REMEMBRANCE

It is fitting.
The day before I leave for Germany on a planned Heidelberg Family Remembrance, in photographs and writing, I have to get the truck inspected.
When my sister Jeanette Heidelberg passed away, I inherited her “cherry” silver Dodge Dakota V-6 Magnum (read: powerful, but fuel efficient) truck.
For the last weeks of her life, I was Jeanette’s caregiver.
She would say, “Paul, you must be getting tired of this.”
I always answered, “It is what I am supposed to do.”
One night about 4 a.m. I awoke to lights on all throughout her house in San Antonio.
Walking into the living room, I saw her relaxing in her new automatic recline/lift-up chair that, sadly, she didn’t get to use for very long.
She was eating a cherry Popsicle.
“What are you doing Jeanette?” I asked, stumbling groggily into the room.
“I am having a Popsicle,” she said, before adding quite elegantly, “actually I am having two.”
Several weeks before I had come to help her, Jeanette had run into something, hitting the front left section of the Dakota.
She didn’t even dent the fender, but she did smash the turn signal’s orange plastic cover.
When I took the truck to the local gas station where the truck had been inspected annually for years - on September 25, 2007 - the gas station owner told me the smashed plastic was no-pass damage.
I arranged to have the piece shipped in for him to fix before the truck would be inspected.
The next morning about 10:30 a.m. he called to say the part had arrived and had been installed.
“Hurry up and get the truck inspected, Paul,” Jeanette said. “Hurry up and get moving.”
She wanted me to get it over with, I wanted to get it over with - everybody wants to get an annual state vehicle inspection over with.
So I rushed from the house, Jeanette resting comfortably on the new auto lift-up chair, watching TV.
The inspection went smoothly; it wasn’t a long wait. It was good to have it done.
I rushed back to Jeanette’s, opening the door with my key, before yelling, “OK, Jeanette, we got that taken care of. “
I didn’t hear a response.
Upon entering the living room, I didn’t see her in her chair as I had expected. With the TV blaring in the background, I walked into her bedroom.
She was lying peacefully in bed, her eyes open.
It took a second to sink in.
“Is this how it is going to end, Jeanette?” I found myself saying.
That was how it was going to end.
Jeanette worked hard her entire adult life.
She didn’t even finish a year of college. She was caught up in the beauty queen syndrome, I guess - in her prime Jeanette was a strikingly beautiful blonde.
After working years as a legal secretary, and then more years as a secretary for a large computer company, Jeanette began work at the University of Texas Health Science Center at San Antonio Human Resources Department.
She rose to a very important position, beating out a fellow job candidate who had a master’s degree (Jeanette would never brag on herself by telling me this; our mother told me.)
So, at the remembrance service for Jeanette at Porter Loring Mortuaries in San Antonio, one of the city’s oldest and finest, the place was standing room only.
They even opened a separate wing to attempt to seat the attendees, but there still wasn’t enough room.
Some of the biggest lawyers in San Antonio spoke fondly of Jeanette: saying how nice she always was, and how much of a good worker she was.
Dozens of co-workers at the UTHSC at San Antonio also attended the remembrance, and many came forward to speak about their departed friend; they all spoke glowingly about Jeanette, of course.
But, as I prepare to depart tomorrow on this journey to Germany to remember the Heidelbergs - in order of their passing: my father James Martin Heidelberg, Sr., my beloved “Hund” of 12 years, Hodie Heidelberg, my mother Alice Heidelberg, and Jeanette Heidelberg - what I most remember are the words of a woman who worked at a beauty shop my mother and Jeanette had gone to for years.
She was one of the last persons we contacted before the service - we finally spoke with her by phone the day before.
This woman came to the podium crying.
She said Jeanette was the nicest person she had ever known.
For the five years before her passing, Jeanette had endured surgery for cancer, before going through many chemotherapy sessions, and then dialysis for kidney problems, before hip replacement surgery, followed by more chemotherapy and three trips a week to a dialysis clinic - three to four hours of treatment each time; it did not take me long to learn that each of those painful treatments involved far more than just sitting in a chair and relaxing.
I have often thought about the enormous pain Jeanette must have been in - for years.
I think if I would have been dealing with the world during those tough times, I would have had this mindset: “Leave me alone. I am too sick to talk to you and I cannot be bothered by you.”
So, as she stood at the podium, trembling and crying, the beautician got out these words, her voice shaky:
“Jeanette was always so nice and considerate - to everybody. She was always so interested in how they were doing. For the entire time Jeanette was sick, when customers would call for an appointment, they would ask when Jeanette would be there, so they would have the privilege of talking with her.”