I facetimed my 83-year-old BFF this week. It took her a couple of minutes to focus her camera, and while she was doing so, she said, “Don’t hang up, Kiddo — I’m going to figure this thing out.” I settled on my couch and waited for the shaking to stop and her face to pop up on the screen. “I can see you now, can you see me?” she asked.
“I can see your chin,” I said
“I’m sorry you had to see that Kiddo,” she said and with that we both laughed.
We laughed the way we did when I went to visit with her one afternoon when I was completely overwhelmed. I complained about raising a teenager and Barbara said, “Let me get the wine”
A few sips in, she said let me tell you a story. One day when I drove to get my daughter from school, she asked, “Mom, can you pick me up down the street?” When she finally got in the car, I asked her what was going on? Was she embarrassed of me? I kid you not, she looked at me and said, “Mom, It’s just that your head is too little for this car.”’
“I’m eighty something years old and every time I ever get in a car, I think about her and that afternoon. Raising a teenager is like walking around on bloody knee caps, Kiddo. You will be alright.” We laughed so hard, I was holding my belly. Barbara jumped out of her blue recliner and rushed to the half bathroom downstairs. From behind the door, she was still laughing and talking, “Kiddo, telling you that story made me piss myself.”
The first time Barbara called me, Kiddo, it was on a sadder occasion. I had just come back from the grocery store and she was standing in her driveway talking to our mortician neighbor. Business was booming for him. He owned five mortuaries, a mansion in the Georgia mountains, a lake house in Alabama, and his condo here at the beach.
For the two years I lived in our little beach community, he came there probably three weekends. This particular weekend, when I arrived home from buying groceries, here he was on this sun-shiny afternoon, in our driveway, helping Barbara plan her funeral. I heard bits and pieces of what he was saying while I unpacked my groceries. My heart was breaking for her, while this guy was sharing little snippets. “People are dying. Business is booming.” I wanted to seal his mouth shut with duct tape, but I didn’t. I simply waited for him to leave. Once he was gone, I walked over, rang her doorbell, and there she was sitting on her blue recliner. Her eyes were teary. The talk of death had penetrated her, and it broke my heart. We sat in silence for a little while, then she recounted stories for me. I listened. I smiled. I laughed. The more stories she told me, the more the burden of death fell from her face. I watched as her cheeks got rosy again.
A few hours later, I stood to leave. She walked me to the door and reached her little arms up to my neck. She hugged me and said, “I love you, Kiddo.”
Call a friend and listen — sometimes that’s all it takes.
Kadine Christie
2 Comments
Katherine Hardney
I know he is in the mortuary business but where is his sensitivity. He will be lucky if he lives to his 80s. Some people will never cease to amaze me. You don’t celebrate death even if it’s your livelihood. I’m glad you were there for your neighbor.
Kadinechristie
Hi Katherine,
Some people can be extremely insensitive about certain populations. I am glad I was there that day as well.