Dear Friends and Family,
Last night, the entire family ate our last dinner at the Market Street Grille, a Salt Lake City seafood eatery that is one of Nancy’s favorites. We thoroughly enjoyed every bite. Nancy savored the Chilean Sea Bass she ordered, Jayna inhaled a huge plate of fried oysters, and I ate the Outer Banks Sea Scallops. Jaret, who doesn’t like seafood, ate several loaves of bread and found a pasta dish he could devour that was devoid of fish.
As we sat together at dinner, we shared the unspoken knowledge that it would be a very long time before we would eat together again as a family. Surprisingly, Nancy celebrated with an inexpensive glass of “house” Sauvignon Blanc, stating, “My taste buds still aren’t recovered enough to order a lavish ‘vintage’ wine.” Even so, we still clinked glasses numerous times as each of us told and retold stories. All in all, it was an entirely relaxed and peaceful evening. On this bittersweet night, as each of us harbored unspoken fearful thoughts and unspoken feelings of melancholy, Nancy’s wine glass was never half empty. Rather, it was always half full.
After leaving the restaurant, Jaret returned to Westminster College, while Jayna, Nancy, and I slept in the recently rented Salt Lake City apartment located in the Sugar House area of Salt Lake City. From there, it’s an easy eight-minute drive to the University Hospital. (We have leased the apartment because Nancy is required to live close to the hospital once she is discharged after her transplant. We don’t know exactly when that will occur until she is released. So we want to be sure we have secured housing for that much-anticipated event.)
Unexpectedly this morning, I awoke feeling like a night hobgoblin had beaten me with a sledgehammer. Every bone in my body ached, and each time I stretched out, another area of discomfort was revealed. I don’t know if I slept poorly on the new bed or if I consumed too much wine. In reality it doesn’t matter, though. There is only one thing on my mind: What is Nancy feeling?
I was stunned when Nancy greeted me with, “I don’t want to go, Winnie,” instead of her typical “Good morning.” But before I could dislodge the too-large grapefruit that was in my throat, she added, “Just kidding. You take the first shower.” Her face looked calm and her smile genuine.
When I returned a few minutes later, still dripping beneath my towel from my quick shower, I was expecting Nancy to be savoring her last moments between the sheets. Or quietly meditating in the living room. Or gazing out the window to catch a last glimpse of normalcy—the people, trees, and birds she might not view again for an eternity. But no, she was doing none of these things.
Nancy was making the bed.
As usual, she read my expression: “I want to leave it nice for Jayna. She’ll be keeping this bed warm for me until I get out.” (Though Nancy and I have urged Jayna to return to Vassar for her senior year of college, she will hear nothing of it.)
“I want to stay with you, Mommer,” she told Nancy.
Similarly, she told me, “You’ll need my help.”
(It turns out that our new apartment will have an additional function—Jayna’s classes at the University of Utah are going to be only minutes from the hospital. It seems that Nancy’s “recovery” apartment is also going to be Jayna’s “dorm.”)
In the car on the way to the hospital, Nancy reiterated, “You know my only worry?”
I do know.
It’s not pain.
It’s not fear.
It’s not uncertainty.
For what seemed like the thousandth time, she earnestly and matter-of-factly said, “I need to know that Jayna, Jaret, and you will be all right. If things don’t go well, I need to know that you will take care of them. And that you will look for happiness wherever and with whomever without the memory of me holding you back.”
“What about you, Nancy? Aren’t you scared?”
Silence blanketed the car.
“A little, Winnie. But not as much as you.”
The soft kiss Nancy placed on my cheek was especially warm today. And I found comfort, strength, and courage in her concern and love for our children and me.
Summary: Today Nancy entered the hospital for her transplant. It is hard to believe this day has arrived. She seems prepared.
All my love,
Winnie