“Katie, I am dying.”
Those four words entered my Inbox just a few days after Christmas. I leaned back in my chair and read her email a second time through.
She’s nearing the end of her battle with cancer, she explained. She’s 45 years old, happily married and … under the care of home hospice. Then, as quickly as the email began, it ended, leaving me a bit confused.
I wrote her back and thanked her for the kind words about my photography. What else could I say, really. I understood … but yet, I didn’t. I asked her to tell me a little more.
That evening, she replied: “Oh my … I thought the email just disappeared … I didn’t know it sent. I thought, so be it … wasn’t meant to be … but this tells me is was.”
Early on, Wendy’s life seemed to be on the fast track, she explained. She gave birth to her first child at the age of 16. Today, at 45 years old, Wendy is the mother of four grown children. Her eight grandchildren are the lights of her life. God’s time line is impeccable, she believes. One thing cancer can’t steal is her faith.
It’s been five years since she was diagnosed. Back in August, her doctor told her she most likely had less than six months to live. She’s been all over the country, gathering second, third and 12th opinions. She’s tried experimental medications and “miracle” drugs. But the tumors have taken over — they’re literally poking out of her abdomen. “Ew,” she says when she places her hand over her belly.
It’s not too often a stranger will invite me in for her “Last Hurrah.” (Her words, not mine.) As a former full-time newspaper photographer, I know how sensitive certain moments can be. A camera’s presence is a privilege, not a right. So, when Wendy asked me if I’d be willing to drive two hours up north and document her Celebration of Life, I wholeheartedly agreed.
The celebration was held in a small Wisconsin town most people might never pass through. Colorful pinwheels lined the snowbanks near the entrance to the community center. A handwritten sign was taped to the front door: “Wendy’s Party.” Guests brought soda, casseroles, cakes and veggie trays. There were balloons, old photos, laughter, tears and lots of hugs.
I’m not going to sit behind my computer and pretend I made any groundbreaking photos in the mere two or three hours I spent with Wendy and her family. The number of photos I took probably equaled the number of words I spoke — afterall, this was her time to spend with her friends and family, not my time to ask questions about when, why and how. But from personal experience, I know many of us have “one photo.” You know, the one photo of a loved one who has passed — the photo that seems to be a memory frozen in your mind. You’ve looked at it a hundred times over because it’s the one photo that stirs up thoughts of the person you loved so deeply. Sometimes, it’s the photo you never realized would be the last.
My only hope is I gave Wendy’s family a few “one photos.” If there was a picture or two that her friends and relatives will hang on to for years to come, it was worth every minute of my time. If her children can look back and see the love and courage their mother embodied through one picture — one memory — then my work was done. If her granddaughter can somehow piece together a memory or two from this one hug, then I’ll be happy I set aside one Saturday …
To the best of my knowledge, Wendy is still fighting. In the last e-mail I received from her, she told me she was living to see the photos. 😉 I mailed her a CD the very next morning.
Thank you, Wendy, for the few moments I spent with you and your family. In those couple hours — in that tiny little Wisconsin town — there was no where else in the world I would rather have been.
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