A few years ago I wrote the following column in my journal, The Undertoad. I share it now because it is the seed of why I ultimately chose the Jimmy Fund to raise money for. To quote a heartbeat that still is heard by those she left behind, Vicki Pearson ran for a seat on our school committee saying it was "For the kids."
In the weeks leading up to her death after being diagnosed by cancer Vicki asked me to be her co-conspirator in helping her plan her own funeral. We talked of a lot of things in those days and she told me things she claims to have never shared with most others. In the end, however, she didn't put her final wishes in writing, at least not the ones she shared with me, and they were ignored.
I sometimes I feel like I let her down by not seeing her wishes through, but I had no say.
As Atticus and I take to the hills in these coming months we will be carrying much of our friend with us and it is because of her that we're doing this "for the kids" who benefit from the Jimmy Fund and for the adults like Vicki who battle with cancer at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.
The article follows in its entirety. It was written before we started hiking.
A Letter Home:
Lost and Found
Dear Dad,
Ah, sweet Vermont! Last week we headed north for a midweek getaway. No skiing, snowshoeing, or sledding. We simply sat by the fire and read for four days. It was our second trip to the Two Dog Lodge in Stowe since it opened last July. In that short time the owners, John and Jo-Anne, have made great strides, not that Atticus felt they needed to make any strides at all. It’s simply the most wonderful place a dog can take a human to.
Atticus feels right at home there. Perhaps it’s because each room is equipped with a dog bed and bowls for food and water. Or maybe it’s the astounding collection of Stephen Huneck lithographs and furniture, featuring, what else, but dogs. Or maybe it’s three dog parks and the way they not only allow dogs, but embrace them. They’ve even gone so far as to turn one of their A-frames into a doggy day care. But I think what we like best about the place is the way they make you feel right at home from the very beginning. I really cannot think of any other place in New England we’ll be traveling to for as long as the Two Dog Lodge (http://www.twodoglodge.com)/) is in business, and judging from their success thus far, it will have a long and healthy life.
As you know, half the fun of going away is planning your escape. In the winter, it’s even easier. Fleece and boots and books. But what books? There’s always the challenge of finding just the right book. After slogging through some horribly written books as of late, I returned to an old favorite. After all, sitting by the fire, you want to love what you’re reading. After too much of Dan Brown’s pedestrian writing---The DaVinci Code and Angels & Demons—it was nice to slip into the following opening paragraph:
The summer my father bought the bear, none of us was born—we weren’t even conceived: not Frank, the oldest; not Franny, the loudest; not me, the next; and not the youngest of us, Lilly and Egg. My father and mother were hometown kids who knew each other all their lives, but their ‘union,’ as Frank always called it, hadn’t taken place when Father bought the bear.
After perusing USA Today’s 50 best seller list in Thursday’s paper, I cannot imagine more than two or three of the books having any paragraph as well crafted as that opening to John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire. It is a book that makes you sorry to finish because you’re saying goodbye to the characters you’ve grown to love. Jenn Mitchell, one of Newburyport’s better waitresses, tells me that when she reads a book and really gets into she flies through the first half like nothing, then realizes how much she cherishes it, and tries to slow down to just a few pages a day to make it last. I can relate.
The DaVinci Code was a fascinating tale, at least in the beginning, but the writing wasn’t anything special and I never slowed to savor the last half since I was simply glad to have finished it after struggling to read it several times. And, of course, the test of any good literature, like any art, is the way it sits with you after you’re done, lingering like the memories of a lost love. I didn’t long to reconnect with any of the characters in the DaVinci Code, but I’ve never read an Irving book that didn’t make me want to know more about them, to see what happened to them, or at least save them from their loneliness. Some of his books even leave me depressed, not because of the story, but because of having to say goodbye to Garp, or Owen Meaney, or John Berry.
Irving has a way of making you feel like you’ve lost someone you care about. Like you’ve said goodbye to innocence and hope and been broken and left to wallow in despair. But he makes you laugh and shocks you along the way. And then he shows you that even the most fragile character finds a way to carry on. I suppose what makes Irving so powerful is the way he captures the depth of loss, something we can all relate to.
And speaking of loss, you will be glad to know that even though I cheated on my diet while in Stowe I didn’t gain back any of the weight. I even ordered a pizza, Tuesday and Thursday night: a small, whole wheat crust, sausage and ground beef, cooked in a wood-fired brick oven that makes you want to the Pie In The Sky restaurant again and again. That first night I followed up the pizza with Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. Oh, heavenly sins!
The decadence continued on Wednesday morning when I ate what I would consider the finest breakfast I have ever had: a single enormous Dutch pancake with bacon and cheddar cheese for fillings, right in the batter, topped with Vermont Maple Syrup. It was the first real syrup I’ve had since starting the South Beach Diet last September. Back then I weighed in at a rotund 291 lbs. Returning to Newburyport I weighed in at 240lbs, not gaining any weight during my few days of dining debauchery. The goal, as you know, is 190 lbs.
All of this has John Allison very happy, knowing I’ll have to buy an entirely new wardrobe of Tommy Bahama shirts and shorts.
In the weeks leading up to her death after being diagnosed by cancer Vicki asked me to be her co-conspirator in helping her plan her own funeral. We talked of a lot of things in those days and she told me things she claims to have never shared with most others. In the end, however, she didn't put her final wishes in writing, at least not the ones she shared with me, and they were ignored.
I sometimes I feel like I let her down by not seeing her wishes through, but I had no say.
As Atticus and I take to the hills in these coming months we will be carrying much of our friend with us and it is because of her that we're doing this "for the kids" who benefit from the Jimmy Fund and for the adults like Vicki who battle with cancer at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.
The article follows in its entirety. It was written before we started hiking.
A Letter Home:
Lost and Found
Dear Dad,
Ah, sweet Vermont! Last week we headed north for a midweek getaway. No skiing, snowshoeing, or sledding. We simply sat by the fire and read for four days. It was our second trip to the Two Dog Lodge in Stowe since it opened last July. In that short time the owners, John and Jo-Anne, have made great strides, not that Atticus felt they needed to make any strides at all. It’s simply the most wonderful place a dog can take a human to.
Atticus feels right at home there. Perhaps it’s because each room is equipped with a dog bed and bowls for food and water. Or maybe it’s the astounding collection of Stephen Huneck lithographs and furniture, featuring, what else, but dogs. Or maybe it’s three dog parks and the way they not only allow dogs, but embrace them. They’ve even gone so far as to turn one of their A-frames into a doggy day care. But I think what we like best about the place is the way they make you feel right at home from the very beginning. I really cannot think of any other place in New England we’ll be traveling to for as long as the Two Dog Lodge (http://www.twodoglodge.com)/) is in business, and judging from their success thus far, it will have a long and healthy life.
As you know, half the fun of going away is planning your escape. In the winter, it’s even easier. Fleece and boots and books. But what books? There’s always the challenge of finding just the right book. After slogging through some horribly written books as of late, I returned to an old favorite. After all, sitting by the fire, you want to love what you’re reading. After too much of Dan Brown’s pedestrian writing---The DaVinci Code and Angels & Demons—it was nice to slip into the following opening paragraph:
The summer my father bought the bear, none of us was born—we weren’t even conceived: not Frank, the oldest; not Franny, the loudest; not me, the next; and not the youngest of us, Lilly and Egg. My father and mother were hometown kids who knew each other all their lives, but their ‘union,’ as Frank always called it, hadn’t taken place when Father bought the bear.
After perusing USA Today’s 50 best seller list in Thursday’s paper, I cannot imagine more than two or three of the books having any paragraph as well crafted as that opening to John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire. It is a book that makes you sorry to finish because you’re saying goodbye to the characters you’ve grown to love. Jenn Mitchell, one of Newburyport’s better waitresses, tells me that when she reads a book and really gets into she flies through the first half like nothing, then realizes how much she cherishes it, and tries to slow down to just a few pages a day to make it last. I can relate.
The DaVinci Code was a fascinating tale, at least in the beginning, but the writing wasn’t anything special and I never slowed to savor the last half since I was simply glad to have finished it after struggling to read it several times. And, of course, the test of any good literature, like any art, is the way it sits with you after you’re done, lingering like the memories of a lost love. I didn’t long to reconnect with any of the characters in the DaVinci Code, but I’ve never read an Irving book that didn’t make me want to know more about them, to see what happened to them, or at least save them from their loneliness. Some of his books even leave me depressed, not because of the story, but because of having to say goodbye to Garp, or Owen Meaney, or John Berry.
Irving has a way of making you feel like you’ve lost someone you care about. Like you’ve said goodbye to innocence and hope and been broken and left to wallow in despair. But he makes you laugh and shocks you along the way. And then he shows you that even the most fragile character finds a way to carry on. I suppose what makes Irving so powerful is the way he captures the depth of loss, something we can all relate to.
And speaking of loss, you will be glad to know that even though I cheated on my diet while in Stowe I didn’t gain back any of the weight. I even ordered a pizza, Tuesday and Thursday night: a small, whole wheat crust, sausage and ground beef, cooked in a wood-fired brick oven that makes you want to the Pie In The Sky restaurant again and again. That first night I followed up the pizza with Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. Oh, heavenly sins!
The decadence continued on Wednesday morning when I ate what I would consider the finest breakfast I have ever had: a single enormous Dutch pancake with bacon and cheddar cheese for fillings, right in the batter, topped with Vermont Maple Syrup. It was the first real syrup I’ve had since starting the South Beach Diet last September. Back then I weighed in at a rotund 291 lbs. Returning to Newburyport I weighed in at 240lbs, not gaining any weight during my few days of dining debauchery. The goal, as you know, is 190 lbs.
All of this has John Allison very happy, knowing I’ll have to buy an entirely new wardrobe of Tommy Bahama shirts and shorts.
The eating and reading in Vermont was broken up by lengthy walks great for contemplation and reflection; walks in air so clean and fresh it clears the mind of all distraction and lifts up the spirit. While in Stowe, we head to the Quiet Path, where Atticus had his near run in with the bull last summer. When last there we walked through a field of green, wavy grass, along a winding stream, under a hot sun, while butterflies danced around the flowers on the river bank and Labradors soaked in the cold water to beat the heat. It was pure heaven for Atticus as he got to sniff many a fanny. The Quiet Path is not known to many of the tourists, who stick to the six-mile-long rec path instead, which is paved and made for bikes and rollerblading and leashed dogs. On the Quiet Path there are no leashes.
This time around it was an entirely different scene. Ten inches of snow fell on Tuesday night and we were blinded by the sun’s reflection off the virgin snow the next day. We hit the Quiet Path two to three times a day and then on Thursday night, while sitting in front of the fireplace with a full belly and warm socks on my feet, a good book in my hand and a curled dog on my lap, the full moon beckoned and we were drawn to the path on a crystal clear, frigid night. Heavens, what a sight! There we were, alone on that snowfield, nearly all of it untouched. It was like walking through a negative of a photograph. The moon was brilliant that night and while Atticus frolicked I found myself with my hand over my beating heart, looking everywhere at once, trying to soak in the immense beauty and feel a part of it all. I took off my baseball cap because the visor was cheating my vision. I wanted it all. I found myself walking in wonder, knowing that this was a night I will remember for as long as I live, a scene I might never find myself in again. A place where I can return to whenever I close my eyes.
Ever so slowly I walked, in no hurry to go anywhere, eager instead to see everything for what it was. I found myself praying and thanking the great mysteries of life for this gift. At that moment there was no question as posed by Frost. For at that moment I found myself in a perfect world.
This time around it was an entirely different scene. Ten inches of snow fell on Tuesday night and we were blinded by the sun’s reflection off the virgin snow the next day. We hit the Quiet Path two to three times a day and then on Thursday night, while sitting in front of the fireplace with a full belly and warm socks on my feet, a good book in my hand and a curled dog on my lap, the full moon beckoned and we were drawn to the path on a crystal clear, frigid night. Heavens, what a sight! There we were, alone on that snowfield, nearly all of it untouched. It was like walking through a negative of a photograph. The moon was brilliant that night and while Atticus frolicked I found myself with my hand over my beating heart, looking everywhere at once, trying to soak in the immense beauty and feel a part of it all. I took off my baseball cap because the visor was cheating my vision. I wanted it all. I found myself walking in wonder, knowing that this was a night I will remember for as long as I live, a scene I might never find myself in again. A place where I can return to whenever I close my eyes.
Ever so slowly I walked, in no hurry to go anywhere, eager instead to see everything for what it was. I found myself praying and thanking the great mysteries of life for this gift. At that moment there was no question as posed by Frost. For at that moment I found myself in a perfect world.
The cold didn’t bother us. We made our way along the path. My mind drifted wherever it wanted to. A perfect practice in Taoism. After a while we came to a bend in the river and followed it until in the distance, we saw the quaint downtown of Stowe. At the center of those dark shadows of buildings, backed by a mountain, was a true vision. Shining in the brilliant light of the moon was Stowe’s Congregational Church. It is nowhere near as grand as our own Unitarian Church here on Pleasant Street, but it is regal in its simplicity nonetheless. And on that night, at that moment I felt quite sure I was feeling more religion than any person who has ever been inside that church. Time disappeared. As did everything else.
It was then that I realized I was crying, thinking not about Stowe and the breathtaking beauty of the night, but of another beautiful vision—a friend back home in Newburyport. A beautiful friend who is now in the final days of her life. I found myself thinking about her face, her smile, her wit, her laughter, and her love of dogs, and Atticus M. Finch. Without even realizing it I found Atticus licking at the tears as they rolled down my face. I hadn’t even noticed that I had somehow dropped to my knees. A friend in need can do that to you—bring you to your knees, that is.
As you know, Vicki Pearson is not doing well. This remarkable woman is dying. There is little time left. A week before we left for Stowe, I received a call from her son telling me she was in Anna Jaques and wanted to see me. When I entered her room she looked nothing like the Vicki I’ve grown to appreciate and love. Her skin was loose, hanging on her bones, her eyes protruding from their sockets. She looked so tired, so frail, so broken. Then she spoke. And suddenly she was the old Vicki again. She wasted no time giving me my marching orders.
"I need some help. I’m planning my funeral," she said. And she said it like she was planning her own 50th birthday party, which she celebrated last year. She had me laughing a great deal that day in the hospital. We laughed like we used to. Lots of quips. Lots of talk about her short future. And then there was the no nonsense Vicki.
"I’m a dying. One of the good things about dying is you can make people promise things and they can’t say no to someone on her deathbed."
It was then that I realized I was crying, thinking not about Stowe and the breathtaking beauty of the night, but of another beautiful vision—a friend back home in Newburyport. A beautiful friend who is now in the final days of her life. I found myself thinking about her face, her smile, her wit, her laughter, and her love of dogs, and Atticus M. Finch. Without even realizing it I found Atticus licking at the tears as they rolled down my face. I hadn’t even noticed that I had somehow dropped to my knees. A friend in need can do that to you—bring you to your knees, that is.
As you know, Vicki Pearson is not doing well. This remarkable woman is dying. There is little time left. A week before we left for Stowe, I received a call from her son telling me she was in Anna Jaques and wanted to see me. When I entered her room she looked nothing like the Vicki I’ve grown to appreciate and love. Her skin was loose, hanging on her bones, her eyes protruding from their sockets. She looked so tired, so frail, so broken. Then she spoke. And suddenly she was the old Vicki again. She wasted no time giving me my marching orders.
"I need some help. I’m planning my funeral," she said. And she said it like she was planning her own 50th birthday party, which she celebrated last year. She had me laughing a great deal that day in the hospital. We laughed like we used to. Lots of quips. Lots of talk about her short future. And then there was the no nonsense Vicki.
"I’m a dying. One of the good things about dying is you can make people promise things and they can’t say no to someone on her deathbed."
I agreed that that was one of the few pluses of dying. Then she made several requests and held me to them, making me promise to do my best. To tell you truth, I thought this was some trick. She was too full of life to be dying. I was touched by her effort to choreograph her exit. Such strength and courage and realism. It was just like Vicki to be so matter of fact in her "life gives you lemons, you make lemonade" attitude.
One of her requests was for me to bring her nephew to the hospital the next day. She told me she wanted to see him.
"No problem." But there was a problem. I don’t know her nephew. I thought it was the morphine speaking. When I told her I didn’t know her nephew she rolled her eyes like I was the one on morphine.
"Yes you do. Atticus M. Finch."
And so the next day there we were, Atticus and I. Me in the chair next to the bed and he on the bed, eating treats from her hand. Atticus was there for nearly every visit and even as she has started to slip away more and more, a combination of the morphine and the cancer snaking up her spine like vines of ivy, she’ll slowly open her eyes and say, "Hi, Atticus." No greeting for me. When it comes to Vicki and dogs, people are second fiddle.
A former neighbor of Vicki shared a story with me last week. Once the neighbor’s dog got out of its yard, Vicki found it wandering the street and took it in and was reluctant to return the dog because she felt the owner had been neglectful of the dog.
Yes, Vicki loves dogs. She used to have two. Now there’s only one. When she and I went out to eat, we ate at the Purple Onion because they have tables outside and, as Vicki noted, "Atticus can join us." And no trip to the Tannery was ever complete without a stop down in her office, where Atticus seemed compelled to get to, no matter how far away we were. He’d bound down the stairs as if he was visiting a long lost friend.
She has such a wonderful connection with dogs that she draws them to her. On delivery nights, when I head out to deliver the ‘Toad, Atticus spends the first two to three hours sitting at attention in the passenger seat, soaking in the night. He doesn’t budge, even when I leave the door open and run up to deliver a paper to a stoop or inside a storm door. Well, that’s not completely true. He budges at one house--- Vicki Pearson’s house, even though he’s never been inside or even seen her outside of it. As soon as I step out of the car he makes a mad dash for the front door. It’s the only house he does this at.
I think dogs, and other animals, feel so close to Vicki because they can sense things many of us miss. I think they know that she’s not impressed by folks who are impressed by themselves. Dogs are never impressed with themselves. Her relationship to dogs makes me think of that Whitman poem:
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are
so placid and self---contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the
mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived
thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them
plainly in their possession.
Vicki is impressed by nature, by flowers and dogs and pretty much everything that is natural. She just isn’t impressed by people who are impressed with themselves. I suppose that’s why it was such an interesting marriage when she sat on the board of directors of the Chamber of Commerce. As with most such boards, there are plenty of people who are impressed by themselves. Yet Vicki, ever the individual, was more impressed by those who were earthier. She has strong feelings for some of the folks she served with—Kate Hudson, Esther Sayer and Paula Simpson. Yes, she was a feminist. She was a Meadie, but not a screamer. And she seemed to understand that Lisa II wasn’t quite Lisa I.
She has never been impressed by status or position and is more aware of who and what she is, and who and what other people are than anyone I’ve ever known. And while she doesn’t like phonies and would most likely laugh at some of the folks who will turn up at her funeral she let others live life as they pleased, unless they crossed her.
She worked for David Hall, but retired when she turned fifty to spend more time tending to her garden, and her two favorite flowers---her two grandchildren, one of which she took to Disney in Florida when she "retired" from Hall and Moskow. It was then she decided to run for the school committee and she based her campaign on a very simple premise: "For the kids."
She topped the ticket. Soon after, the chest pains started. She thought she might be having heart problems. No such luck.
They gave her medicine. Then came the numbness in her limbs. This past Thanksgiving Day she couldn’t shower without help from a friend. She couldn’t stand. She was told it was only a reaction to the medication. Additional tests later showed a large tumor on her back and before anyone knew what had happened, this vibrant woman who had walked a three-day, 60-mile walk to fight cancer just a year earlier was paralyzed from the waist down. Surgery was performed but she would never walk again.
On Inauguration Day she sat in front of the stage in a wheelchair, by herself. The rest of the School Committee, in a very interesting decision, sat up on the stage with the City Council and the Mayor. The two other new members did join her on the floor when the three of them were sworn in, but later returned to their seats, leaving her seated alone, looking withered and exhausted.
Everyone thought she’d be fine. Not having the use of her legs would not hinder Vicki Pearson. Then, soon after, it was discovered that the tumor along her spine was malignant and suddenly all hope was gone and so many folks were made to wonder about the justness of life when one so good and pure and special to so many was now getting ready to die.
And that’s exactly what I was feeling while I knelt in the snow under a full moon with a small, well-loved dog licking tears from my cheeks before they froze in place. I was wondering about the justness of life.
It’s moments like this when you are held in awe by how fragile life is. By how big it is. By how small and temporary we all are.
We did not walk closer to the church that night. Instead we turned back and headed towards the car. Off in the distance stood Mount Mansfield, the highest mountain in Vermont. It has nighttime skiing and on this night those lights wound their way up the mountain and seemed to trail right off into heaven—surely a path our friend will soon follow.
Upon returning from Stowe, Vicki was aware enough to realize we’d stayed for an extra day. We talked a lot that night. But that seemed like the last good conversation. There were plans for an interview but she has drifted too far away. And yet while she seems so distant and tired of fighting for life, when I see her I no longer see the loose skin or the dry lips. I do not see her brittle hair or hear the morphine pump or smell the residue of urine from her catheter bag. I do not see the legs that will not move. What I see is the Vicki I have known since moving to Newburyport. I see it in the faces of the nurses who attend to her, have been inspired by her, and have grown because of her. I see the Vicki no climbing tumor can take from me or anyone else. After all, long after she stops breathing, after her body is cold and decaying, after we have cried to the point where we cannot cry anymore, she will still be here—a wonderful spirit lasting with those who were touched by her for as long as they remember her.
Even in the darkest of moments she has kept her sense of humor, with a touch of reality. She is fond of Jean Hood (a cancer survivor), who used to work in the Tannery and now lives in Vermont. She shared a note with me from Jean who closed the note with, "This sucks." Vicki said that summed it up pretty much, but then within seconds was making plans about her funeral, about what she wanted me to do for her. She wanted to know how the new mayor was doing, about the new council and anything else I could tell her.
On Monday night, the mayor gave her State of the City address and she talked of the need for economic development, about the City’s fiscal crisis, her hopes and aspirations for the city. Her speech summed up nearly everything except for the fact that Newburyport is not doing very well these days. You see, we’re losing something very special. We’re losing a daughter of Newburyport, a kind and caring person who was probably too special to ever actually serve as a politician. Vicki Pearson is leaving behind two families. One that includes a brother and sister, a mother, son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren, husband, and all the remaining blood relatives. The other is like a patchwork quilt, little clusters of people made up of those hundreds of hearts she has touched.
Vicki Pearson has been, and will always be heart and soul, compassion and honesty, no-nonsense and a never ending desire to grow and give. She is much of what we should all try to be. And while I won’t pretend to know God’s thoughts, I have a hunch she’s taking her away because Vicki got it right.
There’s no way of knowing for sure how much longer she will live, but it is believed it will be no longer than two weeks. She will not be returning home from the hospital.
I think I now know why I am so deeply moved by John Irving’s novels. So much of life is about loss and our need to go on no matter what happens. It is at times like this one can relate to the characters in his books who lose everything, who are fragile after being broken, and yet they go on because they must, no matter how heavy the heart. They suffer so that they can grow. Something tells me a great many Newburyporters are about to grow in the following months.
Missing and Loving You,
Tom
And so the next day there we were, Atticus and I. Me in the chair next to the bed and he on the bed, eating treats from her hand. Atticus was there for nearly every visit and even as she has started to slip away more and more, a combination of the morphine and the cancer snaking up her spine like vines of ivy, she’ll slowly open her eyes and say, "Hi, Atticus." No greeting for me. When it comes to Vicki and dogs, people are second fiddle.
A former neighbor of Vicki shared a story with me last week. Once the neighbor’s dog got out of its yard, Vicki found it wandering the street and took it in and was reluctant to return the dog because she felt the owner had been neglectful of the dog.
Yes, Vicki loves dogs. She used to have two. Now there’s only one. When she and I went out to eat, we ate at the Purple Onion because they have tables outside and, as Vicki noted, "Atticus can join us." And no trip to the Tannery was ever complete without a stop down in her office, where Atticus seemed compelled to get to, no matter how far away we were. He’d bound down the stairs as if he was visiting a long lost friend.
She has such a wonderful connection with dogs that she draws them to her. On delivery nights, when I head out to deliver the ‘Toad, Atticus spends the first two to three hours sitting at attention in the passenger seat, soaking in the night. He doesn’t budge, even when I leave the door open and run up to deliver a paper to a stoop or inside a storm door. Well, that’s not completely true. He budges at one house--- Vicki Pearson’s house, even though he’s never been inside or even seen her outside of it. As soon as I step out of the car he makes a mad dash for the front door. It’s the only house he does this at.
I think dogs, and other animals, feel so close to Vicki because they can sense things many of us miss. I think they know that she’s not impressed by folks who are impressed by themselves. Dogs are never impressed with themselves. Her relationship to dogs makes me think of that Whitman poem:
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are
so placid and self---contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the
mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived
thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them
plainly in their possession.
Vicki is impressed by nature, by flowers and dogs and pretty much everything that is natural. She just isn’t impressed by people who are impressed with themselves. I suppose that’s why it was such an interesting marriage when she sat on the board of directors of the Chamber of Commerce. As with most such boards, there are plenty of people who are impressed by themselves. Yet Vicki, ever the individual, was more impressed by those who were earthier. She has strong feelings for some of the folks she served with—Kate Hudson, Esther Sayer and Paula Simpson. Yes, she was a feminist. She was a Meadie, but not a screamer. And she seemed to understand that Lisa II wasn’t quite Lisa I.
She has never been impressed by status or position and is more aware of who and what she is, and who and what other people are than anyone I’ve ever known. And while she doesn’t like phonies and would most likely laugh at some of the folks who will turn up at her funeral she let others live life as they pleased, unless they crossed her.
She worked for David Hall, but retired when she turned fifty to spend more time tending to her garden, and her two favorite flowers---her two grandchildren, one of which she took to Disney in Florida when she "retired" from Hall and Moskow. It was then she decided to run for the school committee and she based her campaign on a very simple premise: "For the kids."
She topped the ticket. Soon after, the chest pains started. She thought she might be having heart problems. No such luck.
They gave her medicine. Then came the numbness in her limbs. This past Thanksgiving Day she couldn’t shower without help from a friend. She couldn’t stand. She was told it was only a reaction to the medication. Additional tests later showed a large tumor on her back and before anyone knew what had happened, this vibrant woman who had walked a three-day, 60-mile walk to fight cancer just a year earlier was paralyzed from the waist down. Surgery was performed but she would never walk again.
On Inauguration Day she sat in front of the stage in a wheelchair, by herself. The rest of the School Committee, in a very interesting decision, sat up on the stage with the City Council and the Mayor. The two other new members did join her on the floor when the three of them were sworn in, but later returned to their seats, leaving her seated alone, looking withered and exhausted.
Everyone thought she’d be fine. Not having the use of her legs would not hinder Vicki Pearson. Then, soon after, it was discovered that the tumor along her spine was malignant and suddenly all hope was gone and so many folks were made to wonder about the justness of life when one so good and pure and special to so many was now getting ready to die.
And that’s exactly what I was feeling while I knelt in the snow under a full moon with a small, well-loved dog licking tears from my cheeks before they froze in place. I was wondering about the justness of life.
It’s moments like this when you are held in awe by how fragile life is. By how big it is. By how small and temporary we all are.
We did not walk closer to the church that night. Instead we turned back and headed towards the car. Off in the distance stood Mount Mansfield, the highest mountain in Vermont. It has nighttime skiing and on this night those lights wound their way up the mountain and seemed to trail right off into heaven—surely a path our friend will soon follow.
Upon returning from Stowe, Vicki was aware enough to realize we’d stayed for an extra day. We talked a lot that night. But that seemed like the last good conversation. There were plans for an interview but she has drifted too far away. And yet while she seems so distant and tired of fighting for life, when I see her I no longer see the loose skin or the dry lips. I do not see her brittle hair or hear the morphine pump or smell the residue of urine from her catheter bag. I do not see the legs that will not move. What I see is the Vicki I have known since moving to Newburyport. I see it in the faces of the nurses who attend to her, have been inspired by her, and have grown because of her. I see the Vicki no climbing tumor can take from me or anyone else. After all, long after she stops breathing, after her body is cold and decaying, after we have cried to the point where we cannot cry anymore, she will still be here—a wonderful spirit lasting with those who were touched by her for as long as they remember her.
Even in the darkest of moments she has kept her sense of humor, with a touch of reality. She is fond of Jean Hood (a cancer survivor), who used to work in the Tannery and now lives in Vermont. She shared a note with me from Jean who closed the note with, "This sucks." Vicki said that summed it up pretty much, but then within seconds was making plans about her funeral, about what she wanted me to do for her. She wanted to know how the new mayor was doing, about the new council and anything else I could tell her.
On Monday night, the mayor gave her State of the City address and she talked of the need for economic development, about the City’s fiscal crisis, her hopes and aspirations for the city. Her speech summed up nearly everything except for the fact that Newburyport is not doing very well these days. You see, we’re losing something very special. We’re losing a daughter of Newburyport, a kind and caring person who was probably too special to ever actually serve as a politician. Vicki Pearson is leaving behind two families. One that includes a brother and sister, a mother, son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren, husband, and all the remaining blood relatives. The other is like a patchwork quilt, little clusters of people made up of those hundreds of hearts she has touched.
Vicki Pearson has been, and will always be heart and soul, compassion and honesty, no-nonsense and a never ending desire to grow and give. She is much of what we should all try to be. And while I won’t pretend to know God’s thoughts, I have a hunch she’s taking her away because Vicki got it right.
There’s no way of knowing for sure how much longer she will live, but it is believed it will be no longer than two weeks. She will not be returning home from the hospital.
I think I now know why I am so deeply moved by John Irving’s novels. So much of life is about loss and our need to go on no matter what happens. It is at times like this one can relate to the characters in his books who lose everything, who are fragile after being broken, and yet they go on because they must, no matter how heavy the heart. They suffer so that they can grow. Something tells me a great many Newburyporters are about to grow in the following months.
Missing and Loving You,
Tom
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