The Invisible Red Thread

Edited: In Loving Memory of Wendy Buers of Vancouver, Canada, who passed away a few hours after this was published on May 21, 2018. I can't wait to bike that seawall for you in September. 

Have you ever heard of the invisible red thread?

There is an old Chinese proverb that says,

''An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.''

This has been on my mind a lot lately, as I think about all of the people who have come and gone from my life. I think it actually remarkable, that my threads have connected me to so many people who have shaped me in all different kinds of ways.

This September, I was supposed to stay with a friend, Wendy, from the cancer world at her home in Vancouver. ''My kids are moving out soon, and I will have plenty of room. Come and stay here, as long as you don't mind pets. I even have an extra bike; when you get off of the bus we can go cycling around the seawall and grab dinner at the tea house there. It's really beautiful, you'll love it.''

That same friend is now in a hospital, and it looks like she is dying. Her breast cancer had already metastasized when I met her, but she was a total badass, a total inspiration to me. She was a part of a paddle boat team and competed all over the world. When I met her, she had just gotten back from Costa Rica, and was supposed to complete in Italy this summer. She has asked our other friend, Di, to paddle in her place.

Her liver is covered with cancer, they have stopped treatment, and are keeping her comfortable. Di said they told her she had a few days left, and that was a few days ago.

''You can stay with us when you visit'', she told me. It was then that I realized that there was no probably no way in hell Wendy was still going to be there by the time I arrived in September.

Getting to know people in the cancer world is strange, because you allow yourself to be vulnerable. You know that a terrible fate may befall this person, they may be eaten alive by the silent cancer monster, and yet, you want them in your life anyway. Even if it is only temporary, because that is the power of one human on another. To be inspired, and draw hope and inspiration, and love, and companionship from each other. Even when you know it won't be for forever.

I made Wendy a floral bouquet from my garden tied with red thread, knowing full well by the time it travels thousands of miles to Vancouver she will probably be gone. ''If that's the case, please bring it to her service for me'', I asked Di.

For Wendy, with much love XO

I still intend on biking that seawall when I get to Vancouver. And eating dinner at the tea house, too. I think it will be very special, to see this beautiful place she wanted to take me to, this place that she has seen with her own eyes, and stood before with her own feet.

While waiting for the news, I am reminded of other times people in my life have died.

My father was very sick with kidney failure, and was in the hospital for many days before he passed, tubes everywhere, in and out of consciousness. The day before he died, I saw him, and in a rare moment of lucidity he reached his hand out and touched my cheek, tears streaming down his face. He couldn't speak due to the tubes in his mouth, but he didn't have to. I knew he was saying goodbye to me.

The next morning I was back at the hospital; he had been revived after going into cardiac arrest. ''I am just going to work down the road, call me if anything happens'' I said.

It was December 8, 2003, and my lunch break was at 1 p.m. that day. I sat at my desk and a wave of nausea swept over me around noon. I called the hospital and they said, ''We were just about to call you. How quickly can you get here?''.

I walked into his room around 12:30, and was surprised by how quiet it was. There was no beeping of  monitors, or nurses milling around. Then I realized why; I saw my father, and all of the tubes were out of him. He laid there, so peaceful.

He died about 20 minutes before I got there, at 12:08.

A few days later he was cremated, and his remains came back to my apartment until his funeral the next day. I placed him on my dining room table, and it was so odd to me, because that was where he used to sit in the mornings as he would pick me up and wait for me to get ready for work. I used to make french vanilla coffee for us in my 2 pot coffee maker, a cup for him, and a cup for me. He would watch the news and drink coffee, his van outside running because it was bitter cold out early in the morning. And now, where he sat drinking coffee, his ashes were. To this day, I still cannot bring myself to drink french vanilla coffee.

In 2009 I found myself state-side, after two years of living in Surrey, England. My husband and I relocated to Atlanta, and decided after being married for a few years to try and have a baby. I thought for sure with my endometriosis it would take a while, but I became pregnant immediately. I had been given a promotion to head preschool teacher, and we had saved enough money to buy a house before the baby was due in June. Life was just about perfect.

It took me 11 months to make my way the thousand miles up to New York to visit my family.
Eleven months.
''We've been to New York so many times, let's go somewhere else'', my husband said.
So we went to Saint Augustine, Florida for a vacation instead.
It was not until February 2010 that I finally went back for my baby shower, fully expecting my beloved Grandma to be there.
''Oh, Grandma is too sick to leave the nursing home. Didn't you know?'', my cousin informed me.

No, I did not know. I knew she had succumbed to dementia and did not speak on the phone anymore, but no one told me just how frail and sick she was. She was dying, and I genuinely had no idea.

When I saw her, she only had one picture in a frame on her bedside table, of her and me. A lifetime of memories, and that was the one picture she had. Of us. It was a day we went on a picnic in March, the sun was deceiving and we thought it might be warm, but we laughed as we froze down at the park, feeding ducks and eating sandwiches in our winter coats! It was the same picture in ''The Hackey Sack Days.''

At the surprise 90th Birthday Party I threw for her in November 2008 

One of our last pictures together

She didn't say a word, but her eyes lit up when she realized it was me. You can always tell someones thoughts by looking into their eyes.

I was surprised when she lifted up my shirt, placed her hand on my swollen tummy, and said, ''Boy.''
That was the only thing she said to me. It was the same hand that held mine every day when she got me off of the bus at school when I was a little girl. The same hand that patted my back in a circular motion every night when I fell asleep, as she told me stories about growing up in New York City in the 1920s and 30s. Sneaking out and going to night clubs, and riding the roller coaster at Coney Island. To this day, when I  do not feel well, I like for my back to be patted in a circular motion, just like how she used to do it.

''Boy''

''Grandma, you're right! He is a boy. How did you know?''. She never responded, slipped away again into her world of dementia.

I laid with her, gently stroking her hair. I knew this was the last time I would ever see her, and it killed me.

A few months later it was May, and we had just closed on our first home. I was 8 months pregnant. When I saw my cousin was calling, I instinctively sat down on the steps of our new porch knowing what news awaited me. Grandma died.

I should have flown home to spend time with her, instead of going to Florida.
Just like I should have stayed with my father as he died instead of going to work.

I couldn't fly home for her funeral as I was due to give birth in a few weeks, so I sent calla lilies for her funeral. That was what she had in her bridal bouquet. I became livid when I found out my mother took them home with her after the funeral. She was always jealous of how close my Grandma and I were, and this was her way of acting out, being childish. My sadness turned to anger.

Eventually I learned to let it go, accepting that people do stupid things, and life is too short to hold on to bitterness and resentment.

A few years later, on New Years Eve 2012, my brother called me. He always called me to wish me a happy new year.

He was recovering from a traumatic brain injury from a car accident.
''This Spring when I visit, let's spend a day in the city! We can go to the Statue of Liberty, take water taxis, go to the museums and out for dinner.''

''How about we just go for a long walk and talk, like we did when we were kids? I would really love that'', he replied.

As someone who had nearly died, his perspective on life changed. At the time going for a long walk seemed boring to me, with NYC right on the door step. Now after nearly dying myself, I couldn't care less about busying myself with sightseeing. Now a long walk with a deep conversation sound like the most wonderful thing in the world to me.

We never did go on that walk.  He died 11 days later, from an accidental heroin overdose. He convulsed in his bedroom around 1-2 a.m., foaming at the mouth and violently seizing. My mother found him the next morning. I spoke to the coroner, who assured me that by the time that happened, he was in a blissful, euphoric state and had no idea what was happening. I hope so. The thought of his final moments horrify me.

Matching Outfits, 1988

I was always protective of my brother, and it pained me to know he was suffering so much and I was unaware. Perhaps that was what he was going to tell me during our long walk in the Spring.

When we arrived in New York I said, ''I really hope it snows while we are here.'' The day of his funeral it was January 17, 2013, and it was below freezing. We were all at the cemetery, in our black, and as he was being lowered into the ground, I saw something begin to land on our clothes. It was snow. It was the most magical snow I had ever seen in my life. And it just fell, gently from the sky and landed on us. I would like to think that was my brother's way of saying goodbye.

So now here I am, thrown in the cancer world, always wondering if it will be me next. You think you have all of the time in the world, until one day you realize that, actually, you don't. You really don't.

Now I don't care about going here or there. I just care about connecting with people. All different kinds of people. The more fucked up, the better. We can be fucked up together in this beautiful, crazy world. In fact, nothing appeals to me more.

As for the invisible red thread, I believe that my threads are connecting to all of these people; the ones I have lost, the ones who are in the here and now, and the ones I have yet to meet, who will bring me much joy and happiness.

Whenever I miss my family, or my friends, I remember our threads are connected. They always will be connected. Remembering that has brought me much comfort over the years, especially when I have felt misunderstood and terribly alone.

My threads even connect me to lovely people like Wendy, whom I suppose I was never meant to meet in the flesh. The thing is, I didn't have to. She brought me friendship and inspiration and kindness from thousands of miles away, more so than some people have who have been right beside me.

In closing, I would like to echo the wise words of Rumi. His poem, The Guest House, illustrates my current thoughts and feelings far better than I could ever articulate.

Thank you for being one of my threads, dear ones. XO

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.