Today's Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Vital Chatter

By Leona Lipari Lee

Every Tuesday and Thursday, between 3:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m., I picked

up

the phone and called my sister, Diane, who was slowly dying from the

complications of diabetes. I didn't call on Mondays, Wednesdays or Fridays

because those were her dialysis days, and she was always too drained and

exhausted to talk. I also didn't call her on weekends because Saturdays and

Sundays were designated as immediate-family and recovery days. I didn't

mind

about weekends since we had our own special time.

I was never sure if Diane's beauty parlor appointment was on Tuesday or

Thursday at 2:00 p.m. since it changed from week to week. What didn't

change is

Diane never missed getting her hair done no matter how sick she was. And

when

she returned home, we'd have our precious time to visit with each other

privately by telephone as we'd done for most of our adult lives.

The only times we didn't keep those phone dates was when she had a

doctor's

appointment or was in the ICU. We didn't let her numerous hospitalizations

stop

us. It surprised other members of our family that Diane and I seldom talked

about how she was feeling, about the latest lab test or surgical procedure,

or

about how well her heart and lungs or kidneys were functioning. Right to

the

end, we carried on our typical conversations - sister to sister, friend to

friend.

We spent most of our time on the phone gossiping. I left home when I

was

eighteen years old, and Diane was my anchor to the small Southern town where

we

were born and the close-knit Italian family I had left behind. She filled

me in

on whose husband was running around, on the latest family squabble, on who

was

sick and who had died. She announced the new additions to the family. Told

me

who got engaged, married, divorced or separated. She loved describing the

weddings I missed. Also the funerals, especially if we didn't think too

much of

the person who had died.

Diane and I laughed a lot during those phone conversations, which often

lasted an hour or so in the beginning. We consoled each other when one or

the

other was down.

We talked about everything from her beloved New Orleans Saints team to

our

favorite le Steele novel to our favored " Barb " singers - she loved

Mandrell while I preferred Streisand.

The last Thursday I talked with Diane she told me about a spat her

husband

and one of our other sisters had about her dialysis. She raved about the

delicious hot tamales she'd eaten for dinner the night before. She told me

about the progress yet another sister was making in her pursuit of a

divorce.

She asked about my kids and grandkids and told me about her daughter's

latest

love interest. Her voice was stronger than it had been in a long time, and

I

was encouraged that she would keep beating the odds.

The next Tuesday, I didn't get to talk with Diane because she was in

the

ICU. On Wednesday she was asleep when I called the hospital. Her husband

said

he'd have her call me from home after she was discharged later in the day.

She

never did. She died on Thursday, early in the morning.

And so, it's Tuesday again as I pick up the phone to call her and write

this instead. What would we talk about today? What would I want to say to

her?

To hear her say? I know. We'd talk about her funeral.

I'd tell her how the whole town turned out because she was so

well-loved.

How everyone in the family, even those who'd been feuding for years, had

made

peace with each other. At least for the day. I'd tell her how really sad I

was, but that as I looked at my new grandson sleeping peacefully in the pew

beside me, I felt everything was okay with this new phase of her being.

I'd tell her about her daughter getting up and talking about all the

things

she had been taught by her mother. And how her husband even donned a suit

for

one of the few times in his life to stand in front of her friends and

relatives

and profess his undying love for her. I'd tell her how I didn't listen

while

her husband spoke of their special relationship because I was remembering

our

own special bonds. How she was a large part of my support system. My link

to

my past. My confidante. More than my sister. My dear friend.

I would tell Diane about the two priests who said kind things about

her.

And how glad I was when my two-year-old granddaughter decided to babble

loudly

while one priest was extolling her virtues and how that made me smile

instead of

cry.

I'd tell her that Mama was too heartbroken to attend her funeral, but

everyone else was there. Her six siblings and our children and

grandchildren.

I'd say how much we all loved her and are going to miss her, and I'd try to

make

her laugh. I'd tell her about the strong incense that almost knocked me out

as

the priest sprinkled it around her coffin and my head. I'd mention the fact

that all of her panic-attack-prone sisters and brothers who usually sit in

the

back of the church ended up right next to her in the front, and not one of

us

passed out.

I'd describe the beautiful flowers on the altar because toward the end

of

her life when she'd lost her vision, it bothered her that she could only

smell

the wonderful floral creations of our Lord. I would finally stop and wait

for

her to talk to me. What would she tell me, I wondered? And I knew.

She'd tell me she knew all that because she'd hung around to make sure

everyone was okay. She'd tell me that she was there in the form of a

butterfly

when Mama visited her grave that afternoon. And that Mama smiled when she

saw

the butterfly because she knew what it meant. She'd tell me how she rang

the

disconnected doorbell of one of our sisters to help console her because she

had

a special love for this sister and wanted to reassure her of life after

death.

She'd tell me how when all the roses were gathered so rosaries could be made

from them, she made sure one single yellow rose was left so that another

sister

would know by prearranged signal that she was still alive.

And then, just before we'd hang up for the last time, I'd tell her how

much

I love her and how much I was going to miss her presence, her bravery, her

sweetness, her sense of humor. And she would say, " Yes, I'm going to miss

you,

too. But I need to start my journey. " She'd say she needed to find Daddy

and

Grandma and about twenty or so other relatives and friends and she hoped

they

were in heaven 'cause that's where she was going.

And I would reluctantly say, " Okay. Bye, then. But every Tuesday and

Thursday between 3:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m., I'll be calling you up in my mind,

and

I will never, never forget how much you meant to me. "