A few words for Mary Ann and Sydna

I bake. I bake yummy things. Often. And one of the things I bake two or three times each week is muffins. I love muffins. And for a while—before kids and then when I had only one and we’d walk into town on a whim—I was in the habit of buying a muffin whenever the opportunity presented itself. But I was never satisfied. They always were too cakey or too oily or too crumbly or had too many blueberries or or or. I tried recipes. Many many recipes. But none was THE ONE.

At some point along the way I met Liz. Actually, I’ve known Liz for 15 years. And at some point along THAT way, Liz made muffins. She brought them to book group. Or she brought them to the house. I don’t remember the first time. But these muffins? They were superb.

It took me a few years, but I got the recipe. And this is THE recipe. The ONE I was looking for. The one I use and have committed to memory. Sometimes I add fruit. Or cinnamon. Or chocolate chips. Or a combination. The recipe works every time.

And today, as I took a batch of banana cinnamon muffins out of the oven, I realized, this is Liz’s mom’s recipe. And I never got to thank her for it.

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This morning I opened the paper and saw that the doctor who delivered my second baby died. She wasn’t the doctor I saw the most at the practice. But she was the one on call when S decided to be born just a few minutes after we arrived at the hospital. I remember her distinctly—in one breath she was telling me that her shift was almost over and the next doctor would be in to check me and in the very next moment she was in full scrubs telling me I could push.

When I went into the hospital during my third pregnancy because of ovarian torsion, she was the first one to see me. She helped me through. She was straightforward and compassionate. She left an impression. She delivered one of my babies. And now she is dead. I didn’t know she was sick. I don’t know her family—only that she has one, including two young children.

I can’t stop thinking about this. I can’t stop thinking about this doctor who helped me through pain and birth. About these two women who have made unmistakable impacts on my daily life.

The connections that Sarah wrote about touch on this. That there are so many people out there who touch us. Who make a difference. Who affect us. And who we never tell of their impact. We don’t think to tell them until they are gone. My doctor was just doing her job. A job she clearly was good at. And I probably thanked her at some point. In her case, I don’t think I fully understood the personal impact she had on me until I read her obituary today. She was only 49 years old. And I just can’t stop thinking about her. And about the life cycle. Completed. The woman who helped my baby enter this world only four years ago has left the world.

My friend Liz’s mom was a little older. But not old enough to have died already. Not old enough to have lived a complete life. I never met her. But I will think of her more now than ever. Perhaps every time I make muffins. I will thank her for her recipe. For her daughter. One of my very closest friends. One of the truly unique and generous and wholly good people on this earth.

And I will try to recognize the important people more fully, so that I can tell them they are important. So that they can know. Because the truth of the brevity of life is undeniable. It is painful. It makes me feel hollow inside. And thank goodness there are abundant opportunities for hugs around here all the time, because I can’t get my fill today. I just can’t. These three children who once were babies are underfoot and all around, and I am reminded of the many, many people who have helped me get to this place. The place that I am and that I love and that is where I truly want to be, despite the constant chaos and challenges. There is absolutely no way I can thank you all. But I can be better about it along the way. I can try.