What it’s really like

Have you ever read an obituary and seen the phrase “She died at home, surrounded by family and those she loved”?  It sounds almost comforting, doesn’t it? Like a desirable way to go, if there were one.

Lemme tell you what that’s really like.

Friday, December 23rd. We were told by the Hospice nurses that someone would have to stay with our stepfather 24/7 now, to help him with our Mother. We’d been spending days and evenings with her, but going home at night because her pain medication would have her sleeping most of the time anyway. So that night, my sister and her husband stayed quite late, going home only because Jerry said he’d be fine.

Saturday, December 24th. Jerry called my sister Kim in a panic, unable to administer Mom’s medication because she was fighting him.  They rushed over and helped out, able to distract her and talk to her while he got her medication into her mouth. Thankfully it was liquid, and would absorb through the cheek.  Later that morning, Kim called us, to take a turn at the house. Cindy and I were planning to spend Christmas Eve with Jerry anyway, so we packed up some stuff and drove over, spent the day and afternoon, then took a quick break at Kim’s house to give our nieces and nephew their Christmas presents. Kim had made a nice dinner, and we all took an hour break, then Kim and her husband packed overnight bags and headed over to spend the night helping with Mom.

Sunday, December 25th. It’s Christmas morning, Cindy and I got up and put a turkey in the oven, then took our turn. We packed up dinner, and overnight bags, and drove over. Kim and Jim had just left, so we had dinner while Mom was sleeping – she had a hospital bed in the family room, visible from the kitchen and dining room, and hadn’t been out of that bed in a few weeks.  She had officially stopped eating and drinking a week ago, one month after saying she would no longer take treatment for her cancer.  At the end of dinner, she woke up. The only thing she could say was “Ow” so it was time for her pain medicine.

Mom has pain patches on her skin, but the pain breaks through that, so you have to give her liquid pain meds to take care of what the patches aren’t controlling.  She doesn’t really know we’re there, but when Jerry tried to give her the liquid for the pain, all hell broke loose.

With Cindy on one side of the bed, and me on the other, we had to hold our Mother down so Jerry could give her the medicine for her pain. She screamed at us, insisting she doesn’t need any medicine, she doesn’t take medicine, and she has no pain. She’s out of her mind, telling us that her husband is trying to kill her, and what he’s giving her isn’t medicine, it’s going to kill her.  We try to assure her it’s not, that he’s not trying to kill her, he’s trying to help her, but she’s having none of that.  The pain is so severe, she can’t even see straight, but she’s convinced he’s trying to murder her.

I spent Christmas holding my mother down, while she thought I was letting her husband murder her.

We had to repeat that every 4 hours.

One minute she remembers our names, the next, she’s asking to see people from our past. She won’t willingly take a nap because she thinks she’s somewhere else, or wants to go somewhere else, or gets angry because we won’t let her go somewhere. She starts sentences and only gets three words in, then repeats that over and over and over. She asks if this is real, asks if we’re lying, tells us if we promise, we’ll go to hell. She wants up, so we help her up, then she wants to lie down. She wants to leave, but then asks how she’ll get home from here.

None of it makes sense, she’s out of her mind completely now, and they tell us that’s normal, to be expected.

I’ve been staring at a painting on the wall for so long now, I can see a face in the mountain.

Monday December 26th, Kim and her husband are taking over tonight. Cindy has to go to work on Tuesday morning but I have the week off. The Hospice nurse came by at 11:00 to check on us all, and she says Mom has probably no more than 24 or 48 hours left. Her breathing is abnormal, her oxygen saturation levels are in the 60’s. Thankfully she hasn’t woken up since 4:30 that morning. We’ve been able to put the morphine into her open mouth as she sleeps, before the pain can wake her up. It absorbs through her cheek so she doesn’t even have to swallow it.

Tuesday, December 27th. We expected Mom to pass during the night, since the nurses told us that would probably happen, but there she is, still breathing. She hasn’t woken up since Monday morning at 4:30. Kim and her husband spent the night on the floor listening to her sporatic breathing, all the while thinking “is this it?”  She takes a breath then goes nearly a minute without anything, but then goes for a while breathing normally.  Cindy had to go to work, trying to find some bit of normal life for a while, so I came over to take a turn during the day.  We all watched and waited, then Cindy came over after work, expecting this was Mom’s final  hours.  But by 9:00p.m. we realized things were going to drag on. Kim and her husband volunteered to spend another night, so I promised to come by in the morning again with coffee.

All night, I expected a call, and all night Kim expected to be able to call, and say it was over.

Wednesday, December 28th. With no call, I got up at 7:00 and brought lattes over. The nurse was there, again promising Mom had only a few hours left, she was sure. Kim and Jim needed a break, so Jim went home for a shower and some lunch, while Kim and I stayed, watching Mom breathe and watching Jerry say Goodbye for the hundreth time.  Mom’s officially been in a “coma” for days now, but her bladder is full – so the nurse wants to insert a catheter, and I’m the only one there willing to assist.

We’re stressed, exhausted, and at wit’s end. Jerry hasn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time, he keeps talking to her, fussing with her blankets even though Mom’s completely comatose now. Jim came back from his shower, so Kim went home to clean up. She brought me a sandwich an hour later.

I left that night at 5 so I could go home and make dinner. There’s no point in having Cindy go there, Mom’s in a coma now, and we’ve said Goodbye so many times.

Thursday morning I got lattes again and went over. The nurse is there again, baffled as to how Mom is still alive.  She says if we’ve inherited her strong heart, we’ll live forever.  Kim and her husband are exhausted, and Kim can’t take it any longer. She thinks if we all go home, and if our stepdad could just go upstairs and get some sleep, maybe Mom would pass.  She never wanted us to sit around and watch her die, she told us as much, but we’ve had to be there to keep her husband from going nuts. So in the early afternoon, we all left.

Thursday afternoon, our stepdad has called – he’s too stressed out and upset, asking if someone will come over tonight and stay, he can’t take the stress any longer.  My sister asked him to go upstairs and get some sleep, and if he needs us tonight, we’ll figure out who’s coming over.

Thursday evening, at 6:00, my Mother, Joyce Elaine Kohler, died. She passed peacefully in her sleep, at home, surrounded by family.

 

Dear Prudence;

I write to you with news of the most peculiar kind. This day finds me again on the path that will return me to you, and I proceed with haste, my love. As you will recall, my journey was interrupted at the crossing in the woods, wherein I wished to continue to the North whilst another gentlemen traveler wished to go to the South. After an exchange of pleasantries, as I mentioned in my letter to you, an unfortunate misunderstanding did occur, and left me delayed, engaged as I was in a dueling of words with the gentleman.

As it happens, the issue is resolved.

Least you become fret with confusion, my dearest Prudence, I shall explain in detail, but in doing so I would beg your indulgence in burning this letter immediately afterward. In fact I am tempted to burn it currently, but as my travels to you have only just continued, and we have been apart for so long, I fear any further delay in receiving news would haunt you unjustly.  Therefore I shall assuage your stresses and inform you of the facts as they took place, trusting in your discretion with the evidence laid out herein.

It all became clear to me in the early dawn hours, as I was preparing to resume my daily labors and add more words to the duel of which I had become part of. Had it occurred to me sooner, my love, I surely would not have hesitated in my actions, but as it was, my own diligence and — dare I admit it — delight in the competition, led to my continued willing, if not ignorant, participation. However, on that morning, as the mists were still thick upon the grasses and the view around me somewhat dimmed, I heard a most peculiar sound.

At first, I was reminded of the woeful noise often emitted by the pots whenever the Headless Monks of the Leaf would brew the tea they could not drink. It is a sound like no other, so high-pitched and baleful as to peel back the skin from your neck and the sky from the heavens. The sound a mixture of endless desire and unrequited thirst, clouded by futility and echoing useless labors. I thought at first that the very Monks themselves had pursued me from the mountains, abandoning their tea-laden hell in search of the one acolyte who had learned to sooth their insatiable need.

But as I searched the mists for a sign of their cloaked and bedraggled image, and listened intently for the clanging of their pots as they dragged them behind, the sound clarified in the clear morning air, and I realized it was not the Monks, but none other than my opponent, Sir P. D. Augustus ZuZu Smith.

My dearest Prudence, I know you will find this difficult to fathom, and rest assured I doubted my own perception at the time, but you must believe me when I tell you that the sound — that which I had mistook for chilling cries from the pots of tea used by the Headless Monks of the Leaf — was none other than the snoring of one Sr P.D. Agustus ZuZu Smith himself!

Indeed, my Love, the gentleman was slumped over his papers, heedless as to the hour, unconcerned by the duel of which both he and I were currently engaged. His mouth lie open wide, and the corners of the parchment underneath his slumbering head moved inward and out, following his breath as it entered through his gaping maw and exited, noisily, through nasal passages partially blocked by the slight closure in his throat. His papers, which I found to be utterly pristine and without wordings, were damp, but not of the morning dew. Indeed, I did notice a line of shimmering thickness as if from a snail, stretching from his lower lip to the uppermost paper. I reached out a hand to rouse him, but stopped myself, suddenly possessed as I was with an urge to act.

And act I did, my dearest Prudence. Within that moment of unthinking, wherein one’s instincts take hold of one’s body, I propelled myself into action, taking forth from within my belt that sharpened piece of silver I oft’ use to open letters of correspondence. Before I had the opportunity for better judgment to take hold of my senses, I thrust the silver opener into the side of Sr. Smith’s neck, whereupon the gentle movement of his artery could be seen.

In an instant’s time, those pristine pages of parchment ran red with his blood, but Sr P.D. Agustus Zuzu Smith never uttered a sound, nor did his body make movement of any kind. He merely lay there, still snoring, whilst his very life force ran from his body as if in search of meaning elsewhere.

I dare say, Prudence my love, I felt no compunction towards guilt. Indeed, to this day as I write to you of these developments, I feel no hint of regret or remorse. For having slain my rival, and having remained utterly anonymous in doing so, I have been made free and capable of recommencing my journey back to you. As the morning’s mists cleared, and Sr Smith’s blood stained the grounds around him, I packed my things and left the crossed paths.

The spectators that once gathered to witness the duel had long since returned to their daily habits, and there was no one to judge either our dueling or my final act of predetermined victory. Albeit that sound, dearest Prudence — that which I had mistook for the chilling cries of the Headless Monk’s tea pots — has in some way found the ability to accompany me. I heard it last evening, as I made my bed among the pine needles, beside a softly babbling brook.  Just as the tea within my pot nestled beside the fire had reached its apex and began to boil, the sound returned.

Clearly it is wont to haunt me, dearest Prudence, into some admission of my guilt. Or perhaps Sr Smith is now among those ranked as the living dead, headless and in dire search of a pot with which to brew his own undrinkable tea.

‘Tis if no matter, dear Prudence, for I am grown accustom to the haunting of the Headless Monks of the Leaf. The addition of one more to their ranks would rile me not, nor shall it have affect upon my own musings as I continue my trek, pen in hand and tea at the ready, to return unto you.

Until next I write, remain hopeful and steadfast, my love.

Dear Prudence

I take this moment of pause and reflection and avail upon it a chance to send you news of my duel.

As you recall, on that day whence I was returning to you after so many long months secluded with the secretive Headless Monks of the Leaf, I came upon a gentleman by the name of Sir P. D. Agustus Zuzu Smith.  On that fateful day when my innocent swatting of a fly that had lit upon the person of Sir Zuzu Smith resulted in the declaration of a Word Duel, I sent you assurances of my sure victory.

Well Prudence, my love, it would seem victory is all but assured. I await only the time upon which this duel shall be declared won, no doubt by yours truly, and I may again resume my travels back to you after so many torturous months in seclusion. For you see, dearest Prudence, it would seem my opponent – the right Sir. Smith —  is wont of attention!

Allow me to explain, my love.

I noticed first, upon the very start of our affair – the dueling of words, that is, not that unfortunate misunderstanding last Spring between myself and Lady Gethsemane of Aspergum – that Sir. P. D. Agustus Zuzu Smith had a few, to use the colorful description of your friend Doctor Franken Farkenhault . . . Ticks.

I do not speak of the uncontrolled jerking of the muscles such as those of Madame Zuwalski, who had the misfortune of shattering five fine china tea cups before we learnt to serve her in a child’s cup for sipping. Nay, these ticks are of the peculiar kind.  At first, I believed them to be distractions. Sir. Zuzu Smith’s way of making me believe his attention lie elsewhere, thereby lulling me into writing more slowly and indulging in several rest breaks. But now, I believe otherwise.

During the first week of our battle, Sir Zuzu Smith seemed distracted by the slightest things. A butterfly lit upon his left foot one afternoon, and Sir Smith gazed upon it for hours. I began to fear the poor brightly colored insect to be deceased, but suddenly it flew away, as if mesmerized by the gentleman who was mesmerized by it. I realized with blushing haste that I myself had been wasting time observing him instead of applying pen to paper, and then it happened again.

Midway through the second week, I looked up and Sir Zuzu Smith was missing entirely!

Indeed, my dearest Prudence, I feared he had fled the battlefield entirely, for I could find no sight of him. Confused, I waited several hours, idly applying pen to paper, waiting for the judge to appear and declare the duel forfeit and myself the winner. But just as I was about to rise to my feet and summon the courts, we received a missive from Sir Smith.  It seems he’d been called away to a very important showing of mummified remains, to which his presence was required by higher authority, and he swore he would return post-haste.

And return he has, but this brings me to the reason for my letter, Prudence dear, for it would seem that, although Sir. Zuzu Smith has returned and presumably enters back into the duel he so insistently engaged me in, his attention remains elsewhere.

Why, in fact, I heard him declare just moments ago that he has ‘set aside’ his dueling words and has picked up a fresh sheet of parchment with which to pen something else entirely!

Prudence, I can only imagine he means to forfeit, unless this is a ploy designed to lower my guard. I must proceed with caution until I can be assured of his motives. Either this folly has entered his mind as easily and deftly as the butterfly that so captivated his attentions, or it has been his intent from the start.

So I shall persevere, Prudence my love, lest it be a ruse. I shall continue my dueling of words until victory is declared, and I may again resume my travels back to your loving arms.

Until that day, my dearest Prudence.

Dear Prudence

I beg thee pardon for my extended absence, but I fear my return will be further delayed, although I expect not too tally much longer.

You see, upon my journey back to you – having reached the crossed paths along the wooded trail whereupon my direction would veer to the North – I came upon a gentleman whose path was in a direction opposite of mine.

We paused, and exchanged gentlemanly greetings. As I recall, I had remarked upon the fine weather, and he made comment of the cooling in the summer’s air, but it was then I fear our cordiality met an abrupt conclusion!

It was a simple matter, my dear Prudence, and never intended to inflate, however as these things so often can, what began as a mere misunderstanding between two persons became something else entirely. For what occurred, simple as it was, is thus – As the gentleman was speaking to me of the coming Autumnal season, and his anticipation of cooler weather and lengthening nights, a fly had lit upon his cheek.

Had I realized said insect was unnoticed by the gentleman, I likely would have not reacted as I had. However, having just spent a full year among the mysterious Headless Monks of the Leaf, learning their secretive ways of Tea, I had developed an aversion to flying insects that so willfully and commonly take their leave upon one’s flesh.

As you recall, Prudence, in my letters I described the Headless Monks of the Leaf – forever cursed to prepare tea they cannot drink for wont of any sort of mouth. Or head. The flies would torment the nub at the tip of their necks daily, forcing them to pour the heated beverage over the afflicted stump, rendering them then tea-less and in need of brewing another cup they, again, could never drink.

And so, I pray – understandably – I felt compelled to swat said fly.

I’m sure, my dearest Prudence, you may deduce what occurred immediately following.

Before my actions had even registered within the more composed portion of my mind, the gentleman said to me “I accept!”, whereupon he slapped my cheek using his white gloves! As I recall, my surprise enveloped me, giving way to the instinct that governs one’s mind and body during feats of war, and before I could call upon reason and sanity, I heard myself declare thusly “We shall have words, sir!”

I can say to you now, dear Prudence, that looking upon that day with the clarity and sight of remembrance, I would expect the casual observer to enjoy a chuckle at our expense. However, the gentleman and I were not blessed with such aforethought, caught up in the moment as we were.

And so, I fear, I find myself delayed in my return, having engaged in the defense of my honor and skills as a Wordsmith. The gentleman – his name is Sir P. D. Agustus ZuZu Smith – and I shall meet on the field of battle, on the fifteenth day in the month of August, two-thousand and eleven. A Monday, I believe, Prudence, the same as the date of our first sojourn to the fair, following the evening in which I had petitioned your father for permission to escort you.

If I recall, on that day so many, many years ago, a fly had landed on your father’s face as I was saying my goodbyes after the fair. I am reminded by this, of your late father, and shall vow to lay roses upon his grave upon my return.

Providing, dear Prudence, that I prevail against Sr. Smith, and best him in this Word Duel!

Take care, my love, and remain steadfast. I shall send you updates through the Post, informing you of my progress and sure victory.

Until then, my dearest.

Mmmm Chocolate

The paint samples say Tender Twig and Wooden Wagon, but they’re really Milk Chocolate and Dark Chocolate, if you ask me.

My new house colors.

When it gets painted, that is. I didn’t mention how hard it was to get a painting contractor to call me back when I was shopping around for one a few months back. Apparently painting one small house is pretty small potatoes, or these people are just jackasses, but one of them finally did call me back and actually came out to bid the job. Painting a small one-story 80 year old house and it’s newer two-car detatched garage isn’t a big job, but it does require some prep work, and we are changing the color, but we finally found a licensed contractor willing to bid the job, and actually get started.

So yesterday, in preperation for new paint, they came out to pressure wash all the peeling, chipping, old dark blue off. Now the house has to dry, which might be tricky in the “summer” weather we’re having, and they have to do some scraping and a few caulking/patch jobs and the application of a special sealer designed for 80-year old shingles.

But then – if they can find a dry day – my house will magically (because I won’t be home to watch all the hard work) change from grey-blue with dark gunmetal grey trim – to Milk Chocolate with Dark Chocolate accent and White Chocolate (well, white) window trim !

I’m excited.

I’m nervous as all get-out, but I’m also excited.

It took my sister and I a year to save up the money and settle on a color. Our house has been dark blue on darker blue since we moved in, and when we painted it ourselves ten plus years ago, we just did exactly the same color. And we never painted the garage, which is a sort of …gawd, I dunno, a bluish hue I suppose.

We spent weekends driving around, looking at house colors, picking up sample swatches and the occasional sample can of paint to try out. Our garage, for a year, has been a canvass of samples.

I’m excited about the colors we’ve picked. We were going for chocolate and white, but the painter pointed out that we have a darker blue accent color on the ends of the house, and the gutters, so to paint that a darker version of the house color would look pretty nice, then adding the white trim around the windows. We agreed, and settled on “Tender Twig” which is really a milk chocolate, and “Wooden Wagon” which is a dark chocolate. Then he’s painting the garage to match, so finally it’ll look like OUR garage, and not someone else’s house.

I’m terrified because ever since buying that house, it’s been the same blue color. I know it’ll be a shock to drive home one day and find a completely different house. I remember when my neighbor took theirs from a light blue to a pretty soft yellow – it looks great, but it was a shock and took a week to get used to seeing.

But what really scares me is . . . There’s no changing my mind. Once this house is painted, that’s it. Like it, love it or hate it, there’s no going “oh, it’s just not quite right, let’s try this again in another shade.”

If you’ve been around for a while, you’ll recall what happened when I painted my room !

Unfortunately, when you pay a contractor a couple grand to paint your house and garage, you don’t get to change your mind. Sure, if I’m not happy with the WORK they do, I don’t pay till they make it right – – but picking the color is all on me (and Cindy) so if I freak out and want it changed, I’d have to pay him twice.

Which ain’t gonna happen. So however the color turns out, that’s what it’s gonna be.

I’ve already warned my sister that I’ll probably have a complete melt down and hate the color, and that she needs to be prepared for me to be a basket case for some time afterward. But like it or hate it, that’s what color it’ll be, so I’ll learn to live with it.

Honestly though, it’ll look great, right? I see this color combination in a lot of new houses right now, so it’s “in style” as it were. And I really love white trim around windows. Did you know hardly anyone does that anymore? It looks so sharp and clean when the trim is white, especially on a darker house.

I’m sure it’ll look great.

The house is so small, a darker color can’t possibly make it look any smaller. It’s actually larger than it appears, but I don’t mind looking like I have a tiny house, it makes the land it sits on appear that much larger.

It’ll be fine.

Any day now, hopefully Monday or Tuesday, I’ll come home and POOF! It’ll look like a brand new house. Sharp and clean and freshly painted. Like a shiny yummy bon bon.

It’ll look really nice.

Right?

Somebody hold me!

They’re everywhere!

When I was little, really little, my oldest sister had to get glasses. Her eyesight was so bad, she couldn’t see more than a foot in front of her. For years, she wore glasses, until contact lenses became popular and affordable. I can still remember the day she got those – – she was a teenager, and she’d hog the bathroom we girls shared for hours trying to get the hard glass lenses into her eyes. Then again at night, taking them out.

Fast forward many years, and I’m at the eye doctor with my other sister, helping her pick out frames for reading glasses. I remember making a comment to the woman helping her about how both of my sisters have bad eyes but mine have always been perfect.

“Just wait,” she said. “It’ll happen to you. It happens to all of us.”

Well . . .

Okay, so now I have to wear reading glasses. My eye doctor told me to just go ahead with the kind you get at the drugstore because they’re inexpensive, until they no longer work, then he’ll give me prescription lenses.

So now here I am, someone who needs glasses to use the computer, read a book, read ANYTHING. But I can’t use them to see everything else. So I’m constantly looking up and over them at people, or the television if I’ve got the laptop in my lap while the news is on. I can’t see to walk around the office with them on, but have to use them when I get to where I’m going in order to see what I went there to get.

Which means I’m always taking the glasses off.

Which also means I’m finding myself in different places when I need them. Which has led to – – glasses everywhere.

I’ve got two pair on my desk at work.

I’ve got a pair on the coffee table, to use when I’ve got the laptop on.

There’s a pair in the kitchen, if I need to read a cookbook.

Whenever I have to go to a meeting, I slip a pair into my pocket.

I have two pair in my purse, I dunno why, but I do.

I’ve still got the last laugh, though. My oldest sister, the one who’s had contacts since she was a teen? She’s had to upgrade to bifocals, so she can read.

Noblesse oblige

That was my weekend. Saturday was a wedding, Sunday a funeral.

Saturday was one of those days where you’re forced by polite society and good manners to do something you’d really rather not do, but you do it anyway because we desire a polite society and we have manners.

It was a wedding, at 3:00 in the afternoon, and as luck would have it — although it was not an outdoor wedding because, frankly, in this region you just don’t do that — it was a sunny, warm day. Friday had been dry, and Sunday they’d promised rain for the entire day, and then some, but Saturday was really stellar.

We got up early so we could pick up our Mom and go do a little shopping, but just a little because after we dropped her off, we had to run home to do some chores before the wedding. It wasn’t just a sunny day, it was a LOVELY day, and we’ve had precious few of those this Spring so far. Warm without being hot, sunny but with those few puffy clouds that put interest in your day.

What I wanted to do was change into some grubbies, weed my lily garden and get my new dahlias planted. I’ve never had dahlias before, but when my boss offered some free tubers from his own separations, I couldn’t resist. But it’s been so wet and cold this Spring, there hasn’t been time to get anything into the ground.

And Saturday was glorious!

But I knew if I got down and dirty, I’d get all sweaty as well, and there just wasn’t going to be time to do that and clean up in time for this wedding. So I sat on the back patio and watched birds while my sister prepared the cold dish we were bringing (potluck reception) and wrapped the wedding gift.

Then it was time to get all dressed up and haul our sorry selves off to find the little church. It wasn’t far, fifteen minutes from the house, so I was thinking to myself this wedding shouldn’t last too long, and we’d already decided we weren’t staying afterward, just leaving the food and gift, so maybe . . . just maybe, there’d be time.

You see, it was set to rain by dinner time.

We got to the wedding at the perfect time. I was there as my sister’s Plus One, because these were two coworkers getting hitched. We could’ve sat on either side, since she knows both the Bride and Groom, but we picked Bride and off we were led. I was grateful we were just acquaintances, because those get seated further back. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the front, I didn’t know these people. Aside from one of my nieces who is friends with the Bride, my sister was the only other person I knew there.

So we were seated. And I sat. After about ten minutes, they started, and we patiently watched the usual procession of Bridesmaids and Groomsmen. I lost count, but my sister tells me there were 5. Then the obligatory little boys carrying the ring boxes, and a couple of young girls dolling out rose pedals.

Then along comes the Bride, her father was wheelchair-bound but he brought her down the aisle.

Then the vows – thankfully short and standard, followed by your average candle lighting thingie, then we listened to a song written and performed by the Groom (amazing voice, btw) while they signed the papers. I don’t wear a watch, but I could tell this was about done, and I might just get home in time to get some outdoor work done.

At the very least, I could relax outdoors for a little while, maybe catch a Z on the hammock.

“Thank you all for coming,” the pastor said. “Now we’re going to ask you for your patience while . . .”

Oh, God.

My biggest fear was this would be just like the wedding of one of my stepbrothers – wherein the Bride and Groom go down row by row and “dismiss” you, so you can offer your congratulations one by one. It takes hours, if you’re not in the front rows. Back then, we were the front row because we were family.

This time, we were in the rear. Not only in the rear, but on the Bride’s side, and as it happens, the Groom’s side had to be cleared first so tables could be set up, to house the reception, because it was a small, one-room church.

Oy.

Already sweltering from the late afternoon sun beating down through the window on my left, my sister and I sat there, stewing in our own juices, and had to watch the Bride and Groom release family and friends from the furthest end of the church. The progression was painfully slow, as each individual needed to chat with the newly marrieds, as if they weren’t going to be there all evening to do exactly that.

So we sat, and we sweated, and I stewed.

I knew we could have sneaked out, just popped out to our left, angled around back where the last two rows behind us were stewing and talking and asking each other if they could sneak out and not be missed.

After all, we wouldn’t be missed. We weren’t family, or even old friends.

But still we sat. And I didn’t argue, because my sister had only been working with these people for 6 weeks, and they were all a little family there, and very fond of each other, and I knew it would be best all-around if I just sat there with a smile on my face and let my sister offer her congratulations to her coworkers.

It didn’t matter that they had no idea who I was. It didn’t matter that, at their wedding, where they’re surrounded by friends and family, they’re going to care if their new coworker’s sister was there or not.

It didn’t matter that sitting there, in that little church, on a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon, was the last place I wanted to be. It just mattered to my sister that I be there. That I show some solidarity to her while she bonded with her new coworkers (all of whom where at the wedding).

And it didn’t matter that by the time we were finally dismissed by the Bride and Groom, found our niece to say Goodbye to her, then picked up dinner and got home, it started clouding over and rained until Monday morning.

The only thing that mattered was the noblesse oblige.

And the fact that my sister now owes me, big time!