Lemon Memories
Some people come into your life and then disappear, almost without a trace. Others leave indelible marks on your heart that remain with you long after they are gone. I'm not speaking here of romantic passions or great loves, though they are clearly capable of producing lasting memories. Rather, I am talking of people you've encountered in the mundane workings of your everyday life, but whose stories you have been privileged to share, and with whom you've established a connection you might not have expected to occur, and which left you aspiring to be a better person at the same time you were grateful that such people existed in the world. Helen was such a woman.
She grew up during the Great Depression of the thirties in a poor family. She married young, had a child, and then lost her husband during the WW II. She got a job as a cocktail waitress, remarried, had three more children, following which she lost her second husband to cancer when the children were still young. She carried on as a single mother. She never drank or smoked herself, despite being in an environment where these vices were prevalent. All four of her kids created healthy families for themselves, a testament of her success as a parent and role model. I met her as a patient who came under my care when I diagnosed her with colon cancer while she was in her late seventies. She fortunately had curative surgery and did well, living by herself in a nearby mobile home park, growing flowers in her small garden, kept company by her cat and visits from her kids and numerous grandchildren. She loved Christmas, and delighted in working with her hands, making crocheted and ceramic ornaments for all her "people" of which I became one. One year, she asked me for my birth date, and after finding out, brought me the most delicious lemon cake I ever tried. After I expressed to her how much I enjoyed her cake, she continued to make one not only for me on each of my birthdays, but one also for my wife's birthdays and one for our family for our traditional Christmas dinner.
I generally don't make it a practice to develop close personal relationships with the patients I care for, but Helen was an exception, being a remarkable person in so many ways. She got to know my son and his family through stories and photos we shared as well as on our visits to her house when they were in town. She told me she didn't text or spend time on social media, but was happy to communicate via email. She continued to live in her own home independently and drove her own car until she was a hundred. When she was 90 and required to take another driver test, the instructor complimented her on "having such good control of her vehicle." She continued to make those delightful lemon cakes until she turned a hundred, after which she had trouble lifting them out of the oven. I asked her at the time what was the best part of turning 100. She thought about it for a minute, then gave me one of her impish smiles and said, "There is very little peer pressure." She had a great sense of humor, all the way until she died at the age of 104. She was a person who never complained, accepted all the cards life dealt her, and managed all her adversities with grace and faith in those around her. She shared with me a handwritten tale of her life which deserves to be a book or a movie to inspire others, but she wasn't the kind of person who wished to have that kind of exposure, and I respect her wishes. She also gave me the recipe for her famous cake and told me I was allowed to share it with my friends. Tonight, I had dinner with one of those friends, and he made her cake for the first time. And yes, it was like having Helen back among us, smiling, sharing with us her everlasting love – and lemon cake.
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