Author: Stephanie

In her spare time, Stephanie has published articles and delivered talks in arcane fields like forensic evidentiary issues, statistical presentations of human and canine DNA testing, jury instructions, and expert scientific witness preparation. She attended law school near the the banks of the Charles River and loves that dirty water; she will always think of Boston as her home. You are welcome to take a look at her Facebook author page, or follow @SMartinGlennon on Twitter and @schnitzelpond on Instagram. Bonus points for anyone who understands the Instagram handle. All content on this blog, unless otherwise attributed, is (c) 2012-2023 by Stephanie M. Glennon and should not be reproduced (in any form other than re-blogging in accordance with the wee Wordpress buttons at the bottom of each post) without the express permission of the domain holder.

Life Lessons from a Natural-Born Teacher

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My friend Elizabeth has the serene and calming presence of many natural-born educators, and happens to be a teacher.

And, boy, has she taught me.

Still in treatment herself, she knew when to recommend I read “The Last Lecture,” and she knew what additional lessons perhaps only a survivor can truly impart to those suddenly thrust into cancer’s maelstrom.

She helped me wrap my brain around what my husband meant when he said that a terminal diagnosis could be harder on the spouse than the patient.

She and her husband offered up their own hard-earned experience to ease our sudden transition into a world not even doctors–unless they also are patients–understand.

They invited us up to their home for a rollicking last recording session with the Biff Jackson Group, an evening of belly laughs and home-cooked Italian food and an exegesis on the difference between People Who Like Parmesan and People Who Like Roman.

None of us knew that it would be the last night we spent out, enjoying the matchless company of friends.

They came to our home weeks later, as Jim was dying, and brought a table-sized family rolling board on which gnocchi were hand-cut for our youngest daughter while sauces bubbled on the stove to feed gathered family and friends.

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On March 22 of this year, five years to the day after Jim died, Elizabeth spoke about how she has come to appreciate life lived for nearly a decade with cancer.

Give yourselves a gift and read Elizabeth’s own words: “enjoy every moment you have, even the mundane ones. Every moment is an extraordinary gift you have been given. Ordinary is extraordinary. Every ordinary moment is the gift of life.”

May you enjoy every moment of your birthday today, Elizabeth. Each of them is the sum of wonders of love in all its forms.

As I look at the beaded pearls of water bringing light and depth to the brilliant colors of today’s newly bloomed flowers I remember sitting on the wildflower-strewn hill behind our home with you and Judy as you looked forward to your baby’s birth and told us about the friend whose name your daughter would be given–the baby who is now a beautiful young woman about to bring her gifts to college and the world beyond.

Hope and beauty, heartache and love, all part of each salty tear and each drop of rain.

 

 

This Morning the Ocean Danced

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This morning the ocean danced.

An hour before sunrise, waves rushed and leapt and sprayed, leaving a molten crimson cast on the rocky shore. This is the the same spot where my children planted a beach bouquet .

The sun ignited a more tentative, delicate ballet.  It seemed to whisper from both wings, limbs of light clasping each other at the horizon as dawn’s bright white clouds began to swirl and glide overhead.

As birds began singing in earnest, one sturdy late winter branch bowed to its more petite neighbor, whose arms were outstretched, as if extending an invitation to tango.

Five years ago today my children and I brought their father home to die.

But this morning the ocean danced.

 

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When the Planet Shifts

 

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Before we married, Jim promised me we would have five boys.

Because I was very young, somewhat gullible, and only took college laboratory courses because I had to (notwithstanding my lack of scientific skills), I believed him.

We had two boys in under two years. Promising start.

On a windswept January day the following year we had a few extra hours on our hands: my scheduled delivery had been moved to make way for an emergency one.  (I did not prove much more successful in the childbirth department than I had in the hard sciences.)

We took our toddlers to breakfast at a riverside restaurant where I managed–just barely–to slide my mid-section behind a sturdy stationary pine table where the boys laughed and gave us sticky kisses before we dropped them off to play with friends–and Winston, the venerable bulldog.

Jim had only sisters and I had only brothers, and despite having some experience growing up as a girl I never felt equipped when among girl friends to understand how that is, or should be, done.  I assumed that we would have a third son by mid-day; he let on to me that he thought we’d be bringing home a Holly or Fiona.

We stopped at a nearly empty restaurant near the hospital and Jim had something to eat; I was not allowed to partake before surgery.

The owner looked at me and smiled, “When are you due?”

I glanced at Jim’s watch.  “He should be here at 12:42,” I said.

She gave me a hug.

Then the two (almost three) of us went to the seashore,  and walked hand-in-hand down a snow crystal-glazed path to the ocean. A few hours later, beautiful Emma arrived, not with a howl but with a thoughtful, piercing and curious gaze from the second her enormous eyes adjusted to what we then knew as light.

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The Wings of an Angel, the Wings of a Dove

 

Emma was a teenager when her father died. She is in such important ways like him, the man who taught her to love finches.

As sunset gathered on her birthday this winter I felt compelled to turn my steering wheel off course and drive back to that seashore spot, where layered gold and orange clouds settled in one spot to form unmistakable wings so bright they lingered as an after-image even when the sky turned gray and only the smudged plum outline of a single bird soared over the sea.

 

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Goodnight, Sweet Prince

A year ago our friend Chris passed away at home, where his loving family cared for him. Grieving people are often told that the “first year is the worst,” and, less frequently, advised that people tend to be very solicitous of the grieving during that first year. The first year is awful, but is leavened by others’ support and presence.  It is a great help when the support continues just as the grief does; the passage of one year is a milestone, but it does not end the pain or yearning.

If you know people who are grieving–and who does not?–please let them know that you continue to think of the person they loved, forever after that first year has passed.

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Dawn.  It was our friend’s last day, a Sunday, fittingly for a man of such faith.

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Almost five years ago, a week after my husband Jim was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Chris strode into our lives.   We were then only just getting to know his oldest child, who has since become like a son to me.

It’s an understatement to say it was a delicate time in our lives, given the shock and awe of that diagnosis.

Chris and his son arrived in our gravel driveway in a Crown Vic that now sports a Marine sticker.  No one cuts off the driver of such a car.  Jim and I went to the front door when we heard the gravel crunch and the car doors thunk shut.

Chris  powered over the old pine boards to the pine green door where many others who’d known us for years hesitated and others…

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