I found a red 3-subject notebook among my sister's things. The notebook was one of many. She was a note taker of the first order, chronicling everything that she did or owned or had to resolve. She kept records of the proceedings of the dissolution of her marriage; she wrote down every step she took and the hurdles she had to overcome to sell her first home, and then to purchase a new one of her own. Every appliance, home repair, insurance issue, warranties---all duly noted and preserved in writing for future reference. I found pages filled with her struggles which documented her early, and futile, efforts to conceive a baby. She wrote down every step she took to find the best treatment for the horrible disease which came into her life; even when things did not look promising, she detailed all the research at the time which indicated there might be some alternative measures. She wrote pages to various agencies when her disability was first denied and, once gained, later withdrawn from her, even though logic would have dictated otherwise. And through all the events which occurred in her life, her notations were true to the facts of whatever the matter was. She was not one to color her observations with emotion or even opinion---just the facts. The red notebook I came across appeared to be empty, no dates or name or labels on the cover and the pages unwritten on----until I rifled through it and on the first page of the last of the 3 sections found these words written in her handwriting, and curiously, in a little larger script than was usual for her: God can Heal-God can Heal me-
We discussed the disease and we discussed dying, or at least not being alive anymore. She and I both knew we couldn't live forever, and that her time to go might come before mine. But we did not want her to die of that horrible disease. We wanted to be free of it, and knowing that could never be the case, we wished for something else, the lesser of however many evils. It's stupid of me, I know, and seems unfeeling and reeking of self serving cynicism, but I find myself wanting to ask how big should she have written her plea, or her prayer, or her wish. Maybe not in a notebook hidden in her dresser drawer, but on a banner being pulled by a plane over a beach somewhere........
