If I had one more day with my mom-in-law, Janice Wheeler, we’d gab the whole 24 hours while sitting along the ocean, playing in the sand, teasing the waves and laughing ourselves into exhaustion... and it still wouldn’t be enough.
Oh, Janice could talk, and I still credit her with teaching me how to engage in conversation. I was a rather shy 16-year-old only child when I met her son, Roger, and the entire family in 1974. When I married her oldest child in 1979, Janice was a mother-in-law anyone would envy... always insightful, never critical, always available, never shy, always supportive, never living a day without love and laughter. We had this ongoing joke É if her son and I ever divorced, she’d get me in the settlement. I could whine to her anytime her son and grandson were driving me crazy. She deserved sainthood!
After enduring years of Indiana winters, Janice and my dad-in-law moved in 1992 to Florida, where she had longed to live and enjoy the warm weather and beach year-round. Both had worked hard all their lives, raised five great kids and deserved life in the warm sunshine every day. Though Janice had become ill shortly before the move, she refused to allow that distraction to interrupt their plans. My husband, son and I surprised the family by visiting them that first Christmas in Florida. I hardly recognized Janice, her pale, almost feeble, frame surrounded by boisterous kids, grandkids and pets.
From 1992 through 2000, we watched Janice battle a fatal disease, amyloidosis, considered a variation of cancer. Though we talked on the phone several times every week and I visited a couple of times every year, I could put out of my mind that she was dying. Yet, I was angry that this damn disease had robbed her of the strength to go to the beach as often as she wanted, to do everything she had dreamed of. However, Janice had not lost her sense of humor, insatiable hunger for reading and knowledge, and endless love of conversation
While visiting her in November 1999, I could feel every bone in her wasting body. I could no longer ignore the truth: her life would soon end. I asked if she wanted to sit along the beach, but she was too tired, instead encouraging me to relax, get a trashy novel and bask in this rare vacation I allowed myself. Relenting, I left and cried alone most of the half-hour drive. There, I watched the seagulls battle for bread and knew my next visit would be for Janice’s funeral.
When she died at the age of 61 on February 12, 2000, I imagined her linking arms on the way to heaven with Charlie Brown's dad Charles Schultz and Dallas Cowboys coach Tom Landry, who also passed away that same day. And she’d be entertaining them with stories about her kids and grandkids every step.
If I had one more day with Janice — 1,440 precious minutes — we’d do something we never had the chance to do while she was alive... spend it together alongside the ocean, just the two of us. We had walked on a pier at the Gulf side a couple of times and played on the sand once along Lake Michigan years earlier, but never had we made it to an Atlantic beach. And I can imagine the fun we would have had.
Every time I see a seagull here in Peoria, it’s Janice reminding me to take time for myself... not by myself, because she’ll be right there with me flying overhead, lifting my spirit just as high.
