| |
|
|
Crossing stories
Suzanna's
gift. Or was it a warning?
Not long after I started working, I began to
hate Mondays. Sometimes I hated Tuesdays, Wednesdays and even Thursdays.
Like many other people in the ‘civilized’ world,
Mondays to Fridays were the days I spent at work in exchange for money. I
got paid to do this work because someone else saw the value in it being
done. However, on Saturdays and Sundays I did work-type things at home for
which I got no money. I did these things without being paid because I was
the one who saw the value in doing them. More often than not the only
value was the mere enjoyment I felt in getting them done. I enjoyed
Saturdays and Sundays. But soon I reached an age when I realized that the
price of not enjoying five days out of every seven was too high. Added to
that was the risk that the world could end on a Friday instead of after a
fun-filled week-end!
But then came Suzanna’s gift.
At the time, Suzanna had cancer and was very weak. One day I had a
telephone call warning me that Suzanna was nearing her end. I decided to
make my final visit to her and I asked the caller whether it would be in
order for me to visit her. “Yes”, I was told, “Suzanna would like to see
you, but only if you can take her as she is.” Take her as she is? What did
that mean? Was it a warning or a plea? I must admit, this scared me a
little, but I went. Suzanna was lying in a beautiful, light and airy
building in the healing centre of the communal farm where she had worked.
The room in which she lay was clearly ‘her’ room: all her things, the
things which she would no longer need, were there. I recognized them
because I had been in Suzanna’s ‘normal’ room before, but I did not
recognize her.
I could see that there was something under the blankets on the bed. Not
much of a thing because the mattress did not sag and the blankets remained
quite flat. That something was a mere skeleton and only when the eyes in
the skull opened, did I realize that Suzanna was still somewhere inside
the skeleton. Over the next hour or so we communicated. Or should I say,
sort of communicated. She could barely speak and drifted in and out of
consciousness, in and out of the skeleton. The long silences gave me ample
opportunity to think and to look around. At first I thought that the
faintly unpleasant smell was coming from the commode, probably not yet
emptied. But then I saw the packet of diapers for grown-ups. Were they
being used to catch whatever was causing the periodic gurgling I could
hear coming from the skeleton?
Finally, the skull opened its eyes and Suzanna smiled at me. “Look what
they gave me,” she whispered with an effort. It took me awhile, and her a
lot of energy, before I finally focussed on what she wanted me to see. On
the opposite wall was a gift voucher for a book, painted on a piece of
plywood. It read “Thank you for starting the basket weaving factory.”
Suzanna never got to use the gift voucher, she never touched or read the
gift book. But that piece of plywood was the real gift. It told the story
of her life’s work, it told of the joy she brought to others who became
gainfully employed.
Sitting there, breathing the faintly unpleasant air and listening to the
periodic gurgling, I wondered if anyone would one day take the trouble to
paint a piece of plywood for me. I wondered what they would write on it.
And I wondered what I would want them to write. Having to look beyond the
skeleton on the bed to find Suzanna made me realize that I must look
beyond the skeleton of my work to what others would be likely to write on
my piece of plywood. If I did not do this, I knew that one day I would
look back on my adult life and I would have to admit that, although it was
in my power to do things differently, I had prevented myself from enjoying
70% of that time. Finally the penny dropped loudly enough for me to hear
and I started changing my approach to life. This book, and all those still
to follow, is one result of that change.
This book is also an excuse for me to share Suzanna’s gift with you. For,
like Suzanna, you will end up in the equivalent of Suzanna’s room, a room
with a slightly unpleasant smell. In that room you will be given the
opportunity to look at your piece of plywood positioned so that you don’t
have to struggle to see it. The only difference between you and Suzanna is
that you still have the opportunity to influence people regarding what
they should paint on your piece of plywood. You still have time to ensure
that what is painted there will make you smile.
►next
story: Christmas dinner with Perry Mason
|
|
