I'm Just Sayin'

“Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO- HOO what a ride!"

This is my favorite motto right now. I’ve seen it several places, attributed to everyone from a female kayaker in California to Maxine, the grouchy but loveable greeting card maven. Most recently, I saw it on the wall of my friend’s guest room. I had forgotten that we found the plaque in a shop on the Outer Banks of NC, during what began as the beach trip from hell. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say my friend and I fled a smelly, bug-infested DisComfort Inn for a much nicer (and cheaper) hotel a mile down the beach, with a salt-water pool and an outdoor bar with actual wait staff. Talk about skidding in sideways – we salvaged that vacation by the hair of our chinny-chinny-chins.

Speaking of hairy chins, I think I like this quote because it reminds me of my sister, Rhoda. She was five years older than me, and had survived menopause, hence the hairy chin comment. I said “was” because she passed away last May. And before you go all hater on me for talking about my dead sister’s hairy chin, let me assure you that Rhoda would have appreciated that humor, and I think she might have admired the segue.

Rhoda died at the age of 54 from metastatic breast cancer. I was there when she drew her last breath. I’d been there for nine days watching her sleep, trying to feed her Jell-O and chocolate pudding, putting moisturizer on her back, and balm on her lips. Her cancer had spread to her brain, and her kidneys were shutting down. She was a shell of the person I had known. Her most recent round of chemo had claimed every strand of hair on her body. No eye lashes, no eyebrows, no whiskers on her chin. And her glorious mane of once-blond-but-lately-red hair – all gone. She’d been weak and nauseous for months, and her skin sagged. She had no muscle tone to speak of. Her skin was splotchy and her beautiful gray-blue eyes were mostly dull slate.

I talked to her a lot those nine days, and tried to convince her to talk back. If you knew Rhoda, you’d be amazed that anyone had to encourage her to talk. I don’t know if the brain tumor had affected her verbal ability, or if she was just too weak and tired. But she never did say my name. It was kind of like she was already gone.

But she was there, and she had some great medical care. There was a hot male nurse named Doug who checked her vitals and brought her meds. And a male physical therapist who picked her up in a big bear hug every day, trying to get her to stand or walk a few steps. If Rhoda had been all there, those guys never would have known what hit them. They’d still be talking about it. For the first few days, there was a nurse’s aide named Rhonda. We laughed because for her whole life, Rhoda had been called Rhonda, and the aide said she had been called Rhoda a lot.

It made me sad realizing those people did not know who they were dealing with. I regretted that I did not have a picture of Rhoda so I could illustrate who she was, who she had been. As hard as I tried, I would never be able to do her justice with my words. But I told a few of them some stories so they’d understand. I told them how I used to spy on her meetings of the Monkees fan club, whose members wore paper dresses and white ankle boots and danced the pony to “I’m a Believer.” I told them how she came to visit me in my co-ed college dorm, and within an hour was sitting on the lap of a guy from upstairs, sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort with another. I told them how she had this vast knowledge of popular music, and how I used to call her for help when I played Trivial Pursuit.

There was lots of stories I didn’t tell them, like how she taught me to roll my hair on orange juice cans for big, bouncy curls, or how she bought me my first box of tampons because mom thought only sanitary napkins were suitable for young girls. I didn’t explain her fixation with babies, or the fact that she saved a woman’s life not long ago. I didn’t tell them that she married the same man twice. Or that she had a medium who put her in touch with dead relatives and friends.

How impossible to capture Rhoda in words! She was irrepressible. Mischievous. Controlling. Stubborn. Whack-o-into-psychobabble. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. And loving. She really loved life. And she really lived.

I am coming to terms with the Rhoda that was in that hospital bed. I’m disappointed that she didn’t speak to me for those nine days, but I understand. I know that cancer might have claimed her hair and weakened her body, but it didn’t get the best of her. She had already lived the best of her, and lived it well. She did not leave much in the locker room, so to speak. I’m positive that she lay there in that bed, silently planning her last hurrah. Saving up for the finale, when she no doubt skidded into heaven sideways, chortling in her husky voice, “Hot damn! What a ride.”

In Rhoda’s case, she probably had a margarita in one hand and a Red Lobster garlic cheese biscuit in the other. I’m just sayin.