COMPASSIONATE, CURIOUS, CLASSY

SHE WAS A HIGH SCHOOL CHEERLEADER. The fact is that she was everyone’s cheerleader. If you knew her at all; she knew you. She was compassionately curious.

For many years she worked at Webster High School in Tulsa. I don’t know what the sign on her office door said, but her unofficial role was student counselor. Oh, she didn’t tell you how to apply for a scholarship, or help you pick a college to apply to. She dealt in matters of the heart, boyfriends, parents who didn’t understand, that kind of stuff. She was a full-attention listener and cheerleader to all—especially students.

Throughout her life she dug into the details of people she would meet. Nosey isn’t the right word (although applicable). She was genuinely interested in people. Everyone mattered to her.

A conversation with her of late might go something like this: “Well I had another new nurse today. She’s a lovely girl, but I don’t know that I like this guy she’s shacked up with, and her poor kids, I don’t know where their next meal is coming from much less a Christmas present and a warm winter coat, and the little girl? We don’t know where her daddy is.”

[NOTE TO SELF: Remember to make a donation to that fund Mom helped with to give kids school supplies next fall.]

Her concerned inquisitiveness and intense cheerleading was well-known and valued (most of the time) by me, my brother, our spouses, our kids and our kid’s kids, and by her siblings, who are all gone now except for Uncle Bill and her nieces and nephews. They all knew she loved them.

Last night, Saturday, December 19, 2020 at about 10:00a, I was on the phone with my niece. She was by Mom’s side in a hospice room at Mercy hospital. She told me that a nurse had just been in to check on her. The nurse wondered how she was hanging on. Maybe she didn’t know Mom is a fighter. The nurse asked Ashley if she knew of anything Mom could be waiting for. Ashley told her that it was probably because her Grandma didn’t want to miss out on anything.

An hour later, she passed.

My guess is that Dad met her at the gate, and she began to tell him about all the nice doctors and nurses who cared for her, even that one that she “couldn’t understand a word they said,” and about how tired they all were from helping the COVID people.

Then in my limited understanding of heaven, Dad probably said, “Let me show you around. There are a lot of people waiting to say hello. And good news—we can hug here.”

And mom would say, “Did so and so make it?” And then she would say, “Can you get an ice cold Diet Dr. Pepper here?”