March is winding down and my sister-in-law, Lori, is going with it.

There is too much food and too many flowers because that is what we do when someone is dying, when we don’t know what else to do as, gradually, the unthinkable becomes accepted and even ordinary. We make more food and bring more flowers. But there is too little time. There is always too little time.

Lori is spending most of the time she has left sleeping, which means she is not in pain but also that no one can talk with her and we miss her already, while she is here among us.

There are circles of grief, as I’ve heard it explained. Her husband, Robert, is at the center, and one ring out are her children and my husband, her brother. I am a bit further out in orbit, in Lori’s solar system of sorrow, missing her ready laugh and irreverent observations.

“Take a brownie, if you want one,” her son, Bobby, tells me. I haven’t had a brownie in ages, and so I do.

There are casseroles in the freezer and desserts on the counter. Lori’s daughter has made a mix tape of Lori’s favorite music that is playing. A group of women friends have made a collage with Lori’s photo at the center, made to look as if she is a giant purple butterfly.

And, because it is March, there are vases of tulips and crocuses on every level surface. Pink and yellow blooms are everywhere, and everyone is waiting and watching and trying to be helpful. There is so much to do. There is so little to be done.

I remember when I first met Lori. We were not the best of friends. She was a strong woman with fierce opinions, some of which I did not share.

But after her illness, we grew close. The circumstances were unusual. We spent many hours talking about things that people may not get a chance to talk about -- unless they happen to be alone together during a pandemic and dying. I learned to love her seemingly bottomless capacity for empathy and her adventurous spirit. I knew, almost from the beginning of the pandemic, that I was experiencing something special. I felt genuinely blessed.

The last time I spoke with Lori, she was so tired. I told her we had just come by to tell her how much we loved her. She said, very softly, “I’m going to haunt you, you know.”

“I hope so,” I told her.

She smiled and closed her eyes. And it’s true, I do.

Lori rode motorcycles and flew planes and even jumped out of one once. She talked to strangers at every opportunity. She was open to new ideas and changing her mind and always giving people the benefit of the doubt. I would be happy to be haunted by her curiosity and her caring and her ribald humor and her insatiable thirst for new experiences and new insights.

And, if such a thing were possible, I would love to have her looking over my shoulder, prodding me. “Can’t you be a little braver, a little more honest, a little less proper? What have you got to lose?”

What have I got to lose?

Right now, losing Lori seems like a terrible loss.

I had the privilege to be with Lori as she died peacefully in her sleep on the first day of spring. And while, at this writing, I don’t know how March will end, I know my sister-in-law, Lori, went out like a lion.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Throughout the past year, my husband, Peter, and I have been seeing no one except Peter’s sister, Lori, and her husband.

Lori has Stage 4 cancer and has had a tough fight. She’s been on oxygen all this time. The decision of how careful we needed to be was easy. If we were going to see Lori, we had to be extremely careful. And as a reward, once a week we have heard Lori’s laughter.

I’ve been writing fiction for the first time in my life. No one told me in advance that writing novels is a lonely process. Especially now, there are no writers’ groups, no coffee shops to write in -- although I wasn’t part of a writers’ group before, and I’ve always thought a coffee shop was a noisy place to write.

Instead, I sit alone at my desk with my coffee cup and a vase of fresh flowers in front of me and I write. I write and I wait for the end of the week when we will see Lori.

“Where did we leave off?” Lori will always ask, sounding excited, followed by, “I might need a reminder,” followed by, “I get two chapters this week, don’t I?”

I will read in a mask (something I thought would be harder than it is), and I will listen for the sound of Lori’s laughter, which is loud and frequent.

And many days -- most days, in fact -- that is enough reason to write.

Because it’s impossible to never have a doubt when you are working on something like this. I wonder if it’s any good or if anyone will find it interesting or if I have any idea what I am doing. But then I read another chapter to Lori, and I remember why I’m writing to begin with. I’m writing to tell a story, to entertain, to amuse, maybe even (every so often) to make a small point.

I haven’t seen Lori in four weeks now.

She’s been too ill for visitors. Her pain is higher, and her oxygen is lower, and we don’t really know what is happening because she is too tired to tell us. Peter keeps bringing her food and I keep writing, but I cannot tell you how much I miss Lori’s laughter.

I did not realize how much I have relied on Lori’s laughter through all these weeks and months. I did not realize how seeing her every week has anchored my life to something real and joyful and positive -- because that is what Lori is.

Today the sun is not shining, and a cold wind is blowing, and we have not heard from Lori and I don’t know if we will.

“Maybe we’ll see her this weekend,” Peter says. “Maybe she’ll feel better by the end of the week.”

But we don’t know. No one knows.

There are no platitudes about Stage 4 cancer that will make things fine. Things are not fine, and that is how it is. We don’t know what the future will hold. She has battled back before, and we are hoping she will again.

But we don’t know.

Peter cooks and worries. I write. Lori is now far behind in the story. I am trying to remember what I last read to her.

But every time I come to a part where a deliciously unpleasant person is behaving especially badly, I imagine how Lori would laugh, if I were reading to her, if I finally get the chance to read to her again.

“Oh!” I think to myself. “Lori will love this.”

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It’s our anniversary, and Peter and I will be celebrating, like everyone has this past year, the best we are able.

We have not yet won the vaccine lottery. I recently received a note from the health department that basically said, “Don’t get your hopes up.” Newspaper columnists are not, apparently, considered essential workers and, of course, I am not. Meanwhile, we continue to visit my sister-in-law, Lori, whose health remains precarious.

So our anniversary celebration this year will not be spent going to a restaurant or a hot spring or a hotel in town. Instead, we are having cheese fondue on the patio.

Facebook (which knows everything) knew it was our anniversary and made a video of Peter and me. Since we rarely take pictures at home, all the pictures were taken somewhere far away. It was surprising, being reminded of all the places we have been, all the occasions we have celebrated in the last six years.

My closet is filled with dresses and skirts that have not seen the light of day for a year. They look like artifacts from another era. I won’t be wearing a dress today either. But we are having cheese fondue.

The sun is out, but it is still March, so we’ll dress warm. Peter will heat up the cheese in a little electric pot. And for dessert, we’ll have pumpkin cake with his mother’s burnt butter frosting. I think it will be a memorable anniversary -- and memories are tricky things, in my experience.

Sometimes I feel as if I’ve forgotten nearly everything I’ve ever done. I am so caught up in the present moment and the present day. Even 10 years ago seems like another lifetime. In many ways, it is.

I realize I am becoming more and more like my grandmother.

One evening, toward the end of her life, I watched her listen to a long-winded story her brother told about the perfect baked potato. My Great-Uncle John was looking at the potato he had just been served and reminiscing about what a good potato should look like, how they used to make them in a Chicago restaurant, decades ago.

I could see my grandmother’s growing impatience with this story about long-ago potatoes, and finally she burst out, “John! That potato is 50 years old!”

My grandmother lived a long time, and I believe she enjoyed most of it, in large part because she didn’t spend much time on old potatoes.

Life changes and people move on, and that’s not a bad thing. Living in the past doesn’t make the best use of my brain or my limited time on earth. In general, I’m satisfied with the few scattered and fragmented memories I’ve hung onto.

But this past year will be one I will remember.

There will be all the years that happened before, and there will be this year. We will remember this anniversary for being the one we didn’t go out (at least, not farther than the patio). It’s been the year of small celebrations. It’s been the year of cheese fondue.

Sometime later this year, I will wear a fancy dress somewhere. I will put on shoes with heels, and I’m sure it will feel odd, having lived in the equivalent of pajamas all year. We’ll go out, and we’ll see people and eat in a restaurant. We have all that to look forward to.

But today we are having cheese fondue.

And I’ll remember this anniversary better than most because it was different. And because we celebrated the best we were able.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION