See You Soon

At B & B Florists, in Beaver Dam, I choose a small arrangement of two roses, a

carnation, and a long, stem-like flower with many pink blooms running up the length of the stalk.

Those are the only kinds of fresh flowers available. While the kindly old lady who is running the

shop arranges my choices, I try to fill out a card. Lynn Johnson, my cancer afflicted friend, has had

a particularly difficult time lately. A few weeks ago she pretty much stopped eating because the

cancer was in and around her stomach. The doctors say that she only has a few days to live so I

decide against a get-well-soon card, figuring it would be inappropriate. Instead I choose a pale

yellow card with a small, white dove in the lower, right corner. I crumple up my first poetic attempt

and try again, this time with a simple message -- only two lines -- but one that might instill hope in

my weakening friend.

At the Johnsons' door, I am greeted by Katie, their daughter. Actually, Katie is

their granddaughter, but she has lived with Lynn and Paul ever since I can remember. Katie, who is

about my own age, is a very attractive girl with short hair that curls in around the bottoms of her

ears, and today, silver toenails. She takes my minuscule bouquet and leads me through the dimly-lit

halls of their home towards Lynn's room, telling me as we go that Lynn is still sleeping. The wooden

floor creaks loudly with each step. I try to walk steadily, so as not to wake her with the noise. It

doesn't seem to help much; the house is intent on waking its sick charge.

We enter Lynn's temporary room to find her curled up asleep in her hospital-style

bed.

"It is past time for her to wake up anyway; I'll get her up to talk with you." Katie

tells me.

Lynn looks so peaceful lying there though. "No, that's all right," I assure Katie. At

least, while Lynn is asleep, there is no pain.

I am sure my mouth hangs agape as I notice for the first time how thin and frail

Lynn appears. She was always so sunny and bright before. The room always seemed to light up

with her cheerful manner -- her mischievous grin, her eyes flashing behind purple-framed bifocals.

She was vibrant and strong, at least on the outside, even in the advanced stages of the disease,

when only rarely did her pain show through, to be quickly masked again for the benefits of those

around her. Now, after not seeing her for some time, I am shocked by the terrible contrast. A

small, pathetic figure, wrinkled and drawn, she lies hunched over in bed. Most of her once thick

hair had been claimed by the insatiable chemotherapy, leaving only a sparse remainder. Katie

seems to be taking the situation well, maybe better than me. I guess she is resigned to what is

happening. But, then, I wonder how she really feels inside. I want to help her, but I don't know

how.

Paul is also asleep. Katie wakes him for what she tells me is the second time,

informing him that is now 4:15 PM, and that Lynn is sleeping. After he instructs us not to wake

Lynn, Katie and I meander back out into the kitchen where we sit awhile and make polite talk,

calmly and normally, as if Lynn were not dying just down the hall. Paul, now fully dressed, comes

out and we exchange greetings again.

"Well, I'd better be going," I excuse myself, climbing slowly to my feet.

I really hate to leave; I feel like I am bailing out on Paul and Katie. I can sense them

following me with their eyes, begging me not to abandon them, as I fumble with the brass

doorknob.

"Goodbye." The word sticks in my throat.

It seems like I didn't get to stay very long -- not long enough. My visit doesn't yet

feel complete. I haven't even talked to Lynn! But then, it isn't like I am saying "goodbye"

permanently; it is more like "Till next time." As I wrote in the card, I'll see her again soon.