Iras' Rainbow

***


Iras Donahue and I were unlikely friends.
Iras had a mind like a computer. She got her master’s degree in business administration and was perfectly happy spending her days juggling numbers as a certified management accountant.
I, on the other hand, am chronically math challenged. I’m baffled by the arithmetic it takes to participate in Macy’s 20-percent-off sales.
Nevertheless, Iras and I clicked from the moment we met. She was one of the first people I met when I moved to the area and joined the nearby Catholic church. She set the bar, making me feel welcome – this tiny pixie-like lady with a grin that lit up her entire face.
I felt as if I’d come home.
When the church opened up a Catholic school, Iras volunteered to be the school’s accountant. That proved lucky for me. As I enrolled my son, Ian, in the school that inaugural year, Iras walked me through the financial paperwork.
Over the next five years, Iras continued to make sure my automatic withdrawal account was up to date.
Each Sunday we would sit together at Mass while her husband, Tim, served as usher. When he mentioned he could use some help, I volunteered and he trained me. I became his “underling usher.” I’d call the Donahue household to discuss usher business with Tim, and Iras and I inevitably would get into lengthy conversations about everything from parenting to pedicures, and I’d forget the reason I’d called.
I wish I’d been less hurried, more attentive the last time I spoke with Iras.
We were at Mass and the church was packed. Tim and I gave up our places but I seated my son securely next to Iras.
In between seating latecomers, Iras and I were talking about getting together for a girls’ luncheon, just the two of us.
Out of the norm, Iras wasn’t at Mass the following Sunday. Tim said she hadn’t been feeling well. Later that week, he e-mailed me to say it looked as if Iras needed to have her gall bladder removed. The surgery was scheduled for Friday. He asked if I could handle ushering the Mass alone.
I told him not to worry. I asked him to give Iras my love, assured him I’d say prayers for her and promised to visit after the surgery.
Ever conscientious, Iras left copious instructions at the school, worried about how they’d handle the accounting during her absence.
It’s possible that Iras knew something we didn’t.
The day after her surgery, Iras had a heart attack and fell into a coma. The EKG showed no brain-wave activity and she was placed on life support.
I drove straight to the hospital after getting the news. Tim was able to sneak me into ICU before the staff caught on that I wasn’t a member of the family.
I stood there in shock and held Iras’ tiny hand in mine. I told her I loved her and began whispering prayers. At one point she squeezed my hand. Tim told me it was just a reflex. But I like to believe she somehow heard me, that she knew I was there. It was a moment I forever will cherish.
Ironically, Bob and Mary Schindler, the parents of Terri Schindler Schiavo who was in the national spotlight over the right-to-die issue, were the guest speakers at my church that Sunday. Their visit opened my eyes to the struggles of families facing life-and-death decisions.
Unlike Iras, Terri wasn’t on life support. She only needed a feeding tube to survive, not unlike an infant who needs only a bottle or a breast. Also unlike Iras, Terri had no living will. Iras had made her wishes crystal clear. She did not want to be kept alive on life support.
Still, you could see the pain and indecision in Tim’s eyes. It was agonizing enough to lose the love of his life, but then to be forced to play a role in her death was more than he could bear.
Iras used to tell me how very lucky she was to have Tim for a husband. She’d laugh recalling how her family didn’t want her to marry him because he was an Irish Catholic from the wrong side of the tracks. But Tim quickly won over Iras’ big brother, Alan, who’d taken over the paternal role when their father died. And Tim and Iras’ love only grew stronger over their nearly 40 years of marriage as they consoled one another during times of grief and found solace in their faith.
However, looking at his wife lying in the hospital, surrounded by monitors and wires, Tim knew there would be no miracle for Iras. He was just hoping she would take the decision out of his hands.
But it wasn’t to be. He’d been devoted to her. Now Iras expected Tim to fulfill this one last duty.
I felt so helpless as I hugged Tim shortly after he ordered the doctors to remove Iras from life support. Iras was breathing on her own but her respiration was low. It was only a matter of time. Tim sadly shook his head when I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He just wanted to sit with Iras.
He urged me to go ahead with my plans to participate in the three-day Project Cure breast cancer walk, saying Iras would have wanted me to. The breast cancer walk was in honor of two mothers and the wife of a teacher from our school who lost their lives to breast cancer. Iras knew all three women.
So I walked. Even though my heart felt like it was in my throat, I walked. Sunday, the final day of the walk, the weather was picture perfect. The air was crisp and the skies were sunny with a few fluffy clouds here and there.
As our group of walkers headed down Natures Way toward Culbreath Road in Bloomingdale East on the second lap of that day’s walk, someone shouted, “Look, a rainbow!”
Sure enough, a rainbow had appeared in front of us although there was no rain in the forecast.
My friend, Amy Meany, walking beside me, recalled that a rainbow represents God’s promise. She felt it was a sign that our walk would be a success.
Someone else noticed that the main color of the rainbow was pink, the signature color for the fight against breast cancer.
“I don’t think so,” I said softly, reaching for my cell phone.
I knew Iras was gone even before I heard the agony in Tim’s Voice.
“I know,” I told him. “We’re looking at her rainbow. She’s telling us goodbye and that she loves us.”
My best friend, Mary Owens, had stopped with me as I made the call to Tim.
Tim was too devastated to reply. All I could do was tell him that I loved him before he broke the connection with a sob.
I cried as we continued walking. When we caught up with the other walkers and told them the sad news, we gathered and prayed for Iras.
A meteorologist can provide any number of scientific explanations why that rainbow appeared at that time to that particular group of people.
But Tim told me that Iras always loved rainbows. They were her personal signature. And my friend and fellow walker, Lisa Huetteman, reminded me that the Spanish word for rainbow is “arco iris.”
It made perfect sense that Iras would send us a rainbow to let us know that she was at peace and that she would see us again.

D’Ann White
Oct. 19, 2006