"My tongue is the pen of a ready writer." Psalm 45
By D'Ann Lawrence White Tampa
It’s not that I’m a loner. On the contrary, I’m the ultimate people person.
My husband and 10-year-old son lament that a simple trip to the store for a gallon of milk turns into a marathon for me because I can’t resist striking up a conversation with the nearest person, whether I know him or not.
It doesn’t matter if the target of my verbal onslaught is grumpy and antisocial. He’s simply more of a challenge.
No, being around people isn’t my problem. Having to depend on people is.
Ask my mom who used to call me Little Miss Independence because I always insisted on doing things on my own in my own way.
I couldn’t wait for teachers to do their jobs. I taught myself to read, and then I proceeded to read everything I could get my hands on.
My parents must have cringed when I graduated from the University of Missouri, loaded my 1975 Oldsmobile with all my earthly possessions and drove from St. Louis to New England to begin my first newspaper job.
I didn’t even have an apartment lined up. I slept in my car until someone directed me to Mrs. Bernasconi’s boarding house.
But Mom and Dad, bless them, never interfered.
They knew I had to do it my way.
Once I heard my mom’s friend ask her about my marriage prospects. “Oh, I don’t think D’Ann will ever get married,” she answered. “She’s too independent.”
It surprised us both when I met and married my husband, Michael, 25 years ago.
But my husband’s a rare breed who’s always sensed my need for space and never griped about late-night meetings, 1 a.m. deadlines or sacrificing weekends for the sake of a story.
I was able to vigorously guard my independence until my son was born.
Being a working mom with a child, I found myself having to ask a friend for a favor here and there, always careful to keep track and return the favor.
“I’m running late. Can you pick my son up from school?” “I’ve got to be at a meeting. Can you take my son to the birthday party since you’re already going?”
It bothered me and I did it sparingly. I hate having to admit I can’t do it all.
However, in April I wasn’t given a choice. I became ill, was stuck in bed for an extended, agonizingly boring period of time and wound up in the hospital.
The upshot is I learned a few new lessons.
I learned that I really can do that stunt Jennifer Beals performed in the movie “Flashdance” when she removed her sports bra without taking off her shirt.
There were no rooms available in the emergency room so I was on a gurney in the hallway when the nurse asked me to change into a gown. No problem. “What a feeling!”
Unfortunately, I also learned I was claustrophobic when the MRI technician rolled me into that big tube.
Simultaneously, I learned how easily rules can be broken when it means calming a hysterical woman.
“OK, lady, we’ll let your husband inside the room with you. Just stop screaming.”
Most importantly, I learned how much I need my friends, especially my two best friends, Mary and Rita.
I met Mary nearly 11 years ago when we showed up at Primary Prep preschool cradling our 6-week-old babies, born just a week apart.
We both wore that look of indecision and fear you see on the faces of all new working moms placing their babies in the hands of virtual strangers, and we bonded instantly.
We attend the same church. Our kids attend the same school and summer camps and Mary’s become a second mother to my son, a mother who is way more organized, a better disciplinarian and much more patient than I am, which is why I teasingly call her St. Mary.
I think people are a little surprised to find out we’re best friends.
She’s so together and I’m so, well, not together.
I met Rita about three years later when she, her husband and three children moved into the house two doors down from ours.
Our boys promptly struck up a friendship and are best friends to this day.
Likewise, Rita and I immediately connected. Rita also attends the same church and our kids go to the same school.
Rita and I share the same quirky sense of humor that some people, namely our husbands, just don’t understand.
For instance, neither of us had time to put together a really creative Greek god costume for the fourth-grade Mount Olympus festival so we challenged one another to put together the lamest costume.
Rita won by sticking an old brown shepherd’s tunic over her kid’s head and calling him Thor.
During my six-week illness, between Mary and Rita, I never had to worry once about who would pick up my son from school, who would drive him to extracurricular activities, birthday parties, the St. Stephen Spring Jubilee and Scout meetings.
Mary hosted my family at her house on Easter and made sure my son got to participate in an Easter egg hunt.
She prepared dinners for my husband and served as a surrogate parent for my son at Meet the Teacher Night at school.
Rita, likewise, entertained my son with movies and overnight stays.
She rushed to my side at the hospital (Mary was out of town or she’d most likely have been there as well), where she laughed, witnessing my "Flashdance" performance.
She left the hospital only to pick up our kids from school and then care for my son until my husband left the hospital to retrieve him.
Then, in one of the most spiritual experiences of my life, Rita sat beside me, holding my hand while my priest, Father Bill, performed the sacrament of the anointing of the sick on my behalf.
It wasn’t easy for me -- letting go, admitting that I needed help. And, no matter how much Rita and Mary demur, their gift isn’t a simple favor that can be repaid in kind, though I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying.
I believe people come into your life for a reason. You can either accept them or turn them away. My first instinct was to turn them away. Thank God Mary and Rita wouldn’t let me.
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