1,000 Tuesdays

1,000 Tuesdays and then some.

This is my Aunt Shirly, older sister (by 2 years) to my father, Bob, and younger sister to my uncle Jim (they were born on the same day 4 years apart). She has two married sons and eight grandchildren. This picture was taken by my mother at the wedding of her oldest grandson.

Shirly (no "e") Warren Stone.

There are many, many ways to describe Aunt Shirly. She was a dedicated and tireless volunteer for Literacy Volunteers of Waterbury, Waterbury Hospital and an active member of her church. She adored her family and enjoyed her grandchildren immensely. She smiled and laughed easily and often and that smile and her humor and intelligence drew people to her.

But I know her best by way of simply, and often accidentally, being present. Her sons settled in Bethesda, MD and Orlando, FL. After her father-in-law died, she began to come up to Manchester weekly to check on and help out her mother-in-law, always on Tuesday. One of those Tuesdays she was in Manchester when my Uncle Bob died suddenly at home in Waterbury. I suppose a sudden and unexpected death always creates a monstrous void, but to me this seemed particularly cruel. From the outside theirs looked to be an ideal marriage, the last two people who should be wrenched apart by death.

Despite everything and anything, my Aunt's Tuesday rounds continued.

Aunt Shirly's Tuesdays flexed to include her mother and her husband's aunt, Aunt Maude. I came to know Grandma Stone almost as well as my own grandmother. I still have reminders of all of these ladies around...things that became useless to the three older women as they left their homes for smaller and more sustainable places. Anyone of my generation who was close enough geographically helped with those transitions, and I guess that is when I started to understand the chaotic aspects of aging...and I did my best to pitch in. It was easier to help put things in order for others than for myself at the time.Once or twice I was included in Aunt Shirly's Tuesday caretaking rounds.

With sons far away my aunt was a frequent attendee to farm gatherings, and more than once I altered plans when I learned some portion of the Stone family would be around. One by one Aunt Shirly's charges passed on, the last was Grandma Warren at age 96. By then I had my home here on the farm and Tuesdays had become an opportunity for me to easily visit with my aunt and grandmother. My presence was never expected or required, probably that was part of what made it easy to do. When Grandma died I was glad Aunt Shirly would have her Tuesdays for herself, though for me loss was of two...not one.

For years and years my aunt quietly painted pictures with a group of people who met taking a class and stayed together painting long after the class was done. She worked in oils and this was one~ there are many. They were tucked out of the general visitor's view. Like me, she was her own worst critic. When I was a bratty 21-year-old recently graduated art student I made some remark about how one must paint...then moved to Arizona. Over the years we talked about artists and art, but neither of us ever discussed our own work again. She never owned a piece of mine and I never, until last week, owned a piece of hers...though the two I came away with feel more borrowed than anything. I would surrender them immediately at the slightest desire another family member expressed. I consider it an honor to house them, even temporarily.

But I have wandered away from Tuesdays.

It didn't seem much time had passed after my grandmother's death when Aunt Shirly had surgery to remove what was thought to be a troublesome ovary and turned out to be cancer in her bladder. She went to sleep ready for a hysterectomy and awoke with no bladder. The cancer was self-contained. The surgery was the cure. I visited briefly but was of little help. My back was swiftly turning me into a semi-invalid. I was the go-to girl about pain management and other random medical knowledge, but good for little else. Aunt Shirly recovered and returned to her volunteer work

Again very little time seemed to pass. Grandchildren graduated...competed at sports...worked hard in school...got new jobs...and Tommy got engaged to Lauren. A second diagnosis of cancer, this time in her lungs. My mother, aunt and I went off to Dana Farber and came home stunned with shocking words..."rare"..."incurable"...the doctor suggested holding off chemo until it was more necessary. She thought and thought about her options. She set her sights on her family and decided to travel to see everyone. My mother became her frequent companion to the doctors and father drove to the airport. She stayed over here on the farm. She swam in the pool. The cancer survivors talked. She celebrated a birthday with brother Jim.

Back pain chimed in before the wedding, but she refused further tests until after she saw her grandson married. It was a lovely wedding, by all accounts a warm and beautiful gathering of family and friends.

Once back home it was time for chemo. And what day of the week did the rhythm of treatment fall into? Tuesday. We noted the irony and she pressed on. In so many ways she fought alone, loathe to be a trouble...but Tuesdays she relented some. On Tuesdays she let Betty in.

Like all those other Tuesdays way before she did not complain. She smiled and charmed the nurses like she charmed others all her life. She set her sights on a family Thanksgiving and had that. She made sure she connected with all who came that weekend. When she learned each member of the family was returned safely to their places she finally closed her eyes to rest.

There are a thousand other details...moments those who knew her will hold dear, moments we prayed for better answers...regret and promise wadded up here and there, pressed back into the corners.

For me? I cried hardest Tuesday, as she was buried, a thousand Tuesdays forever gone.