Sunday, February 15, 1998

A thank you to the many who helped

By Sharon Randall

This is a column I'd hoped never to write. And I have no idea how to write it.

I'll start with the cat. She showed up at Christmas, a yellow-eyed calico with a baby face and a "take nothin' off nobody" disposition.

"Go away," I said, "you can't stay here. We're dog people. We don't do cats."

She, of course, ignored me, pressed her nose to the window as if to say, "Hey, I'm here. Get used to it."

"Don't you dare let that cat in," I told my son. He's 20 and very smart about some things, but dumb as a stump about cats. "And whatever you do, don't feed her!"

He ignored me, too, fed her scraps and smuggled her up to his room after I went to bed. He thought I didn't know, but I did. I peeked in and found him sound asleep with the cat curled up and purring in the curve of his neck. She glared at me, female to female. "All right," I said. "You win."

It was not a good time to take in a pet. In some ways, it was the worst time of our lives. But I decided if that cat could comfort my boy, I would sell my blood to buy cat food. Whatever the price, comfort feels like a bargain.

For four years my husband had been fighting cancer. And now he was growing weaker with every day, wearier with every hour. We had reached, I knew, the final round of the fight. I hoped we might have a few months after Christmas. Turns out, we had three weeks.

People talk about being prepared for death, as if anticipating a loss might lessen it. But you can't know what you've lost until it is gone. Prepared or not, death is always a shock. I knew my husband was dying; and I still thought he would live forever.

Several people suggested, and I agreed, that I needed to tell you in this column about his death (though you probably learned of it elsewhere), as I had so often written to tell you about his life.

There ought to be better words, a finer typeface, for such occasions. But words are still words, death is still death and, well, there it is.

I also want to tell you, because so many of you have asked, that my children and I are fine, thank you. We are grieving as best we can, I think, each of us in our own way, alone and as a family.

In the last four years I often had the sense that I was walking on water -- buoyed not just by my own faith, but by the prayers and concerns of so many good people. I have that sense still, even now, and I thank you for your part in it.

I am taking, again, some time off from writing columns because I have things to do: Write 5,000 thank-you notes; return 500 casserole dishes; survive my 50th birthday, and figure out who I am, now that I'm no longer who I was.

Also, I'm learning a whole new vocabulary. I say single now, instead of married. I, instead of we. Widow, instead of wife. Cat, instead of dog.

They're not bad words, just unfamiliar to me. I need time to get used to them. I hope to be writing columns again come spring. Which, by the way, is also when El Nino's expected to end. But one has nothing to do with the other, probably.

But, for now, thank you for your readership and especially your friendship. When I come back I might do a contest to pick a name for this cat.

And for her kittens that are due any day.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service