Once again, I find myself smiling fondly
at the 2 lovelies that showed up together.
. . . . .
Nightie was a playful soul that I met in a shared online space. We cared a great deal for
one another and, even as busy as she was, when she noticed I went quiet she would send
me a little love note to check on me and see how I was doing. She was a quiet one and
whether we noticed it or not, her strength held us. "Den Guardian" was the perfect role
and name for her. She was (and still is) our Protectress.
She lived several states away and I had the very good fortune of seeing and hugging her
in person several years in a row. At my first of our group's annual gatherings and feeling
a bit nervous, we were invited to stand so our leader could go around the circle and bless
each one of us. Sure, I could've reached down for Bert and Ernie for support. Instead I
asked Nightie if she would help me and she was right there for me to lean on (again).
Several years later at our group's annual gathering she hosted a Babylon 5 trivia contest.
So that I could play with at least a little knowledge, hubby and I watched all the episodes
before our convention. Grinning because it just might've delighted her more than it did
me that I came in second place and won the little figurine leaning against my candle.
The last time I saw her was 6 years ago at our annual September "in the fur" gathering
which I *almost* didn't attend. I'm so glad I did because 2-1/2 weeks later she was gone.
A year later I believe she did come to check on me in person. I was sitting at the little
church that I so love to attend on a dark Saturday night. When I turned around to offer
the sign of peace, a woman who's hair and build reminded me *eerily* of Nightie was
standing behind me. I was working up the courage to ask her after mass if we might
could share a hug in honor of my friend but when I turned back around? She had slipped
out. While I was sad, somehow it felt right to be looked in on for a few brief moments.
And just like her . . . she saw that I was fine and so she went on about her other rounds.
. . . . .
Margie was the play therapist at The Children's Hospital in Boston and just the breath
of fresh air I needed during a difficult time. We met her on my first short trip up for
evaluation when Moma was with me. I made the second trip up for 7-1/2 weeks of
radiation by myself and spent most of my outpatient days on the oncology floor, waiting
for the woman who had generously opened her home to me to finish her volunteer
work and was ready to take me home with her for the night.
Back home the hospital I stayed in didn't have a children's ward so this was a whole
new world to me. Along with Margie's steady weekday company, one of the most
memorable lessons for me was, unless we weren't feeling well, we were expected
to get up, get dressed and stroll down to the huge, bright playroom at the end of the
hall. This helped me to understand how influential the way we behave can very much
have an effect on how we feel. We were kids with cancer, not cancer that had kids.
The playroom was filled with all sorts of toys and one wall was lined with windows
overlooking the city. Margie often sat in one of the small chairs at the low-to-the-
ground tables, perfectly adjusted for kids.
I remember she was the one who taught me how to say "Massachusetts" ("chew" not
"too") and she had a big, ready smile. She was a welcomed companion and anchor in
the storm that I came to rely on.
I wish I had her address or knew how to contact her and have tried several times but
to no avail. Perhaps it's how it's meant to be.
. . . . .
When we die . . .
Failed attempts to stay connected to one another . . .
Sometimes . . . ?
It's all a Mystery.
Still.
They were both very much about Seeking Joy.
and I loved them dearly.
Blessed be.
💙 . 🙏🏻 . 💙
. * .
