The saddest Hallowe'en

 

A week ago was Hallowe'en. Pickle got dressed as a witch and my husband had drawn some spiderwebs and bats drawn on my face. That was as far as I went with a costume this year. I have seen entire families of six or eight dressing up as the entire cast of Frozen, or all the characters from Super Mario, but me, I could barely get out the door, on a Thursday evening, after work, in the freezing dark. So, spiderwebs and bats was a big achievement babes. 

Our neighbours and Pickle's friends came to our door first, and then we trooped off together to the house next door, owned by Leslie and Bruce. They have been here for years, as have our other neighbours. Possibly decades. Their house is big, beautiful, and they keep it immaculate. They have two teenage daughters, a big garden, a trampoline, a volleyball court, and lots of trees. Their flowers always look tended to and the house always looks cared for and symmetrical, somehow. Tonight, there were glowing  Jack O Lanterns placed carefully on the front porch, and there was a warm sort of sparkle coming from inside.  We rang the bell, and a man we had never met before answered the door with a smile. He kindly gave candy to our very excited children, and then Jodi, the mum of the kids we were with, asked where Leslie or Bruce were and who he was. The man, who was a bit older and Bruce's brother, said that Leslie was in the hospital. Is she okay? Jodi asked. The man looked uncomfortable, his face morphing into a wry smile, implying she was not. Jodi suggested that we take the kids while she stayed to talk with the man. So we all trooped off to the next house to collect some more chocolates for the growing candy mountain inside pumpkin buckets.

A few minutes later, Jodi came back, looking pale and shocked. I need to walk, she burst out. I just need to walk. As we walked, Jodi told me what the man had said. Leslie, the 45 year old mother of two teenage girls, wife of Bruce, owner of the beautiful house with the glowing pumpkins, had been diagnosed with terminal, rapid spreading intestinal cancer two weeks ago. She had, so they said, two months to live. 

The news hit me, and my husband, hard. As it would anyone. All I could think about were the two teenage girls. The first thing my husband said was that we must bring something around to the family, like muffins, and just connect with them and say we are here for you. We both have talked to Leslie once or twice, and both times she seemed absolutely lovely. We never got round to sharing a meal or a drink, although in our brief conversations we always said we would. 

Every day for a week I wanted to bring something to them, and every day there was so much to do and so much to try and get through that I never "had the time". Until last night. I bought some cookies, and came home from work and after picking Pickle up, fully exhausted and ready to collapse, as usual. My husband was also shattered from work and from life, but I decided we would do it now, because as tired as we were, there would never be a "right time". So, we bundled up in our winter coats, Pickle was carried by my tired hero of a husband, and I carried the cookies. I was not sure what to expect when we got there, and I was preparing for a frosty reception, or even one so couched in grief that there could be no conversation at all. What we did receive was extremely surprising.

We knocked on the door, and it was opened by a man in his 40s with ginger hair. Behind him was a teenage girl. I introduced ourselves, we live just next door I said. We heard about Leslie last week, and although we don't know her very well, we just wanted to give you this and tell you how sorry we are. I cannot imagine what you are going through at the moment, and if there is ever anything we can do, please do call on us. We are right next door. The man responded with the warmest, most loving response I could have imagined. He said how happy he was that we came, how he will definitely pass on the message to Leslie, how it means so much to him, stuff like that. He must be dealing with a lot of this kind of kindness from people, maybe he has repeated these words a thousand times, and yet the way he said it was totally genuine, full of empathy and connection. He told us that since last week things have deteriorated faster than they had expected, and that it's not looking good. She is in the hospital now, and it won't be long now, he said. How he could say these words to strangers, I do not know. 

The teenage girl was standing behind him the whole time with a slight smile on her face, a welcoming smile it seemed. He introduced me to her (I was the spokesperson of the family, my husband was standing back a bit with Pickle in his arms the whole time) and it was Leslie's daughter. I said How are you holding up. She said Okay. What do you say to a teenager whose mum may be dead in a week. 

The closing conversation was much the same as the opening - Thank you so much for coming over, it means so much to us, this is really so kind of you. With real, genuine, warmth. We said goodbye, the door closed. 

But there is more.

As we walked away, a car pulled up. The door opened, and out came an older couple. Hello I said, are you....? Before I had finished my sentence, the older gentleman introduced himself. We are Leslie's mum and dad, he said. I went in to shake his hand, and he immediately pulled me into a huge hug. The warmth that emanating from him was unexpected and moving. It was a warmth you wanted to fall into.

We chatted for a very short time, I told him where we are and why we were there, and expressed my sorrow for what they are going through. They were from Ontario, they said, and all of Leslie's family is here at the moment. They were smiling and laughing through the conversation, as if their daughter wasn't in hospital dying. But I guess, what else can you do?

At the end, her mum pulled me into a hug and kissed me. I could not understand how they could be so loving in the middle of their grief. But that is the kind of love I want to give to people, whether I am grieving or feeling loss, or not. That is the kind of love that I want.

Inevitably, at times like this, one reflects. One comes to a revelation. Makes a life changing decision. Sees things from a whole different perspective. 

Mine was that there is never the "right" time to do anything. Because if you wait for the right time, it will never come. Do it now. Have the neighbours over for drinks tonight. Go and give cookies to your friends this afternoon. Because you never know what will happen in a week, and you will regret waiting.

Thanks for reading x

Edit: Leslie died today. It makes me so, so glad that we went over, but equally devastated for the family.