Gayle: Cheerleader… Champion

The scan pile was four inches high and growing. The shred pile overflowed. I was behind in ordering supplies, rescheduling patients, paying bills, and making books. I could ignore those hints of your absence. But it was the Gayleebob icon with your smiling face staring at me from every chart which forced me to confront the harsh reality. You are no longer here and you are not coming back.

I have already fired the person who “took your place.” I put that in quotes because who can replace you? By that I mean I fired me. Yeah, I tried doing your job. I quickly tired of all my whining and complaining; how did you put up with me. So, I fired me.

I almost feel sorry for the next person. You have some pretty big shoes to fill.

I knew we would work well together the first time I met you in 2015 at the Salem Bariatric Clinic. We were passionate about the same thing: the disease of obesity. And you had been championing the cause for many years before I came on the scene.

You were open and honest with your own struggle with the disease and the bias you encountered over the years. “I’m all right, the world’s all wrong,” you’d quote your dad. And comfortable in your own skin, you were not afraid to share your story. You mentored many patients through bariatric surgery and beyond. You ran support groups and headed up the Gala, an annual event hosted by the Salem Bariatric Center. You loved celebrating people, their hard work, and their reclamation of life and health. You invested yourself in others and people loved you. When you retired from Salem Rehab, I asked you to join me in building a weight management program at WVP. And you did.

But there was more than our mutual interest in obesity. You from Michigan and me from Ohio, we both had Midwestern roots. That gave us instant connection and a deep mutual respect from the get-go.. “Get in here,” you’d say when I showed up at your door unannounced, like one of my aunts scolding me as if I was late for dinner. You’d tell me if my hair was messy or my outfit was wrong. I’d tell you if the printing came out crooked. You’d say I was too picky. But we weren’t offended by each other. That was the beauty of our Midwestern skin: unoffendable.

If it weren’t for your dedication to Michigan, I swear we would be related. But you were better than blood. I could confess anything to you, my fears, my anger, my selfishness, and you loved me anyway. It was like confessing to a priest except rather than judgment and penance, you’d listen, commiserate, then point me to the high road and expect me to take it.

“I know what you mean, Kid, but what are you going to do? Stay bitter? That’s no way to live. Let it go.” (I really liked that you called me Kid.)

Honest. Direct. Grace-giving. You believed in me when others didn’t  and you saw to it that I landed on my feet in the wake of the unexpected change in my medical practice at the tale end of 2019 which also happened to mark the beginning of the craziest time in recent history. You were in the trenches, shoulder to shoulder with me, helping me start Oregon Weight and Wellness. You made phone calls, bought supplies, chose decor, thought of details that eluded me, kept me organized, kept me focused. You talked me off the edge more than once.  When I faltered, had second thoughts, became exasperated or exhausted, you were there to hold me up and push me forward. You gave freely, without expecting anything in return. You were even in my dreams. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, not saying a word, you exuded calm and confidence. Truly, you were not just my cheerleader. You were my champion.

You saw light in others and made everyone around you feel special. Making friends was easy for you and you had so many.  You had your  Saturday breakfast group. Your Thursday lunch group. Your rehab group. Your bariatric group. Your cardiac surgery group. Your Bunko group. Your Oregon family. Your Michigan family.

And they were all good friends. They truly loved you as you loved them. And it showed, especially in the weeks leading up to your departure. Your house was like Grand Central Station, hosting Bunko and Saturday breakfast, people streaming in and out, day after day. Your face beamed with joy.

One evening, I was almost jealous when I arrived and people were still there. “Don’t you know this woman is sick and needs her rest?” I thought, as I sat in your chair, impatiently waiting for my turn to have a few moments with you. “This is my Gayle, and this is my time. What are you doing here?” I wanted to ask them to leave, but I left instead.

We did have our time together. That Wednesday. Kenny sang and played his guitar. The song he wrote, “Do you know how much He loves you” will always be your song now. We talked a little bit about heaven. Your childlike faith revealed an excited anticipation. I cried. And you let me. I knew that when we hugged goodbye for the night, it might be our last.

I am really trying to borrow a page from your playbook, “It’s a Great Life.” You quoted that saying from your dad often. I watched you rally as you grieved Doug’s passing.  It was a huge blow, but you were courageous in feeling you”re feelings and soldiering on. You may have taken a short break, but you never quit.  The cancer diagnosis was another blow, but you put your big girl boots on and stayed strong.

You lived your life up to your last days so beautifully, so graciously, so generously. I am blessed to have been a part of it. Though I am not in pieces, there is a great big hole. For the moment I will keep staring at the card I must have bought subconsciously for you to give to me.

“You’re a fighter, Kid. And I’m in your corner.”