Once...

Once upon a time there was a girl who loved Elvis and Gene Pitney. The girl was only three years older than me but to me she always seemed wiser and more worldly. Urbane was a word I'd read as a young kid. Back then I'd looked it up in the dictionary. And, yes, back then I thought of her as urbane.

I’d often asked her for advice, or sought her approval. Depending on her mood she would either begrudgingly comply, defiantly ignore me or snickeringly mock me for my jejune concerns. This did not deter me from following her around like a needy puppy.

Years later my cellphone chimed. A male voice, “Rrrnll? Eeesh mme, Shmm. Shrry furr mm gubbdeegukkk bu I jeshh guch bekk furmm duh dentish offish. Mmm juh ish wwrrdd. Ennyhuh, Yeshshe ish nn duh hoshpidlll. Yeshshe ashdd mm tuh ttlll uuu.”

I made arrangements to accompany her to some of her doctor visits and to some of her chemo treatments, which were given in “rounds” or cycles of four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off…

I sat beside her in the waiting room. Were it not for the telltale identification wristband, it would be difficult to discern the patients from the accompanying friends and family. Often hale and robust looking adults were actually in treatment. As I glanced about the room I noticed that the person I sat with was clearly the sickest, most frail person in the room.

She was often handed sheafs of paper, to which she would cast a cursory glance, then pass off to me. On the top of one pack was a beautifully produced booklet entitled, “Dealing with Stage-IV Cancer."

We made the best of our time away from the hospital, going to favorite eateries, visiting the past haunts of our childhood, lazily watching the White Sox or Cubs on television, shopping, sipping wine, reminiscing and laughing until we cried.

*

“How've you been sleeping?” I ask her one day. “Not too well. They give me these sleeping pills, but I won’t take them.” “Why not?” “Well, I’m afraid I’ll become dependent on them."

*

“I was looking through your paperwork and one of the brochures says they have a 'support group' service and they can put you in contact with...” “Sorry, not interested.” “Well, they also have an online group, so you wouldn’t have to actually go in person…” “Thank you, no."

*

“I read somewhere that it’s sometimes less stressful to have your haircut very short, then it is to fret over watching it fall out.” As I tell her this I brace for a rebuff, but she is silent.

*

When I pick her up for lunch, she says, “Do you mind stopping somewhere first?” “No, of course not. Where are we going?” “To a salon a couple of blocks from the restaurant.” As I drive her to the address she seems chatty and upbeat. “Don’tcha wanna know why I wanna stop here?” “Um, to get fitted for a wig?” “No, Silly, to have my head shaved. It was your suggestion you know.”

*

“Are you angry that I asked someone else to take charge of my arrangements and estate?” “No, actually, I’m quite relieved,” I tell her, "I’m not good at that kind of stuff.” “Yeah, I know."

---

Once upon a time there was a group of trees, planted with purpose, the purpose of providing shade, the purpose of providing privacy from neighbors and passersby, the purpose of beautifying, the purpose of improving the quality of the atmosphere… The trees grew strong and beautiful and fulfilled their duty.

One day, while sitting outside my home, I look up and notice that one of the trees looked different, not as full as the others. Her once green leaves are yellowed and falling out at an alarming rate as it's still the middle of summer. An online search turns up info about infestations, mold, canker, fungus, mildew and other tree ailments. I trim her bare branches. I make certain she has sufficient nourishment and fluids, and I wait. But, she continues her decline. I call a tree “doctor,” actually an arborist. He examines just five of our dozen, or so, trees, five trees that his trained eye detects as problematic. The five are probably all sick, but in the tree where my concern began, the problem is the most pronounced. “But, why this tree?” I ask. I listen in a daze as he talks, “the invader seeks out the weakest tree first. This one has the most southern exposure. It’s probably been drier during drought periods…"  Three of his words strike a chord, “invasive” “spread” “aggressive." Why do those words affect me? Did he say “note the crown” or did he call it a canopy? I struggle to remember the biblical passage about a woman’s crowning glory, as he continues talking.

The arborist proposes a strategy of injecting what will basically be a poison…- I stop him, “Wait, will the poison hurt the environment, or the trees, or, or me?” “No,” he assures me, “It will not harm you or your nearby shrubs and greenery. It is safe to use and it targets just the invasive, blah, blah, blah...” I agree to his master plan, which he says will entail injecting annual “rounds” or cycles of poison. He will do the first injection today. He writes out a prescription for me, in the event I wish to have another arborist do the procedure in the future.

Today four trees stand tall, beautiful and strong, protecting our home. But, the fifth tree, the tree that I sat near, and that I couldn’t help but notice that it looked frail and weakened compared to its robust compatriots; that tree was eventually cut down and the wood was burned.

“Your yard looks great!” I hear from a golfer who passes our home. I stand with him and look out at the breadth of the property and force a smile. He doesn’t know that once there stood a tree, a strong and very beautiful tree, and now it is gone.