Missing Mary

My friend, Miss Mary, died yesterday.

"Her heart simply gave out."

I thought about the secretary's choice of words for a long while after I hung up the phone and stared at the wall.

I first met Miss Mary in 2008, after we were matched together as part of a shut-in visitation program. She lived in a nursing home that wasn't convenient to anything, and had no family, other than a nephew in another state. The first time I went to visit her, she was in the hospital, where we quickly became fast friends.

Initial visiting instructions in this volunteer program were fairly strict: don't stay more than 15 minutes at a time, don't talk too much about yourself, and several other rules that were quickly tossed out at Miss Mary's whim.

Most days, I felt like a guest on the "Live with Mary" show. She always laughed in all the right places at my stories, and replied with quick zingers of her own.

Miss Mary had no children, and instead loved and taught 3rd graders for nearly 20 years. To her, these now-grown men will always be her special pupils.

When I met Miss Mary, it was clear that she was the belle of this particular facility, a favorite of all the nurses and residents. She had that rare gift for listening with her heart. Everyone had a special nickname from her, like "Romeo" and "Doll." Decked out in full-on rosy makeup and plastic beads, she wheeled down the corridors laughing along the way.

I think she made it her life's mission to try to make other people happy, and worked hard to add a little joy to that bleak cinder block building.

Lately, she had been talking more about her husband, who died many years ago. She missed him terribly, and would often refer to a photograph taken after WWII. He, dressed in his uniform, while she in her classic navy dress and pumps, held his hand, and smiled broadly. "This", she would say, tapping the glass covering Louis' face, "was the love of my life."

When I saw Miss Mary last week, it was her roommate, Minnie, who I silently thought looked like death, clutched up small in her hospital bed, mewing like a kitten. Miss Mary would simply pat her hand, and say, "It's all right, Min, it's okay, Doll."

In the end, though, it was Miss Mary's own heart, which had given so much love to so many, that gave out first.

I will miss her.

Be well.