By Mike Nolan

She’d tell me, woman to woman, “Stress is just a state of mind.” That one stayed with me. I don’t know if I believed it, but the difference between me and Lo was she believed it.

I met Lo while sitting on gym bleachers, watching my kids roll and tumble their way through a “level one” gymnastics class. I don’t know that I’d exactly call it gymnastics; it was more a “movement class” for small children. My two girls—four and six—loved it. Lo brought her two granddaughters. 

Every Wednesday my kids couldn’t wait to get to class, but I probably got more out of it than they did. It’s fun watching your kids have fun, but what I really needed were those sixty uninterrupted minutes to sit and decompress. It became my hour of sanity, better than therapy. My relief was obvious. The first time Lo sat next to me, after she set her things down and exhaled heavily, she said, “Ahhh . . . off duty. But only for an hour.” She watched me take off my glasses, rub my eyes, and smile weakly. “And we need that hour,” Lo added knowingly, “don’t we?” 

What drew me to her wasn’t so much what she said but how she said it. Lo had a way of looking at me, into me, that was magnetic. Lo was calm. She was sweet but at the same time centered and assured—the sort of person I could adopt as my substitute mother. It felt natural when she spoke to me, touched my arm, and leaned in close. Close was good. 

A large person, Lo would come in wearing long, loose-fitting pastel dresses, always with a matching scarf tied around her head. I remember thinking, This woman has style. It definitely worked for her. She had dark eyes and wore no makeup; instead her looks were highlighted by her natural warmth.

With her granddaughters in tow, Lo always brought a couple tote bags and children’s books. Climbing the bleacher steps and drawing a deep breath, she would drop everything next to me as her granddaughters joined the class and ask, “How are you?” She said it like she really wanted to know. I sensed a certain quality, something I wish I had—a natural way of connecting. I can do it when I’m being intentional, but Lo could do it without even trying. Eventually I figured out trying to make it happen isn’t the same as having it happen. For Lo it was effortless—part of who she was. Lo made me feel like our conversation was the high point of her day. 

After two Wednesdays I started looking forward to seeing her. My “hour of sanity” became—even better—my “Lo time.” When I arrived at the gym, I’d get my girls going and set my things to one side, making room and hoping Lo would take the space next to me.

Lo told me, “My daughter works, but she gets off after gymnastics class starts, so this is my way to help out and give my daughter her hour.”

“Are you for hire?” I asked her, and we both laughed.

I recall her saying she had taught at a university—literature, or maybe history—but she was retired now and enjoyed having the free time to spend with her granddaughters.

Lo got me talking about myself, and she would remember what we talked about the previous week and ask me about it. Thinking back, I didn’t learn very much about her. I kept meaning to, but she always asked about me, and I didn’t get around to asking about her. After four weeks I considered us friends, in a “nodding acquaintance” sort of way.

That particular series of gymnastics classes began to wind down, and with a couple more sessions to go I asked Lo if she would continue with her granddaughters in the next series.

“Oh yes,” she said, “I don’t think the girls would have it any other way.” 

As the class finished that day, Lo got up to get her grandkids; my girls bounded up the bleachers. Lo gathered her things as I organized my daughters’ backpacks, water bottles, hair ties, and hoodies.

Touching her arm, I said, “Take care, Lo. I’ll see you next week.”

“I’ll be here,” she said, taking her granddaughters’ hands.

Lo left, and as I got my girls organized I noticed something on the bleachers: a folded piece of paper, a note. Lo must have dropped it, because I hadn’t seen it there when I arrived. 

I picked up the note and fumbled for my glasses. I could tell it was a list of some sort. Groceries? Errands? 

I set my things down and adjusted my glasses. It was a to-do list, and the first item made me do a double take. 

Thank-you notes to oncology nurses.

My girls started tugging at me, saying, “Mom, come on . . .” 

I stood there and continued reading. 

Notarize signature on will. 

I tilted my head a little; my daughters had their hoodies on and were slinging backpacks over their shoulders.

“Mom, come on. Let’s go.”

My gaze drifted from the list, trying to put things together. As I stepped down on the bleachers, I looked at the next item. 

Pre-payment to funeral home, and something caught in my throat.

Things began to click as I read List all accounts and passwords and then Pay off any remaining bills.

I stopped to wipe my eyes.

There were four or five more things, but I didn’t read them. I saw my girls waving and calling to me from the gym floor, but the movement and the noise were all a blur. I didn’t respond. 

Mechanically I stepped down from the bleachers, unsteady and tense, feeling suddenly empty. Walking across the gym through a crowd of people, I was totally alone. 

As I made my way to my daughters, I folded Lo’s list back up, telling myself I’d find an appropriate way—a sensitive way—to return the note to her next week and talk with her about her situation. Find out about her condition. I’d stop and ask questions and listen and take time to figure out how to do something to support her. Opening my purse, I carefully tucked the note into my pocketbook, then snapped it shut. 

That was two years ago. I never saw Lo again. Every now and then, I see her note in there, and I take it out and read it and think about her. Then I fold the note up again and put it back.

                                                              *   *   *

Mike lives in the small coastal town of Port Angeles, WA, where the mountains meet the sea, and has a web presence at mikenolanstoryteller.com.