The Notepads

If you look at the area by the phone in our kitchen, I’m embarrassed to admit you will usually find a disorganized mess of pens, miscellaneous mail, postage stamps, scissors, a glue stick and several notepads. This is our disheveled attempt at a communication command center.

The notepads are usually the cheap, spiral bound type, or small legal pads—the kind you buy in multiples at your local discount store. But despite their modest appearance, they--and the pens hoarded from hotels, businesses and before-school sales--are the vital tools to our family’s communication. With four car-driving adults in one house, (daughter, 18 and son, 23), the comings and goings can be constant and usually unannounced. Without our little pads, we would never know what each family member was up to.

Like a spontaneous journal, our little used up tablets reveal sentiments and messages, recording our daily lives.

Sometimes the notes are simple, like this one I left the kids before going for a jog, Hi—took Weemie Weiner (one of our nicknames for our Weimaraner dog) for a jog. Love you, Mom.

One day I left this for my daughter, who was still in bed with some kind of viral ick. Even in my notes I'm a professional Mom. Hi Sweetie, I hope you are feeling a bit better today. I set out pills for you—eat a little something. There is that soup social after church—I won’t stay long but call or text if you feel really yukky or need me.  Love  you, Mom. As a  PS I added, stay hydrated and drew a cup, apparently to add to her visual enjoyment.

My daughter left me this message last year, and I can’t bring myself to throw it away, Hi Mommy, Came home w/ Kat to get clothes, I’m helping her with a photo shoot for Art. I’ll be home this evening! Love you! Missy Moe. I loved how she still calls me Mommy, and she signed it with her nickname, a term of endearment within our family.

On a mini legal pad from this past fall, a series of messages commemorate my son’s recent battle with cancer.

From me: Dayne-O, I’m in town for a bit. I’ll leave my phone on (if the battery holds up). Dentist @ 1:00. Call Dr. John. You may want to ask if there will be any issues with dental xrays?

As his chemo treatments started, he learned he’d have to have a shot with each treatment to help boost his white blood cell count. Although we tried to treat it as routine and keep his life normal, my worry was always just barely concealed. Dayne-O—I’m at training for job with Diane. I’ll be done around noon in time to take you to shot (Dad took your car). I have phone. Please call if you’re not feeling well. Love U, Mom.

Another time, as treatments wore on, I left this note: 

The pasta needs to go on—the sauces should be ready. 

The cakes are in the fridge. 

The house is cleaned. 

Kat’s bringing salad. Morgan’s bringing the pop. 

I’m stressed and have had no time alone and I don’t want to be yelled at. I’ll be back later.

I remember the day I wrote this through a blur of tears. We were preparing to host my daughter’s softball team for supper and an evening of team-bonding. My son, understandably short-tempered from treatments and not feeling well, had snipped at me while I was trying to get the house ready, and I had a heavy dose of self-pity brewing. After all, there were two children who needed my attention, I'd had no time alone for months, and precious little time to work towards my own life-goals.

I stormed out of the house, hopped in the car, and sobbed my way into town, only to discover I really had no place to go. I finally ended up by the local river park staring sulkily into the rushing water; its cold, black waters matched my own tumultuous mood. After a good weeping session, I came home a little more in control. But times of frustration and fear often built up. The note was evidence of the strain health issues can place on a family.

As the chemo wore on, my husband and I decided my son needed a positive focus in his life, so in a moment of lapsed sanity, we allowed him to get a puppy. What we were thinking still remains a mystery, but this message is a reminder of the puppy antics that were the best therapy we could have given him. Dayne-O, See you when you get home—be safe. Also, your hoggy-doggy ate my P&J sammie, so he won’t need lunch (may have ate the baggie too, FYI).” I drew a picture of a dog-pig head and wrote woofoink under it, then the usual heart-shape and Mom.

On the last page of the legal pad is this simple, casual note left for my still sleeping daughter. Maddi, we’re at hospital. Dayne’s getting his port out—shouldn’t be long. I don’t have a phone but will have my Kindle/email if you need me. Love you, Mom.

That is the last note in the notepad, and also commemorates the day we put medical closure on my son’s illness. Removing the dreaded port, the means by which the healing recipe of toxic brew was pumped into his system, marked the triumphant end to his almost year-long battle. 

I just put out a new pad today, and I wonder what notes and messages it will hold, the tell-tale, hastily penned lists, phone numbers, and messages we will leave each other. Before the year is out, my son will move on with his life and my daughter will leave to attend college. How sad and empty the note pads and my heart will be.