In Memory

Susan Carol Jefferies (Wright)

 

MY FRIEND, SUSAN JEFFERIES

by Priscilla Whitley Mathews

Moving from Westwood, I wore my Girl Scout Uniform the first day I started school in Montvale. 1957, fifth grade, I enrolled in school half way through the year, and I choose to wear my Girl Scout Uniform. Deadly decision.

I still remember the behind the hands laughter, heads turned slightly, pretending to hide the heckles, though equally making sure I knew I stood in the direct line of fire. Might as well have happened yesterday, the memory is clear. I cried all the way home and never wore my Girl Scout Uniform again.

Sounds like a story with a bad ending, but it’s not the case. A few weeks after I started school, Sue Jefferies handed me a note, inviting me over to her and Nancy’s home after school. Did my mother intervene with their mother, an acquaintance of hers, begging for them to include me? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. The important part is Sue invited me and a few days later I shyly walked home, after school, with Sue and Nancy. It was the spring of Fifth Grade and Sue became my first and valued friend in Montvale...and I’m blessed to have stayed friends with her until the moment she went to wherever we go after life is finished here.

Those first years or two Sue, Kathy Mariglianti and I formed a friendship based on imagination. While others were beginning the boy/girl flirt, the three of us, who had no large interest yet in that dance, formed a club..ours, a tribute to the great Zacherly. Kathy was Dracula, Sue, The Mummy and I was Zac. Sequestered in one of our bedrooms, door closed tightly, the room became Zacherly’s cave and we began each meeting the same.

"Is Dracula here?" I’d say with great sobriety. Kathy would dutifully reply, "Dracula is present." And then I’d ask, "Is The Mummy here?" and Sue, mustering up the most serious face, would respond, "Yes, The Mummy is here." We thought, and Kathy will attest, it’s still the funniest thing we’ve ever said.

And it went on from there for forty something years. Through grammar school, high school, years of separation, reuniting again at our mid 90’s reunion, when the friendship took a giant leap.

Sue and I formed that bond which is uniquely special to adult women. It’s vastly different from the partnership of marriage or the closeness of mothers and daughters. It speaks of thoughts never dared voiced to others we love. It can go to the deepest levels of fear and to the heights of yearning. Dreams of the future are shared, as are the disappointments of the past. Laughter, so full of senseless hilarity, can go on for hours and hours. Women can easily cry together, without any fear of shame or guilt. And we’re certainly not looking for pity. We only need to share. We don’t look for each other to allay our thoughts; we do treasure we have someone who won’t judge or dismiss us. "Love your girlfriends, for they will never let you down" should possibly have been the eleventh commandment. Sue, I’m so happy to say, was one of my very best girlfriends.

It didn’t surprise me she turned out to be a courageous woman. Her spirit for life was clearly evident in high school. She loved a party...she loved to laughed...and she didn’t worry about getting in trouble. That was only a stepping stone to having the best time she could possibly have. There were many times we chose trouble, as if sensing surviving authoritative and parental admonishment would see us through the most difficult times later in life.

Sue worked for the airlines for many years taking full advantage of their travel benefits, wandering off to various parts of the world, her mind wide open to new adventures.

Traveling abroad led to an interest in cooking, which she did with panache, always accompanied by a fine bottle of wine. Martini’s, though, where the choice in cocktails. Bread, steaming out of the oven, and freshly made mozzarella, with a drizzle of imported olive oil, were a favorite. The ingredients needed to be fresh and casing out the farmer’s markets were her pleasure.

She became an artist, a crafts person, and discovered a talent for decorating, with an eye for color and texture. Her home reflected her artistic self and she enjoyed putting our a lovely table. Entertaining with fine food, set with a flair, was pure enjoyment.

She raised two children, a daughter and a son, who she loved and fretted about, especially when she knew she wouldn’t be around as they grew into adults. When she became ill with breast cancer, she felt at first she was letting her children down. But as she raised her entire being to fight the disease with strength...and humor...she ended up showing her children that accepting what life hands you, is life itself. It’s all how you deal with it. A gift, certainly, to her children.

I loved when Sue came out to Connecticut to visit. She’d do this two or three times a year, in between treatments. I’d pick her up at LaGuardia, recognizing her first by the fashionable baseball cap she’d wear, for hair had become a thing of the past. There were quite an assortment of hats...sequins and brightly colored beads adorned them and each were worthy of a placement in Vogue.

She’d come on a Wednesday or Thursday, so we’d have a day together. One time we decided to go antiquing...after all, it’s New England. Starting out around 10 am, it took us about 5 hours to travel twenty or so miles, as we stopped at each beckoning shop along the way. A small object here and there came into her possession. On one occasion she bought a delicate crystal pen, sea glass blue in color. To accompany it, a small, rectangular antique painted box, lined with old toile wallpaper. With the pen encased in the box, she presented it to me. It rests on my desk, a reminder of my friend and our road trips.

On the weekends of Sue’s visits, a group would gather at my home. Pammi and Shazi, Kathy and Cheryl Race. All the women who grew up together and felt being with one another was still the most fun. We’d cook, drink wine, take walks and share our secrets. And of course, laugh. Each one of us could tell their own version of what came out of those weekends, though, unanimously, I believe, just by being together, we felt complete.

Thoughts of Sue now lead to thoughts of her sister, her twin, Nancy. These two non-identical sisters went their separate ways in high school, and for many years after. They didn’t look alike and their personalities seemed to differ. But it now appears their differences traveled a road which met again at the crucial time, for Nancy became the true hero in Sue’s biggest battle. Nancy, known affectionally as the "the smart one", pursued every avenue, opened doors which appear closed, sought out treatments unconventional and became the expert on cancer treatments. She guided her sister and stood by her every minute of the long, sometimes horrific, journey. She was there at the end, calling me at night while holding the phone for Sue so I could say my few helpless words of encouragement. She loved her sister deeply and I love her for taking such good care of my friend.

My move from Westwood to Montvale, which began so disastrously at first, led me to some of the most meaningful friendships I’ve been privileged to experience. With Sue, no matter where we were, no matter what the circumstances...happy or sad, fearful or fighting hard, she and I always opened our conversation in the same manner we did as children. We enjoyed each other’s company every time we were together and I think of her now always with a smile. And so I find myself driving along at times, or a song will play, or a memory is triggered and I start to laugh and say, always out loud, "Is the Mummy here?" And the answer, as it has been for all these years, is forever the same. "Yes, the Mummy is here." And she is, in my memory and deeply in my heart.

     

         

               Sue                                                             Nancy                        Sue

 

Suzie Woozy, by Pamela Altman-Brown 

I loved Sue Jefferies.  She was the best.  We had so much fun starting in high school.  On Monday nights we had "seminars" with Charlotte Tash, Cheryl Race, Cilla Whitley, Shazi Rossman, Arlene Fleischmann, Judy Sowden, Dana Belbey, Jon Bach and me.  We would drive to Pearl River for some reason and then just laugh and laugh and laugh.  I don't really remember if we wound up in Shazi's den or where, but great times were had every Monday night.   

After high school there were summers down the shore in Belmar and good old Manasquan.  We would return on Sunday nights and I would stay at Sue's apt in Fort Lee and take the bus into the city to go to work on Monday mornings -- still laughing. She called me Pammy Wammy and I called her Suzie Woozy.  No one else should ever call me that, except Cilla, but she doesn’t.  I lost touch with Sue for awhile, but then she resurfaced in Minneapolis, and finally in Indianapolis, or do I have that backward.  By that time she had been diagnosed with breast cancer the first time and no one really knew much about treatment or anything.  I knew a bit because my mother had died in high school of breast cancer that metastasized into a deadly brain cancer but really no one much talked about it.  Sue and I talked about it endlessly.  To be honest, I wasn't much help as I didn’t know the extent of her disease, or if she was getting really bad or no advice.  But we stayed in touch and when she came to the city we would get together.   

Years later when Cilla lived in that big house in Connecticut we would have girls' weekends with Sue and Shazi and Race and Tash and Sowden and just kick back and laugh.  Sue was not feeling so good by then and she would stay in bed a lot but was always fun and game for whatever was going on.  We laughed some more.   

Time passed and I was diagnosed with my own breast cancer and Sue was right there.  She came to my house in Manasquan with her daughter one Christmas -- picked her up at the airport and went down to the shore and laughed and ate pizza and drank wine and her daughter laughed and hoped she would have friends like that.  Cilla came down and we laughed some more and walked on the boardwalk along the ocean and drank some more wine and never, I mean never, got sad or anything.  Laughing seemed to be all we ever did and we never ran out of things to say.  By that time Dana Belbey Markert was really sick with breast cancer and we would call her and the three of us would commiserate and laugh and giggle and remember back in the day.  Sue got progressively weaker and finally Cilla and Shaz went out to see her for the last time.  I was really pissed that I didn’t get to go, but said my farewells on the phone.  I knew that I'd ever get to see her again.  But there she was laughing it up to the end, both of us making fun of the cancer that would ultimately take her.  Never once did she blame or get down on herself or feel sorry or any of that junk.  She was so brave and funny.  Did I mention how funny she was?  I love her and miss my Suzie Woozy every day.  I remember one of the last conversations we had where we both decided that "tits are so over rated" and then there was that laugh.  Stay peaceful Suzie Woozy and know that I love you still.  Peace out from Pammy Wammy.    P.A-B.

 

 

PASCACK VALLEY WEBSITE MEMORY PAGE FOR SUSAN: 

Memories of a twin….

You all know, and remember, a different Susan than I do.  I even know her by a different name….Susan….not Sue, her name during our high school years.  So, I will leave the reminiscing of the 60’s to the rest of you.  I want to tell you more about the Susan I know.  (Sorry, I refuse to use the past tense here!) 

My story begins when Susan was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1988.  Not surprising, she did not dwell on it.  She had surgery and moved on.  Up until this time Susan had married Ed (in 1969), lived in Fort Lee, Kansas City (working for TWA and Hallmark Cards as a computer programmer) and Philadelphia; she had two kids (Amy and Brian), and was, by then, living in North Carolina (I think).  I am not good at remembering exact ages, but at the time of Susan’s diagnosis Amy was about 15 and Brian was 10ish. As Susan and I never lived geographically close to each other, over the years we visited each often, always struggling with the remnants of our “twin hood”….the comparisons that never really spoke to who we were as individuals, and sadly, created a chasm between us. 

Then something changed….Susan’s cancer returned (around 1992).  The news was not good.  The cancer had metastasized, requiring various rounds of chemo and radiation over the next 6 years.  Susan was amazing!  She showed incredible courage and fortitude. 

They moved to Minneapolis and, ultimately, Indianapolis, all the while the constant in their lives being Susan’s cancer.  Don’t take me wrong…life was full for Susan during these years.  She continued working and living her life, making lifetime friends along the way, spreading her joy, and especially loving her role as mom. 

For me, we continued spending extraordinary times together, mostly with me visiting her, coming and going to chemo and radiation treatments or spending hours in the emergency room.  Oddly, Susan’s bout with cancer had brought us together in a very special way.  In a single moment all that “baggage” between us had disappeared, and we were forever connected at the heart.  Why am I telling you this?  Just to say how sad it is that it took a terminal disease to wake us up and embrace our having each other!  For me, Susan changed my life forever.  Tragic as her disease was, she continued to live her life with amazing courage…and, of course, her sense of humor, which carried us all through the hardest of times.  She was always more worried about her family and friends than herself. 

Susan died on November 10th, 1998.  It will be 11 years next month!  It seems like yesterday. How could it possibly be that long since I have talked to her, looked into her smiling eyes, touched her….I miss her so much!!  Her last year was very difficult.  I don’t know how she did it.  For one thing, she was determined to see Amy graduate from college…and she did. I spent the last 2 months of her life by her side 24/7.  Susan’s gift to me was experiencing what it is like to know every second, every day, what it’s like to know, with absolute certainty, exactly what the most important is in a given moment.  Everyday, during those last two months, Susan’s well being was what was most important.  Thank you, Susan, for that gift.   

And when she died, it was a magical moment.  Finally….peace.  Susan had been in a coma for over a week, struggling to make her body “well”.  You see, she wanted to donate her body to the medical school so they could study her cancer.  But they would not take a “sick” body…meaning infected with something other than the cancer.  When Susan went in the hospital for the last time she had a blood infection.  The family decided to leave her be; no antibiotics to fight the infection…let her go.  (She would have been so pissed if she had come back to us, to have to continue to live in the hell she had been in the past few months!) So, we let her go.  But, she wasn’t quite ready.  She had healing to do.  And heal she did.  The infection cleared up on its own.  Meanwhile, she slipped into a peaceful coma, and left us on a cold, wintery day.   

But there’s more.  And this is important.  The day before Susan died a ladybug landed on her arm.  It was November 9th, marking the one-year anniversary of Dana Belby’s death.  (I had been in touch with Peter). It felt like it was time for Susan to go, and maybe Dana, in the form of a ladybug, had come to take her. 

She died the next day while I and her two favorite nurses were hovering over her, looking at her peaceful face.  For a split second, the three of us looked away and looked at each other.  It was in that second that Susan took her last breath.  She was not about to die with people staring at her! 

And what of the ladybug?  When I told Amy and Brian about the Susan’s last moments, and the lady bug, Amy commented there was a ladybug in her car that morning.  She had let it fly away.  A few days later when going through old photographs, we found one of Amy around the age of one, wearing a bib that said “ladybug”!  So, today, 11 years later, Susan lives on for all of us in the ladybug.  She visits all of us on a regular basis.  So, when you see a ladybug, think of Susan.  She is smiling, happy and at peace. 

Susan…I love you and miss you every day! 

Nancy

 

 

 

 







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