Another Day in the Country
The end of it all
© Another Day in the Country
For the past couple of years, our cousin Janet has been fighting for her life after being diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumor.
I’m not entirely sure how she viewed her prognosis because she didn’t talk about it. Those of us who watched, however, knew that the outcome was bleak.
For one reason, we’d lived with a loved one diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor and we had a pretty good idea of the outcome — not good.
Janet held on through chemo, radiation, repeated surgeries, and experimental procedures. We were amazed at her diligence.
It’s hard on everybody in a family when something like this happens.
In our experience, after Tooltime Tim’s diagnosis, the hardest part was wondering what would come next, and would he be in pain? Luckily for him, the end came more quickly than any of us expected because he refused continuous experimental treatment.
Janet’s end came a couple of weeks ago, with friends still holding prayer vigils until the last minute and family standing by her bedside.
My sister and I joined relatives and friends for her memorial service in Lawrence.
“A funeral service is like looking at a stained-glass window,” Jess, the philosophy major, said as we drove toward the freeway. “I think we come together — each person with a memory, a piece of Janet, that we offer to the whole. We share stories and share our fragment of who Janet was to us, and in this way the whole of her is there amongst us one more time.”
The minister shared that Janet had learned to fly an airplane with her pilot brother and had taken her husband, Joe, on his first plane ride.
We knew quite a few things about our cousins but had never heard that story.
We knew that Janet had been a pioneer salesperson for the first microwave ovens, doing demonstrations for Westar back in the day.
Joe worked at Westar, too. We didn’t know that Janet had actually asked Joe out for their first date.
We’d heard stories of Janet’s early life on a farm — how she was the youngest in a big family and had grown up milking cows before heading for school.
We knew that Janet loved cooking good food, was health conscious, and had a baking circle of friends who made and shared cookies every Christmas.
We benefited by adding our favorite caramel recipe that we’d gotten one Christmas from neighbors here in Ramona and shared peanut brittle with the group.
Janet always invited “Pat and Jess” for Thanksgiving dinner with the extended family.
We’ve always loved visiting them in Lawrence, partly because Janet was the ideal hostess, a fantastic cook, and a creative interior designer. There are artifacts everywhere in the house celebrating generations of loved ones.
“Would you like some…” and “Could I get you…” prefaced every sentence.
“Coming to your place is our idea of going to a fine resort,” I told her.
She always had some little goodie hidden in a freezer, stashed in a cupboard, or arranged on a counter. It was her joy to serve and sustain you — to a fault. Sometimes we’d have to say, “Janet, quit! Sit down! We are fine!”
We were amazed to park near the church in downtown Lawrence and see people coming from all directions for Janet’s funeral. We were astonished to walk into a full sanctuary brimming with people.
I knew that Janet and Joe had lived in Lawrence for more than 50 years. I realized that Janet taught home economics in a local high school and touched many lives.
Their three sons, with their families, live and work in Lawrence. But as evidenced by the full church, we could see a sampling of just how many lives Janet had touched in a loving, positive way, and here they were to pay tribute.
I’ve always disliked funerals — for obvious reasons of sadness and subtle, more private reasons, too.
I grew up a preacher’s daughter and lived as a preacher’s wife who had to attend a lot of services. I dislike the pretend notions people seem to believe in about the afterlife when I observe them ignoring the abundance of the life they now have.
I do enjoy a good eulogy, though, especially when I learn something new about the deceased. I understand the tears and I absolutely love the laughter that erupts when stories are told.
Our friend Des just told us her dad had died, on Mothers Day.
“He didn’t want any services; his body was cremated,” she said.
He’d been a difficult man to deal with as he aged, but he’d done good cutting out the falderal after his death. To mourn privately was easier on his aging wife and his only daughter.
“You do know, I don’t want any funeral service when I die,” I said to my sister as we drove home.
She nodded. There was a brief silence, contemplating.
“And, if you want something in the newspaper, you’d better write it,” she retorted laughing.
I thought to myself, “she, who writes the longest articles, the most in-depth epistles, lots of journals — surely, she could write 150 words!”
But then again, maybe I will do just that, on some other day in the country.