The following is a posting from our 2nd cousin, Ron Osterberg. Thank you, Ron.
Walking into his plush Beverly Hills office, Ramona and I suspected grim news. The doctor was not smiling. “I’m sorry Mrs. Osterberg,” he said in a low expressionless voice, “I’m sorry, but we cannot remove your cancer. There’s nothing we can do.”
It happened again. This time though it was in slow motion. When doctors told me that my first wife had died, there was a sharp line separating the before and the after. One moment she was alive. The next she was dead. There wasn’t an in between time. This was different. The beginning was now. When would it end?
Ramona shrunk herself into a tight little ball and almost disappeared in a corner of the plush leather chair. She pulled her knees tight up to her forehead in an extreme fetal position. She looked so little and so helpless. Her face was hidden inside that little ball, but I heard her deep sobs. Once heard, sobs like that are never forgotten. They start deep within the soul and pulsate out to the world.
With her arms tucked inside the ball, I couldn’t hold her hand while I talked with the doctor. I could only rest mine on her back. I don’t recall what we said. I think I asked the usual questions. Was he certain? Did he consult with others? How reliable are the tests? Soon the words ran out and we stared silently at each other. Eventually he excused himself and left the room.
So slowly did Ramona uncoil herself and resume a sitting position before standing unsteadily. She grabbed me around the middle and with her face buried in my chest said, “Ronnie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to put you through this.” I told her that everything would be all right and she said, “No, things will not be all right. I’m going to die. There’s nothing all right about that.”
I recall little else until we were in the elevator where Ramona said that she couldn’t face the children feeling the way she did. “It wouldn’t be fair to them,” she said, “we’ve got to decide how to handle this.” It was about two in the afternoon and the restaurant in the lower floor was almost empty. It was a perfect place to cry.
Once seated, we talked of many things, she and I. We talked about how she finally had children after her first husband brutally threw her downstairs causing a miscarriage. We talked about how I met a great mother for the children when I thought that couldn’t happen. We talked this way and that way about things and how we would handle them.
Gradually our moods lightened as we made vague plans. If one doctor gave us bad news, we wouldn’t tell anyone until we talked with two more. As we talked while sipping coffee and wine, waitresses sat at our booth and chatted about nothing in particular. They were like old friends stopping by for cheerful banter. One got Ramona to tell her a funny story and called the others over to hear it. They were reconnecting us with the world.
The restaurant manager sat with us and asked for our car keys. He said the lot might be closing and he would make certain we weren’t stuck. Ramona looked at me and we had the same thought, “There are so many really good people in this place.”
Our talk was now more hope than gloom. We talked about how lucky we were to have met and how grateful we were for the time we had together. We resolved to focus on the good of what was left, not the shortness of it. We felt strangely calm as if someone had sprayed tranquilizer into the air.
When we asked for the check, the manager appeared at the table flanked by two waitresses. Taking turns, they told us not to worry about the check and the parking. “Please, let us do this for you,” he said. A waitress added, “We overheard you talking and everyone in the restaurant wants to help in their own way.” The other waitress added, “Please, let us help.” One of the waitresses hugged Ramona and told her that she could not make the cancer go away, but she could help make her life a little easier.
Driving home, Ramona and I agreed that our experience seemed divinely inspired. We went into their place not knowing how we could get through the next ten minutes and left with hope. Strangers gave us their love and it worked wonders.
The next day we learned of another type of surgery. Ramona had it and she survived another thirty years. Today, decades later, I often think of those strangers who restored our souls. I owe the world much for what they did.
It happened again. This time though it was in slow motion. When doctors told me that my first wife had died, there was a sharp line separating the before and the after. One moment she was alive. The next she was dead. There wasn’t an in between time. This was different. The beginning was now. When would it end?
Ramona shrunk herself into a tight little ball and almost disappeared in a corner of the plush leather chair. She pulled her knees tight up to her forehead in an extreme fetal position. She looked so little and so helpless. Her face was hidden inside that little ball, but I heard her deep sobs. Once heard, sobs like that are never forgotten. They start deep within the soul and pulsate out to the world.
With her arms tucked inside the ball, I couldn’t hold her hand while I talked with the doctor. I could only rest mine on her back. I don’t recall what we said. I think I asked the usual questions. Was he certain? Did he consult with others? How reliable are the tests? Soon the words ran out and we stared silently at each other. Eventually he excused himself and left the room.
So slowly did Ramona uncoil herself and resume a sitting position before standing unsteadily. She grabbed me around the middle and with her face buried in my chest said, “Ronnie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to put you through this.” I told her that everything would be all right and she said, “No, things will not be all right. I’m going to die. There’s nothing all right about that.”
I recall little else until we were in the elevator where Ramona said that she couldn’t face the children feeling the way she did. “It wouldn’t be fair to them,” she said, “we’ve got to decide how to handle this.” It was about two in the afternoon and the restaurant in the lower floor was almost empty. It was a perfect place to cry.
Once seated, we talked of many things, she and I. We talked about how she finally had children after her first husband brutally threw her downstairs causing a miscarriage. We talked about how I met a great mother for the children when I thought that couldn’t happen. We talked this way and that way about things and how we would handle them.
Gradually our moods lightened as we made vague plans. If one doctor gave us bad news, we wouldn’t tell anyone until we talked with two more. As we talked while sipping coffee and wine, waitresses sat at our booth and chatted about nothing in particular. They were like old friends stopping by for cheerful banter. One got Ramona to tell her a funny story and called the others over to hear it. They were reconnecting us with the world.
The restaurant manager sat with us and asked for our car keys. He said the lot might be closing and he would make certain we weren’t stuck. Ramona looked at me and we had the same thought, “There are so many really good people in this place.”
Our talk was now more hope than gloom. We talked about how lucky we were to have met and how grateful we were for the time we had together. We resolved to focus on the good of what was left, not the shortness of it. We felt strangely calm as if someone had sprayed tranquilizer into the air.
When we asked for the check, the manager appeared at the table flanked by two waitresses. Taking turns, they told us not to worry about the check and the parking. “Please, let us do this for you,” he said. A waitress added, “We overheard you talking and everyone in the restaurant wants to help in their own way.” The other waitress added, “Please, let us help.” One of the waitresses hugged Ramona and told her that she could not make the cancer go away, but she could help make her life a little easier.
Driving home, Ramona and I agreed that our experience seemed divinely inspired. We went into their place not knowing how we could get through the next ten minutes and left with hope. Strangers gave us their love and it worked wonders.
The next day we learned of another type of surgery. Ramona had it and she survived another thirty years. Today, decades later, I often think of those strangers who restored our souls. I owe the world much for what they did.
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