I saw Judy on stage at CapRep once and her performance as a miserable old lady gave me no desire to meet her. Years later, when she joined our writing group, I changed my mind. Her stories about moving in with grandmother, bonding with a dog, scanning the skies for enemy planes, flying cross-country as a stewardess fascinated me. When others read, she listened with patience. She gave helpful hints in a soothing voice. If I thought of the miserable old lady on stage, the memory told me Judy was a talented actress.
Then came the diagnosis. During precious final days, the real Judy wasn’t acting: bright eyes, soothing voice and even perfect hair endured. So did insight, courage, curiosity. She accepted her prognosis, talked about it, but never gave up. “I want to live,” she told me with just a hint of tears.
A poem she wrote in December tells me she was confident she would, somehow, do that:
Butterfly
Blue, Orange, Black
Rises to heights unknown
Calmly returns