I Just Wanted to Play Some More

*this post is still unedited*

    My friend Janene was taken by esophagus cancer, and I just got back from her funeral. She's my cousin-once-removed, or my dad's cousin, or my aunt depending on how you assign those things. But, she was my friend, too. 

    My kids went to her preschool, and I saw her 3-5 times a week depending on how many kids I had in pre-school at the time. I saw her more than anyone in my life besides the people I live with. And she was happy to see me every time. I was happy and even excited to see her, but it made me feel so remarkably good to know that she was excited to see me. Her smile, and the way her cheeks wrinkled, reminded me of my grandma Alta, at first, and I felt warm and at home to be with her. But with time, we chatted little bits and talked about this and that, and she became my friend. She was so beautiful. She had pre-school teacher sweaters that she wore for every season and holiday and special event. Her daughters and sisters and daughters-in-law were wearing them at the funeral, and it was the most joyful thing I have ever seen at a gathering like that. The flowers were beautiful, and the picture of her in the foyer from when she was young and gorgeous was amazing, but her sweaters... Her daughter said they counted, and she had 32 Special Occasion sweaters. Her daughter Jody was wearing one I had never seen because it was her Spectator-at-My-Kids-Sporting-Events Special Occasion Sweater, and it had all kinds of balls all over it. She had dark brown hair that she wore parted in the middle and held back by a headband every day, and if I could have gotten myself together better, I would have worn a headband today. My darn head is too big for regular headbands, so I would have had to make one. I met Janene in 1992 when she was younger than I am now. I drove up to Montana with my cousins to go to the Vance family reunion- my grandma Alta's family. Janene decided we were friends. I rode her horse, a pinto named Patches, while we were visiting her parents', Jan and Kemmer's, house. She and her cool husband Paul were square dancers, and Paul (who had taken it up reluctantly, I learned today), actually came to really love it and learned to be a square dance Caller. He called a square dance at the family reunion, and I thought that was the greatest thing I had ever done. I am not gifted in dance in skill, but in enthusiasm. Square dancing requires exactly that with which I am gifted, and I don't feel as at home in many other places, more than I do in a square dance. I remember being 9 years old and picking Paul's brain about it. Montana is far from California where I lived, and Utah, where they lived. Eventually, though, we moved to Utah, and they moved to our same city, and we saw each other sometimes. My best friend Katie's son went to Janene's preschool and we went to pick him up one day in 2016, and I saw her. I immediately jumped out of the car and ran up to her and hugged her, and exclaimed that I didn't know that she lived right by me, didn't know she was a preschool teacher, and I couldn't believe I hadn't put my kids in her class and so on. She said, laughing, "Well, I've been right here doing this for the last 23 years!" I just hadn't put it together. I told her I knew that Dex was in Miss Janene's class, but I thought of her as a Vance, so the name Janene Welker didn't ring any bells! Anyway, Russell was in her class the next fall, and then Gemma and then Wyatt. Over the last few years, she came out to my car a number of times and said, "Will you run in the house and go say 'Hi' to mom and dad? They'll be so happy to see you." Uncle Kemmer and Aunt Jan didn't remember me from a hole in the wall, but when I said, "I'm Dale's daughter." They said, "Well yes you are!" They laughed and hugged me, and it made me feel like a million bucks. Dad had hitchhiked from the South up to their house in Montanna in the early '70s in a pilgrimage that would define his life. He stayed with them for a while when Janene was a teenager and still at home, so they all have special relationships. So when I saw Jan and Kemmer that first time since 1992, I was brought into the family again, because I was important to Janene. Janene and I love horses. One day she told me about Patches and told her I had ridden him, way back when. She had loved that horse from the depths of his heart to the depths of her own. When we talked about him, she told me his whole story. She didn't have anywhere to keep him so he stayed in Montanna with Jan and Kemmer until he died. They called to tell her, and she sobbed. He was more than 30 years old- my dad had helped Janene train him when he lived there. She had loved him, and his loss was major. So, when her children rescued a neglected little pinto named Daisy and surprised Janene with her (and a place to board her nearby) she wept, again, with joy. Janene and I talked about everything that was going on in our lives, in shortish snippets during preschool pick-up. (We always held up the line. Sorry, other-preschool-parents.) When Sean was in his motorcycle accident, she ached with worry. Sean had hung out with her son Christopher growing up, and she loved Sean, too. She also rides motorcycles with Paul. What a cool lady. At the time, I was (and am now only slightly less) panicked at the thought of motorcycles. I was talking about how everyone I had spoken to at the hospital who had motorcycles over Sean's broken body, had vowed to sell them and never ride again. She nodded understandingly and looked over at Paul with intense gratitude, and said something along the lines of, "I'm so lucky to have this guy. He is so safe, and without him, it wouldn't be safe to ride." She loved him so much and looked up to him so much that she felt safe on motorcycles. I'm not saying that's ill-founded- I'm saying it a miracle of love. She and Paul are best friends. He said today that one of her sayings is, "You know, with you and me, 1 and 1 makes 3, because we work so well together." They have these cool steel sculptures in their yard made out of old farm equipment to hold pumpkins in the fall and other such useful things. I told her how cool I think they are and she got stars in her eyes telling me that Paul builds them and that he can build anything. She talked about how sophisticated and talented he is. She said, "My dad builds things, but he's just a simple farmer. Paul is educated and able can just make these things that work!" They've been married almost 40 years, and she talks about him the way teenage girls talk about their boyfriends. Beautifully, he is the same way about her. When Covid hit, most preschools had to shut down. She couldn't do it. She loves the kids too much. She hated not having them in the room, but dang it if she was going to lose them altogether. So she and Paul did preschool on Zoom. We went and picked up our packets of pipe cleaners and beans and egg containers for the different activities, and she would teach, and Paul would man the cameras and sing the songs with her, and help to get everything turned the right way so everyone could see it on our screens at home. And maybe helping your wife is a pretty normal thing for a retired guy to do, but it was the way he did it. And the way he sat in the driveway when we could go back to preschool, and take temperatures and sanitize little hands. He was part of the school. He had ownership of the preschool because of many reasons, but the one I couldn't not see, was that he and Janene are one, so if something is hers, it's his- his responsibility, his joy- too. One time she and Paul were at my parents' house for a barbeque or something, and I asked her about her daughter Amy, who is my age. Amy is a mega-athlete. Or at least, to hear Janene talk, Amy is a mega athlete. This may be absolutely true, and is likely, to boot, considering what an athlete Janene was herself. But I have no corroboration, only Janene's unmitigated awe for her daughter. She explained that recently something had happened to Amy, and they didn't know what was happening at first. She said, "We don't just run to the doctor for any little thing, but I saw my 6 foot, sinew-bound, pro volleyball playing, team-captain daughter, who is the first one at workouts and last to leave practice*, curled up on the floor, crying like a baby and screaming in pain. I knew that something was REALLY wrong." Amy had appendicitis, obviously, and it was bad. The way she talked about Amy that day stuck with me. The reverence she had for her daughter's strength shocked me. There's "proud of your kid", and then there's "honored to be a kid's parent". *These statements are not intended to convey actual history, only the sentiment felt by the author at the time of the story. They could all very easily be true, but the author does not remember the specific statements made by the subject at the time of relay. Janene didn't tell anyone she was sick. Not really sick, that is. It's true that she doesn't go to the doctor unless it's an emergency, so she had a stomachache for a long time before she went looking for help. Last fall I asked how she was, and she told me she'd been having some stomach problems for a long time and it was "just dumb". She was laughing a kind of annoyed laugh she would do when something was dumb. It meant, "This thing is happening and it stinks. Thanks for sharing it with me and supporting me. I'm going to be fine. I love you." A little while later my mom texted me to tell me that she'd gotten a call from Aunt Trisha, and had seen on facebook from Emily, that Janene had cancer. "It's stage 4." I cried. I took Wyatt to school early that day with her Christmas present as an excuse to be so early so I didn't have to say "I heard you have cancer and I want to tell you that I hate it". I'm pretty sure it was December 7th. We got there about 20 minutes early, and I could hear that she was upstairs in the kitchen. I just had Wyatt show me his favorite toys until I heard her coming. She sniffed as she was coming down the stairs and quietly called up to someone, "We can do this." I said, "You're not crying are you?" In a way that said, "You're tough, but you are allowed to cry all you want." I hope she got that from it. She said, "You know, don't you?" I nodded, and we hugged. She told me about Paul telling her she had to go see a doctor because her body had been hurting for long enough, and the doctors said, "Oh I know what that is. No problem. It will just be this simple thing, you'll see." She told me about the look on the face of the doctor who had figured it out. She told me about her positive outlook, and her cheerful attitude, and the doctor that told her to stop being cheerful and think about the fact that she needed to start chemo. She said one of the doctors had no hope for her. They saw a different doctor who had hope and a plan. Over the next weeks, the kids did the Christmas Program- recorded this year- and she started chemo. She had wanted to push chemo back because of the program, but they wouldn't let her. More hands started coming to class to help her with the school. One day we came to school early and I ran upstairs to see her. She was sitting with her head leaning on the back of the chair because she was so tired, she was saving her energy for class. Then, I got an email saying that they had to cancel school. Janene, who has served in Primary for her entire adult life because she refused to serve anywhere else, much less go to Relief Society, who aches for the kids on summer break, who hates Friday because she doesn't get to see the kids all weekend, who hung out at the end of Zoom class as long as anyone would stay on just so she could see their perfect little faces- even my Gemma who is that hard kid and she loves her like her own anyway- Janene. That Janene. Canceled school. The email didn't actually come fom her. This was because of her total lack of energy, I'm sure, but also because it would have been torture to send it herself. The last day of class was February 1. My vibrant friend, my beautiful cousin, my excited and laughing Janene was sitting back away from the pick-up line while her various helpers for the day got the kids in their cars. I waved and blew a kiss to her because I knew she would only be away if she was trying to avoid illness. I knew that running to her and hugging her and sobbing into her hair would be selfish. But I also knew that the last thing she wanted was to be sending away her little friends and distancing herself from her grown-up friends. So I buckled up Wyatt, and took the packet he handed me. It was what the kids usually bring home at the end of the year. And even the things they bring home when they graduate from preschool, which Wyatt won't do until the end of next school year, in 2022. This reality punched me in the gut, and as I drove away, I wailed. That sounds really stupid to me, but I don't know how else to say it. I called to chat with her and check in. But a few weeks later I got another email that said that they were so thankful, they felt so loved, and thank you so much for everything, but they couldn't have any more visitors. Then an email asking for faith, and an invitation to fast together the coming Sunday. But by Sunday, she was gone. Christopher gave such a beautiful talk about her today. I wept for Paul and all of her children and for her and for me, the whole time. But when Christopher told this story, my heart broke. He said one of the last things she said to him was: "Christopher, I'm dying and it doesn't seem fair." "I know, mama." "I just wanted to play some more." Her funeral was long. And in fact, I went to the second one. So many people loved her. She taught so many kids, and served so many people, and had so many friends, that they had to have 2 funerals. I got to go to the one for family. Emily, the second youngest, spoke about Janene for a long time. She told some really funny stories, and it was awesome. She said that when she was 17, Janene really wanted Emily to go on Pioneer Trek with their ward, but Emily did not want to go. It lead to a lot of fighting between them, but Emily finally went. I have not been on Pioneer Trek, but I have heard about some of the traditions. One of them is the Women's Pull, in which the women from each group, or company, get together to pull a handcart up a hill, to help them empathize with the pioneer women and men. Emily got up there with the other women, of which there were not many. She began to pull. It was stiflingly hot, the wagon was awkward, the hill was steep, and she remembers thinking, "I hate this! This is horrible!" I've heard about the Women's Pull, but I've never heard about what happened next. As they were struggling and failing, Janene appeared in white clothing- dressed as an angel- and positioned herself where she could be the most help, and they pushed the handcart up the hill. Emily wept with love for her mother, then and today. The image of Janene as an angel is strikingly appropriate. The way they spoke of her was inspiring. I haven't been to very many funerals, honestly, but I guess that a lot of funerals are inspiring. I got a distinct feeling though, not from the speakers, but from my own spirit, that Janene Kay Vance Welker, was an exemplary servant of Jesus Christ. More than once I've thought, "All I have to do is not be as good as Janene, and I won't be taken Home to help on the other side. I'm safe. We're safe." Janene had the most incredible energy. She DID so much. I found myself wishing I could be athletic like her, a mother like her, a wife like her, and so on. And while her example is 100 percent one to emulate, I also felt that she did the best she could with the gifts she got, and that is the magic. The miracle. There must be something about me that would make the magic that she made with herself. There must be something that I can do to not just be here, but touch people the way she did. Not by being a preschool teacher, and playing basketball, but something about me that can be of some good. She looked like a normal lady. And maybe it is normal. Maybe there are a lot more people like her who are doing a lot with what they are. But I can't see it from where I sit. My problem, probably, not theirs. I sat by the wall at the funeral because I cannot keep it together at funerals. I don't like going to them because I don't like to act like I had something special with the person, that the family doesn't, because I fall to all the pieces and they don't. I'm not acting, though. I just feel death in a way that throbs inside my body and I can't keep myself from crying. I just feel it in my whole body. The significance of death is like going through puberty. It's in my body and stays for a long time, and I can't stop it, and it's meant to happen, and thinking about the facts doesn't change anything, and it's not about my feelings, it's about something that happens to my body when a spirit that I know leaves its body. It's not loss, or sadness, or shock. Its death. I'm not feeling feelings about the death, I'm feeling the death, and for some reason, that makes my body cry. Like how injecting adrenaline makes bodies do things. The separation of spirit and body affects my body. Janene is not gone. She is still Paul's best friend, and she is still so proud of Amy, Judy, Emily, and Christopher. She isn't gone. The separation seems silly. Like- why can't she just be with us, then? In a way like before? And I don't know why. But I feel like she does. Like when you find out that the eyeballs in the haunted house were just peeled grapes. She knows, now, and there is a reason. So, what now? What does that mean for me? What is different about me, like her energy? The only thing I can come up with is my feelings. I feel so hard. I have a reputation in Hyrum's family for being the best at getting gifts because I freak out and squeal and giggle with excitement. I might think that that was simple or silly, but I saw a home video once of myself and my siblings on Christmas morning. When everyone would open their presents, they would call out, "Hey Lauren! Look what I got!", and I would squeal with excitement with them. So, if people want that from me on Christmas, maybe it's helpful at funerals, too? Maybe my big feelings are helpful like when I have a spot on my arm that hurts, I really want to see a bruise, or I'm frustrated by it hurting. Maybe I'm catharsis for other people. Maybe that's some of what I learned at my friend's funeral. That, and that I want to play some more.