More than a Neighborhood

Life was good in May 2008. After four decades of teaching high school English, I eagerly anticipated the new adventures that would surely characterize retirement. I envisioned traveling to out-of-the-way places, publishing my first novel, and reconnecting with old friends. That all changed with my 26-year-old daughter’s diagnosis of stage four colon cancer. Within a few days of the devastating news, I packed up my old minivan, left my Colorado home and friends, and headed to Newark, Ohio, to help her through twenty-six rounds of chemotherapy and her last year of life.

From early childhood, Stef demonstrated that there is always an unconventional way to do something. Why wear a jacket when you can tie it around your neck and use it to hide some marshmallows? Why take the stairs when you can have a friend lower you out of a window with a garden hose? Why name your pet turtle Max or Sam when she looks like Sally Jesse Raphael? Why wait for a valid driver’s license when you have the skills to talk a police officer out of a ticket? As the years moved on, we grew to understand as a family that there are always options. If the right way, the conventional way, did not work, there was always another to consider. So it would be with this battle.

Stef also taught others that there is something inherently funny about everything. Whether it was the way a teacher expressed something, or how Jim Carrey said a line in Dumb and Dumber, or how loud a fart could be, Stefanie was always up for a laugh. A keen observer of the human condition, she could spot humor that a casual observer might miss. And her laugh was contagious. So when cancer invaded her world, she delighted in the looks she got going to chemotherapy with short shorts, a bright green wig, and Texas-sized cowboy boots; she earned her nickname Cancer Warrior Babe. This attitude permeated not just our family circle and her chemo buddies at the James Cancer Center, but also the entire Park Trails neighborhood that wrapped its collective arms around us. It started with Stef’s exuberant greetings as the neighbors returned home from school or work. Parents would watch her get their children engaged in bike races and dance contests, and before long, chairs lined the cul-de-sac, her contagious spirit inspiring incessant chatter and boisterous children. She encouraged celebrations of everything from best barbecue sandwiches to craziest costumes; competitions for most impressive soccer goal or biggest bubble. Stefanie became everyone’s friend; consequently, her three-year-old daughter Taylynn became everyone’s daughter.

With her encouragement, we recognized what we had been missing: the joy of three four-year-olds on the slip-n-slide, a sip of a cold beer on a hot day, the lingering butterflies on the sunflowers, the exquisite feel of sunrise walks along the trail. We began naming the deer frequenting our yards and encouraged little kids to let the fireflies go. We became less concerned about flat tires or rising property taxes or the disgruntled mail carrier. We cared less about things and exponentially more about people. While my daughter’s husband Ian served in the Marines far away, granddaughter Taylynn learned what a three-year should know: how to ride a bike without training wheels, how to dress like a princess, and how to fill places in the hearts of all of us who realized she would have to say goodbye to the mother she adored.

In this ordinary middle-class Midwestern town of Newark, Ohio, at a time of economic turmoil, an unabashed era of giving ensued. As cancer cells multiplied, so did the many random acts of kindness. Jerry secretly filled my gas tank. Charlie hired a lawn service that refused to accept payment. Tiffany provided live music and fresh vegetables from her garden. Deb stitched a colorful quilt displaying hopeful messages from neighbors. Mehyda took Taylynn to the swimming pool with the other kids and taught her the backstroke. While Kathy cleaned our home so we could have more time together, Darrell photographed Stef’s farewell visits from lifelong friends. As the cancer cells multiplied and the twenty-seven rounds of chemotherapy continued, so did their humanity.

They brought the July 4th parade to our home: 27 decorated bicycles, face-painted kids, group photos, and a traditional holiday feast. Three weeks before passing, Stef completed the 50-mile Pelotonia cancer bike race to the jubilation of our entire village. When we needed our extended out-of-state family most, our neighbors opened their hearts, homes, and refrigerators to them as they came to say goodbye. Stefanie left us October 1, 2009, and word spread quickly on Highbanks Valley Court. Before nightfall, candles lined the street, lit by incredible people who helped us realize we were never alone.

None of what I have said here captures the love I have for my child. I would give anything to hear her 5 a.m. wake-up call and the obnoxious “Yo, yo…what’s up?” I would love to have the chance to learn more lessons from her. I treasure the last year I spent with her, the many late-night Lifetime movies and 2 a.m. snacks, the Christmas trip to New York City, and the opportunity to join family members along with the warm and loving Park Trails community in her last adventures. But the bell had rung, and the class is over. For now, I will just have to practice the lessons already learned and enjoy her spirit in the gentle sweep of the wind, the glorious colors on a crisp autumn afternoon, the bright sparkle of a shooting star, and the sweet smile on her daughter Taylynn’s face. As the years have moved on, I have come to accept and cherish her goodbye declaration: “Catch you on the flip side.”

This unimaginable loss was devastating, but my child and residents of this Midwestern Ohio cul-de-sac prepared me well. They saved my life as my daughter lost hers, proving that through living large and giving larger, that the last earthly year for a vivacious 27-year-old cancer warrior, daughter, mother, sister, wife, and friend could be, in fact, remarkable.