Today I am drawn to sit on our bench in the front garden. The seat is wet it’s been raining. I am sitting here to feel close to Sue. My Swimming Sue.
We met because of my brain tumour. We came face to face ten years ago as a result of Jon, a young man who I was lucky enough to connect with at a brain tumour support group.
I needed to meet the lady who Jon was so excited to have joining him at Church during craft morning Sue told me much later.
When I turned the huge brass door handle and pushed open the heavy door to step inside St Marys Church for the first time, I scanned for Jon’s face, I’ll be doing my jigsaw he told me. He saw me and grinned. I walked towards him, my stick clicking on the floor as I went, to admire the progress he was making with his jigsaw rolled out on a mat before him.
A beautiful lady with dark curly hair approached us and with outstretched arms squealed Dawn, it is Dawn isn’t it, I have been so looking forward to meeting you; I’m Sue. As our eyes met and we hugged, I suspected that this lady was going to matter as much to me as Jon did.
To start with my contact with Sue was craft related, as recently traumatised by my need to retire from my nursing career, Sue encouraged me to join Jon at the Church craft session. I watched in awe as Sue bobbed from table to table, sharing an encouraging smile with new comers and tips on crocheting, knitting, painting and quilting with everyone there. The room positively glowed when Sue was in it. She made coffee and did the washing up while supporting and showering her love on those who were ready to receive it.
When Jon died because of his brain tumour it was Sue who walked with me around the church yard before the service. We sat on a bench under a tree and talked about life. And death. It was Sue and her husband Peter who put their arms around me when I was utterly overwhelmed by the loss of my friend.
Sue listened as I poured out the story of how, when on our Caribbean honeymoon cruise, two complete strangers had watched me sitting at the sea’s edge being swished in and out, too fearful to take the plunge. They held out their hands, enticed me in and once under water encouraged me to float and then swim a few strokes. I sobbed with joy as – for the first time in two years - the feeling of normality overwhelmed me, but I never saw those people again I told Sue. They were Angels she smiled knowingly.
Sue encouraged me to try swimming again. She took me to the local pool and spent week after week with me in the warmth of the baby pool. We giggled like kids as we raced across the pool, swimming with no leg movement to make it an equal competition!
We shared secrets on our lunch and coffee meet ups and excursions out to the Clevedon seaside which always included lunch after a stroll around our favourite high street store which was stuffed full of wool, material, threads and all things crafty. We um’d and ah’d over hats, tittering as we pulled the oddest ones onto our heads. We chose earrings and always visited the charity shops, Sue coming away with a top and me a jumper or two. We both loved bright colours, never afraid to add a splash to whatever we were wearing, our joint favourite was a deep sea-sky blue.
Sue had breast cancer. Then a year later so did I. We shared the intimacies of treatment, Sue shopped for my breast cancer bras when I was readmitted to hospital with complications after my surgery. She arrived swinging the M&S bag and we laughed as she pulled out one monstrosity after the other, deciding on the least offensive styles.
We cried on each other’s shoulders.
Hugged often.
When Sue collected me from home, we always stood in the front of our cottage to admire the tiny details in flowers. Look at the way that petal is curling Sue would exclaim; see how the water has settled on that leaf; and once cringing in surprise Dawn there’s a dead rat on your path!
Sue had an easy sense
of style and on a visit to my much-loved Lyme Regis to see what it was all
about she was delighted to discover the hat shop I had gushed about for so
many years. In true Sue style she sent me a WhatsApp message with just a
photograph of the hat she had bought. No words needed!But Sue’s breast cancer didn’t behave the same as mine.
The last time I saw her in March we had a long coffee, once again in the leisure centre, but this time we didn’t swim. As we talked, and talked, she oozed with her now fragile beauty. She chatted about how happy she was to see her son Harry and daughter Laura settled in their relationships and about Laura’s forthcoming wedding. Sue showed me photographs snapped on her smart phone, talked about her and Peter’s strong Faith and how tired she was now feeling…
The morning the phone rang, it was a call I have been expecting yet hoping would never come. Peter said she’s not with us anymore, and I wept selfish tears for the loss of my friend.
So, as I sit on my front garden bench where Sue and I have rested side by side so many times, I watch as a pair of Dunnocks come close. They move from branch to branch, slowly edging their way towards me, occasionally dropping onto the path by my side. I absorb their beauty, their grey chest, a rainbow of shades of browns on their backs. As tears prick my eyes, a sense of calm rises in my soul.
Sue left me with more than the memories of our friendship, she gave me a gift. She taught me to see the world through her eyes.
With my deepest love
Dawn xx
