Part 1:

Endless love gardens,  places where people can give and receive love and healing, don’t have to die when the gardener dies.

I don’t recall having much contact with my father’s youngest sister until his sudden death. I remember her taking me out to dinner not long after he passed away.  She gave me a travel clock in a green velvet case, and she began to plant a love garden for me.  The cast of characters in my life was suddenly and drastically changing.  My mother’s father suddenly died seven months after my father, and my mother’s mother suddenly died nine months after my grandfather.  I’d become a shell-shocked teenager who was afraid to wake each morning in case I’d hear of another loved one’s unexpected passing, and I grew to appreciate my aunt’s increasing presence in my life.  She’d never had children of her own.  I was part niece, part daughter, and part friend to her.  She was there for me, and I was there for her.

In our later years, we’d dine together and go shopping together when I visited my hometown.  I was so happy when she recognized me in the recovery room after her simultaneous heart and cancer surgery.  She wasn’t a dog person, and I was grateful that she enjoyed spending time with my dogs.  She smiled as she saw them make friends with her neighbors, and she was fascinated as she watched them scour her tidy apartment in search of a stray crumb or two.  She’d even open her apartment closet doors to give my dogs more places to sniff.  Even during her dementia years, when she’d pose the same eight questions to me over and over, she’d always ask why I hadn’t brought my dog to visit her.

My aunt passed away five months after my mother and four months after my best friend.  I’d become shell-shocked once more, attempting to cope with another sudden series of deaths and losses.  I’d spent so much time with my mother and my aunt during their dementia years.  I’d brought them treats, I’d memorize their faces in preparation for the time when they’d no longer be with me, I’d do my best to make them smile, and I’d loved them more each time I saw them.  Conversation may become very different when dementia enters the mix, but the love never goes away.

After years of in-person and long distance caregiving, the only being who needed me now was my dog.  It felt very, very weird.

What do you do with a love garden whose gardener is gone?

I learned while reading the national news that my aunt’s friend passed away.  The friend had grown up in the same impoverished neighborhood as my aunt.  They went to the same grade school, the same junior high, and the same high school.  After graduation, my aunt eventually became a secretary and her friend eventually became the first woman mayor of their major American city.  The mayor and my aunt would chat on the bus.  My aunt was so proud that her friend had grown up to be the mayor and was still the same nice person she’d always been.

I’d found something I could now do for my aunt.  I could make a donation to a charity in memory of her friend.  It was something she would have done, and it made me feel connected to her to do this for her now.

Which charity?  None of them felt right to me.  My aunt would have been happy with any of the charities I considered, but I wanted to do something more personal.

I’d stopped off for something small to eat on my way home from running errands.  I’d eaten frequently at that restaurant after I’d had the big stroke in 2012.  Stroke damage can dramatically change the way we live our lives, and stroke damage had made it difficult for me to be around fire.  When I wanted hot food, I went out to eat.  I was hungry, so I forced myself to remember how to drive.  It was confusing to figure out which foot goes where and which pedal does what.  As I continued my recovery, I regained the ability to light a fire without freaking out, so I stopped going to that restaurant and started eating at home.

My waiter warmly greeted me.  He remembered me from two years ago.  How many people does a waiter see each day, and how many people does he remember in detail?  This waiter remembered many things about me.  He remembered I liked to sit outside.  He remembered I always ordered the lunch salad with grilled chicken, and he remembered I liked the salad dressing on the side.  He remembered I often wore a blue dress.  He remembered a lot more about me than I remembered about him.   I didn’t think I was all that memorable, other than as someone who was recovering from a stroke and whose clumsy motor skills showed it.  He said he didn’t remember my being disabled; he remembered I always joked with him and made him feel important.  He brought me a basket of bread.  I’d only ordered an appetizer and a beverage, not a full meal.  This restaurant doesn’t give bread with appetizers.  I asked him why he was bringing me bread.  He smiled at me.

It felt wonderful to be remembered positively and to be remembered in such detail by him.  And I realized I’d found the perfect place to honor my aunt’s friend.

As my aunt had created a love garden for me 44 years earlier, this waiter was creating a love garden for me today.  He’d made me feel cared about.

I left a note for the waiter with the money I would have donated to charity.  My note included the mayor’s name and the name of the city she governed, my aunt’s name, and that I was doing this to honor both women.  The waiter saw the tip, which was twice the cost of my food and drink.  He asked why I was leaving him so much money.  He asked if I was sure about doing this.  I didn’t have enough money in the bank to do much more that month, but it was important for me to do this for my aunt.  I pointed to the note.  He read what I’d written, his eyes teared up, and he held out his arms for a hug.

I’d made the right call.  This man spends his life creating love gardens wherever he goes.  When I asked him, he confirmed that most of the people he serves don’t even notice him.  The least I could do in return is appreciate him for the joy he brings to his work, for the lovingkindness he so willingly shares with others, and for the person he is.

Thank you, Carlton.  I’ll look for you the next time I visit your restaurant.

What do you do with a love garden whose gardener dies?  I’m keeping my aunt’s love garden going by honoring another gardener.

And the question is:

Whose love garden will you carry forward?

Part 2:

Today, 3 March 2016, is the fourth anniversary of my almost dying.  On 3 March 2012,  I’d eaten a small lunch at The Cheesecake Factory and experienced something that felt like a heart attack while driving home.  I was sure my number was up.  I’d experienced stress cardiomyopathy.  It feels just like a heart attack but will not leave lasting damage if the patient is given time and a peaceful environment for four to six weeks.  I experienced a disabling stroke two weeks later after someone ignored my emailed warning that I was fragile and was to be treated with kindness, gentleness, and love.  He yelled at me over the phone, my already overstimulated stress hormones zoomed into the danger zone, and I stroked out.

I still don’t understand how it is that I am still alive, but pass the kryptonite.

I decided to revisit the first anniversary today.  I didn’t want to revisit the trauma, but something I can’t explain drew me back in time.  Today is “National I Want You To Be Happy Day.”  I’d spent the day doing little things for people, both people I knew and strangers.  I went from store to store, giving out packets of pretty foiled hearts, telling  people of my miracle, encouraging them to believe in miracles, and thanking those I knew for always putting a smile on my face.

I gave hearts to the man who owns a local chain of health food stores.  I thanked him for helping to keep me alive.  I gave hearts to the people at Trader Joe’s who used to hide frozen salmon in a distant corner of the freezer so my cancer dog would always have what she needed.   I gave hearts to a woman whose mother had had her first stroke in her thirties; I urged her to believe, that I am a miracle and to believe more miracles are coming her way.   I gave hearts to a big man in Trader Joe’s whom I’d often jokingly threaten to take down.  Did I mention that I am five feet tall on a good day?

It was a day devoted to sharing love.

It felt so good to do little things for these people, and I was sad when my errands were done.  I returned to The Cheesecake Factory and ordered what I think was the same small lunch I’d had four years ago today.  I don’t think I’d seen Carlton since August of 2014; I was delighted to see he was my server today.

I introduced myself to him, telling him of the last time I’d been seated at his station.  He remembered me.  He even remembered where I’d been sitting.  He sat across from me.  Instead of my giving him a gift, today he gave me the gift of his story.  He told me he’d donated the big tip to his church; they were having a fundraiser, and he felt so blessed to have been able to contribute that much money.  I began to cry.  I told him how happy he’d made me.  I thanked him for all the good he does in the world.  I even told him today was the fourth anniversary of my stress cardiomyopathy, that I was revisiting everything I’d done that day, and how I’d hoped so hard he’d be taking care of me today.   I thanked him for helping me feel cared about and supported.

We both took a moment to reflect upon the miracle of our being brought together once more on this day.   He hugged me again.  I hugged him back again.  I felt strong as I left the restaurant.  I felt strong as I drove home along the same route I’d taken four years ago today. I waited to see how I’d feel when I reached the place in the road where I felt my heart lurch and beat wildly, where I was suddenly unable to hold and control the steering wheel.

I was fine.

Love is, as always, my greatest healer.

Carlton brought me the gift of endless Divine love today.  At The Cheesecake Factory.  Who knew?

From my heart, thank you, my friend.

Want to experience more true connection, more fun, more service, and more synchronicity in your own life?  Let’s do a free coaching session to see if we’re a fit for each other.  Contact me.  We’ll make it happen.

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