. I might as well make a difference in this child's life while I can. My husband will have a family to love and remember me by, and when he remarries he will have a great gift to offer his future wife - an instant family! She won't have to go through childbirth."
We continued to share in all that is baby, in all that is gardening, in all that is craft. We had a strong friendship and we balanced each other out. We often shared tea after teaching and talked to all hours of the night, much to Bill's dismay. The muffled chatter made its way to our bedroom and kept him up. He never complained. The only reason I knew this was affecting him was because one morning, after such a session, he mimicked the chatter after I commented on how tired he looked.
Judy lost her battle with cancer. In the end, she refused to see anyone other than her immediate family. The last time we saw each other, she insisted that I come to her gardens and take a sampling of all her plants and that I plant these in my gardens. This way, she knew that she would live on with me. I have since split these plants on occasion and offered them to new gardeners, telling them the story of my beautiful friend. Judy lives on, not only in my gardens, but also in many other gardens.
I will honour your memory Judy, by remaining optimistic that while my forest may be burning, I will regenerate one day.
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