photo by Lara Herscovitch
The camp song goes like this:
“We love you Margi, oh yes we do, we love you Margi and we’ll be true. When you’re not near us we’re blue (SO BLUE!) Oh Margi we love you.”
The song that’s sung as each camper leaves, each time surrounded by whoever’s left in the cabin. The song ends with hands over the head, arched around to form a heart. My dear friend Margi was the best camp counselor who ever lived.
The last time we saw each other was as she reached the end of her life, entering hospice during the COVID-19 lockdown. I held my phone on one side of her porch window, she held hers on the other. She had few words then – but in tears, we sang the song as best we could. Crying as I walked away, I turned to see her weakened arm raised, one half of the heart above her head. It was the one-and-only time I saw her do anything half-hearted.
Margi used her sense of humor and love of stories to talk about hard things. It always landed as just the wisdom any one of us in our friend-family group needed, often beginning with something simple that she noticed in her day, pairing that with how it was like something deeper she had been thinking about.
Using Margi’s example, I’ll try to do that here too, starting with the chicken. Maybe the chicken will lead me back to Margi, who taught me so many of the really important things.
So, to the chicken.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. About an hour away from home, I had visited a gallery with a friend, and I still had a little time. I felt no urge to rush; as a mother of three, time by myself was precious.
Leaving the gallery, I turned right – away from home. A few miles out of town, I found a small farm listed on a ‘Weird Connecticut’ website. The reviews boasted walking trails, a swamp, unique sculpture and a labyrinth. But most reviewers focused on a chicken coop at the end of the path: “Don’t miss it!”
I’m not all that into chickens. But time alone was a driving force, and curiosity was a close second. So I kept walking, stretching the day out, in spite of clear indicators that the sun was starting to set.
The trail, as promised, looped around the swamp, through the sculpture, around the labyrinth, through multiple flower gardens, and then up a path, into a patch of trees toward the much-anticipated chicken coop. I climbed the small hill, passing several empty rustic Adirondack chairs scattered and set up in various circles.
To my right, tucked under the shade of giant maple trees, I saw the large chicken coop. By the time I arrived, it was getting quite dark, and I made a mental note to come back when I would have more daylight to enjoy it.
The coop was home to a whole spectrum of chickens. I watched as they moved through the cage, wacky little up-do’s and flecked color combinations, a large cluster of feathers. I stood there alone, and noticed a smile on my face.
Surrounding them were signs; large black letters painted on white plywood boards with every coined chicken colloquialism-cliché:
- Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,
- Don’t keep all your eggs in one basket,
- Raising kids is like being pecked to death by chickens,
- Chickens coming home to roost,
- (et cetera).
I stood there in the dim gray light taking it all in, and something off to the right caught my attention. I looked over several times, but saw nothing. I went back to reading the signs:
- I dream of a world where a chicken can cross the road without having their motives checked,
- She’s low on the pecking order,
- Running around like a chicken with its head cut off,
- Don’t get your feathers ruffled…
Again, I sensed something on my right.
At this point, the sun was all the way down. The light was gray-blue; still enough to get me back to the car, though now at risk of tripping along the way. I turned to leave, but the sensation was gripping. I looked a third time to address my intuition more directly. I wasn’t afraid, but I was absolutely sure I wasn’t alone.
Focusing in the now-more-dark, I could see an odd shape, like a tossed dishrag hanging on the back of one of the Adirondack chairs. I took two steps toward the object; the gray of the chair was the same gray of the sky, and the now-in-focus gray chicken hanging by one foot stuck between two slats of wood at the top of the chair.
It took several long seconds for me to make sense of it, but the chicken did not seem ruffled. Fully alive, calm, and still, she hung there, upside-down, and I wondered, How Did You Do That?! And by that, I don’t mean, get flipped turned upside-down. What was more curious and striking about her was that against all odds, she was peaceful, calm.
While the chicken waited, it was the most elegantly displayed, fully upside-down meditation I have ever witnessed (Zen hen!). My own natural response was more like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off.
This is where the chicken offered me an important life lesson. I think most of us go through a period where our lives are turned upside-down. In that chaos, whether it’s my own or being with someone else’s struggle, I do get ruffled. Some people don’t… but how?
I noticed that the chicken’s calm was contagious. My sciencey doctor friend Margi would have chimed in to remind me of mirror neurons, which are responsible for helping us simulate another’s emotional reaction. So as the chicken remained calm, my mirror neurons were hard at work finding my calm too, in order to figure out what to do. I somehow had to drum up the courage and overcome my fear of touching her, to get her out of the precarious predicament she was in.
I wonder what went on for her in the time between getting stuck and my noticing her quiet presence. I wonder if she tapped into her inner Buddhist-psychotherapist Sylvia Boorstein, like I try to do in difficult situations: “Sweetheart, you are in pain. Relax, take a breath. Let’s pay attention to what is happening, and then figure out what to do.”
I always have to take it apart – like it’s a math problem – and write it down in big letters, just to remember:
- Step one: “sweetheart, you are in pain” kindness, empathy, right here, because whatever this is, it sucks.
- Step two: relax and take a breath, because when things have been identified as sucking, it’s always good to get oxygen into the brain and toes and shoulders.
- Step three: pay attention to what is actually happening (subtext here is, don’t judge it or make shit up).
- Only then comes Step four: figure out what to do.
Which brings me to Margi (taking a deep breath) – and Fran.
Margi was a widow. Her husband Amal, also a pediatrician, died in a car accident caused by a tire blowout. Amal stayed present with us even in his absence; Margi made sure of it. We witnessed her courageous open-heartedness, grieving losing him and also facing her own life-threatening illness, alongside raising two beautiful teenagers. Margi seemed to manage it all with camp-counselor ease; not that she made light of it, but there was a lot of grace in the way she tapped into empathy, as other families went through their own upside-down. I remember her saying once, “some families get things they never would have asked for.”
Fran was Margi’s chemotherapy nurse. I saw Fran whenever I joined as ‘chemo-mate,’ helping Margi pass the long hours of treatment. Fran had been with Margi for a while; she knew her routines, her friends, her travel plans.
For one particular travel plan, we needed Fran’s help. Summer means an annual excursion to New Hampshire to take our girls to and from sleepaway camp. Eleven of us travel together each year for the drop-off trip. For pick-up, two weeks later, it’s often more intimate, in this case just three of us moms.
Margi was scheduled for chemo the day we would be picking up the girls. We spoke with Fran and with Margi’s oncologist, to see if there was a way Margi could join for this annual ritual. Could we safely remove the chemo from her port during the trip, instead of her having to stay home and return to their office that day?
Margi’s circle of colleagues and friends includes MANY doctors. She was a pediatrician, and also a mentor for young doctors coming into the field. I am not one of these medical-field people; I described myself around Margi as “Not-a-Doc.”
At the time of Margi’s illness, I had the most flexible schedule, so I often joined her for doctor’s appointments, procedures or her frequent ER visits. I was honored to be a caregiver to my beloved friend. My job was to show up, pay attention, advocate for my friend, be with.
What I learned about myself during those times was that there was little I could do to fix; my support wasn’t medical. My job was to hold her hand when it was painful, sit with her until it eased, be with, and be ready to play again when the fever lifted. I treasure the countless music videos we made to let her friends and family know she felt better, and we would be bringing her home soon.
Witnessing Margi’s discomfort, I struggled with my own edginess. I didn’t know how to be with all the time. She would notice when I was hard on myself, but always gave me chances to try again. “It’s like Groundhog Day,” she would say. “You’ll get another chance to try again tomorrow.” Typically, this was her favorite parenting advice, but I’m glad it was also the way she taught me about being a better friend, both to her and to myself.
Margi’s doctor approved the plan for her to travel with us to New Hampshire, and I would be the friend to help with the chemo port-removal procedure. I was honored, and I was nervous, being Not-a-Doc.
Fran showed me how to disconnect the chemo from Margi’s port. We washed our hands, put on blue surgical gloves, and walked through the process of cleaning the area – not once, but twice. “I want you to hold here, and then Pull, Quick, All At Once, like a Band-aid.”
Margi noticed my nerves and looked up with her big smile: “don’t worry, I’ll be there with you.” An ease and silliness in her comfort, as usual. She always made me feel like I could do anything. Her playful encouragement lightened everything. Camp counselor to the core.
A few days later we three hit the road for New Hampshire with peanut M&M’s, surgical gloves, alcohol wipes, and my nervous energy in the car. Her chemo was due to be removed in a few hours, around noon.
Another dear friend was driving, I was navigating, and Margi was in the back seat, in and out of naps. We were quieter than usual, so that Margi could get some sleep. Somewhere in Massachusetts, a light on the dashboard came on, alerting us that there was an issue with one of the tires. Searching on my phone, I found Dick’s Tire Barn, up ahead and open.
Margi woke up in the bay of the garage, groggy and nauseous from the chemo.
When the chemo alarm went off – it was time for the Not-a-Doc to get to work. Stepping out of the passenger seat, over air-compressor cords, wrenches, and the legs of the man inspecting our tire, I joined Margi in the back seat. Following Fran’s instructions to clean the area seemed ridiculous in this filthy, oily garage (that we were very grateful would fix our tire), but I took a deep breath, and started to focus on the medical job at hand.
Margi was calm and trusting the whole time. Margi always found calm. In her own writing she said, “Having cancer has taught me about patience and lack of control, and how to spend as much time as I can with those I love.”
I studied her. How Do You Do That?! Where did she learn to handle such a complicated set of circumstances? No one’s life was more upside-down.
I didn’t think I could actually pull the needle; my racing thoughts were distracting me: “Not-a-doc, Not-a-doc, not-a-doc…” Where did Margi find calm? How did she remain steady? How did she manage to process losing Amal, raising her two amazing daughters, holding space for serious illness in her and Amal’s parents, caring for her patients, and facing her own mortality?
The memory of Fran’s teaching voice snapped me out of it: “Pull, Quick, All At Once, like a Band-aid.” I followed her instructions.
We got back on the road, picked up our girls, and spent time all together having fun by the New Hampshire river, before driving back home. Margi perked up and took it all in, returning to living the life ahead of her, getting as much out of it as she could.
Back at the coop, I studied the chicken. She was calm and steady, like Margi. I smiled remembering, “don’t worry, I’ll be there with you.” I heard Fran’s voice: “Pull, Quick, All At Once, like a Band-aid.” So I did. And the chicken flipped back onto her feet and returned to living the life ahead of her too.
I still feel upside-down losing Margi, but I sense her with me, always in my back seat, full-heartedly loving me and so many others through all our upside-downs. I’m grateful for the ways she generously shared her wisdom, with lighthearted care. Sometimes I think about putting it on big white plywood boards, with black letters, so I don’t forget. But then I remember that I was lucky enough to see it modeled so beautifully, and hope that my mirror neurons keep even a fraction of it locked in.
To reach JoAnne directly: joannewilcoxphotography@gmail.com