Not One Thing Left to Do

Have you ever had an elder relative who delighted in the number of cards received for a special occasion?

When I was a child, I remember my family traveling to visit an aunt, just a few days after her birthday. While she, by that time, was well into her sixties, she had not lost that magical, child-like delight over the occasion of yet another birthday. With our family encircling her in her living room, she was nearly breathless as she announced the exact count of how many birthday cards she had received—so far.

Perhaps that was a generational thing. I hardly remember any of those I know now—whose ages hover from just above mine to nearly equal my mother’s generation—taking such delight in counting their cards. From that generation, you are more likely to hear elicited a groan over the approach of yet another birthday.

Birthdays weren’t the only event which garnered such card-counting delight in that previous generation. I remember others reveling in the number of cards received for anniversary celebrations, too.

So it may not come as so great a surprise to read that Lummie Davis Moore knew the exact count of the cumulative get well wishes the Ladies’ Auxiliary had delivered to her hospital room in Phoenix, Arizona. And, reciprocally, it was probably de rigueur that each of those thoughtful socialite matrons and bridge luncheon companions insured that they got their card in the mail within the proper time frame. After all, someday they, too, would want to boast about their hundred-and-four cards.

Not to be too condescending of poor Lummie—after all, what did one do for days on end in an early 1960s hospital room thousands of miles removed from any relatives? If, from her letter, we can extrapolate any estimate of how long she had already been confined, both at the acute care hospital and at the rehabilitation facility, it was likely approaching three weeks already. In addition to that long span of time, we can tell from the continuation of Lummie’s letter below that she had been advised that she had months of difficult recuperation ahead of her, too.

Yet, if Lummie had nothing else, you may amply credit her for her spunk. She was determined to keep active and stay as independent as possible—with the possible caveat of gratitude that her husband, Wallace Moore, had, at his passing ten years prior, left her in such a position as to be able to maintain that level of independence.

Friends bring me everything. 104 get well cards so far—flowers perfume powder all sorts of things—Bless your heart for offering to come, but there is not one thing left to do—I will have to cancel my trip East for this year. Dr. says it will be Oct before I am walking with either crutches or a walker. The nurses take me all over the grounds in a wheel chair and roll me out in the sun—Lawyer Divelbess says those big places carry insurance to cover such as this, but if they don’t—thank God and Wallace Moore I can take care of it myself—I have taken myself to dining room a couple of times I am so anxious to learn to operate chair—it is going to be some time before I am back home, but friends + neighbors are taking care of everything there—So don’t worry.