LINDA C. WISNIEWSKI

I lost one of my cheerleaders this week. Judy was a high school classmate who became a friend 45 years after we graduated. In 1962, we were majorettes together, marching in parades and at football games in short white uniforms, twirling our batons. When I got the message that she had passed away, I remembered her note: “I wish I had known you better in high school.” My first thought, after a few minutes of reminiscing, was to “shake it off,” “move on,” go about my day. After all, we weren’t close, I told myself. Not really. She did write nice comments on my blog and shared my writing on her social media: “Our classmate, bringing the memories (and tears) back through her majestic writing,” “Classmate and author Linda Wisniewski’s new piece… “Loved it. My classmate … can always touch my heart…”

I couldn’t “shake it off.”

Judy was one of the popular girls, from the top tier of kids who lived on Market Hill. Back then, our neighborhoods defined us. She offered me, after 45 years, acceptance into her circle, or maybe our ages and common memories broke through it.

My cousin Pat was also my cheerleader. She had a good life, was well-loved, and loved my writing, too. She was proud of me, laughed and forgave me when I gave her the wrong car in my memoir. No matter how busy at the restaurant she owned, she took my calls, like the older sister I never had. I still think of calling her but I can’t anymore. She died a few weeks ago at 80.

And then there was Janice, who died just over a year ago. She lived in assisted living, used a wheelchair, and threw her arms wide when I walked into her room. “Look at you!” she’d exclaim, then offer me a chair. She wanted me to tell her everything about my life, my family, and of course, my writing. We met at a writer’s workshop in Philadelphia, and it was Janice who kept the friendship going at first. It wasn’t just me she cheered for: she had writer friends all over the world.

Some people, if we’re lucky, are the “wind beneath our wings,” the ones who cheer our every accomplishment. They leave a big empty space when they’re gone, one we might attempt to fill with their stories.

Who are your cheerleaders? Share their stories in the comments. And then let’s go out and be cheerleaders for someone else.

Photo by Lum3n.com on Pexels.com

Going to physical therapy reminds me of the nail salon. The manicure clients don’t look at each other and prefer to gaze into space, pore through a People magazine, or stare at the TV mounted high on the wall.

At physical therapy, it’s much the same, except for the magazines. There is no TV and we are too much busy to read. Our determined looks and occasional winces remind me we are all in this together. Everybody is trying to do something physically difficult if not impossible.

The husky fortyish guy prone on the table with his knee wrapped in a huge white bandage looks like he’s about to break into a sweat when all he is doing is lifting his leg a couple of inches. The old woman across from me furrows her brow as she oh-so-slowly climbs up and down a little step-stool.

I make faces when my therapist forces my fingers down toward my palm to encourage my hand to make a fist. “Just two more times,” he says and pushes hard on my knuckles. “It’s hardest the first time. It gets better after this.”

The woman at the next table with her hand wrapped in an ice pack says “That’s not true.” Not what I want to hear. I just can’t do it and it hurts. But I can’t scream here. Nobody else is doing that. I can’t cry either.

The little boy across the room looks about eight or nine and he is doing the exact same hand exercises I am. All by himself. He looks serious but he’s not crying or wincing. I can be as brave as this little kid.

I catch his eye, smile and ask, “What did you do?”

“I fell off my bike,” he says with a shy smile, then goes back to work.

I’ve been coming here twice a week for over a month. In all that time, I engaged a couple of other patients in a sentence or two, but the kid is the only one I’ve asked about his injury. Now I want to poll every patient in the room: “What did you do?” I want to tell them I broke my hand. I don’t know why. Maybe I think I can forge some kind of bond over our shared pain and misery. Maybe I think we can encourage each other.

Fast forward a few years, and I’m doing therapy again, this time after shoulder surgery. Different, smaller office, same silence. No TV but they do have magazines nobody reads. Everybody’s working hard. I still try to make eye contact with the other patients but I quickly see how hard that is while you’re trying to focus on a nearly impossible task. I say a silent prayer for us all and get back to work.

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Have you ever been in a situation where you want to make eye contact with someone? Did you succeed? Tell us in the comments section and I’ll put your name in the hat for a drawing to win a copy of Cathy Lamb’s wonderful novel, The Language of Sisters, about family secrets and communicating beyond words.

The winner of this month’s drawing is Judy Mitten! She wins a copy of Styx and Stone, by James W. Ziskin. Congratulations, Judy, and thanks for your comment!