The definition of loyalty
The definition of loyalty
Marcia demonstrated a lifetime of loyalty to a friend who died when she was only a child
Imagine the fear of a ten-year-old child who, on a sleepover with her best friend, wakes up to discover that her friend has been stricken with polio. Now, imagine the reaction of the parents of that child. It would be natural to be terrified that your child would also be infected. In the late 1940s, parents kept children out of swimming pools on hot summer days, restricted them from visiting friends, and, in some communities, even kept them home from school. Sounds a lot like COVID-19, right? Except, unlike most childhood COVID-19 cases, polio ravaged children’s bodies, paralyzed them, and all too often, killed them.
My sister Marlee was one of those children (you can read Marlee’s story here). Her friend, Marcia, and her parents defied the common wisdom of the era—they believed that whatever the consequences, Marlee should not lose her best friend in her time of need.
“I visited her at least once a week when she was trapped in that horrible iron lung,” Marcia told me. “My dad made her a wooden book stand so Marlee could read during the times when the nurse freed her arms. She did read, but mostly she rubbed her finger on the stand, going back and forth, back and forth, until she had dug a deep groove in it.” Marcia shook her head as if she was trying to erase the memory.
Sadly, I don’t remember knowing Marcia when I was a child—we had no contact with her family after we moved away from Michigan when I was only five, and any earlier memories faded. However, we reconnected more than fifty years after Marlee died all because of her loyalty to her dear friend.
When the phone rang, I debated whether to pick it up. Probably a telemarketer, I thought. But something caused me to do it. “Is this Annette Marquis? Was your mother Helen? Did you have a sister named Marlee?” the disembodied voice of an elderly woman asked hastily, anxiously.
I paused. Well, if this is a telemarketer, they have a lot of information about me. “Ah, yes,” I said cautiously. “Who is this?”
“This is Marcia, Marlee’s best friend. Do you remember me?”
It took a second for her answer to sink in. “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “I certainly remember your name. How are you? How did you find me?”
“It’s a long story,” Marcia replied. “But I’m so glad I found you.”
As coincidences go, it turned out that for years, she had been living about three miles across town from me. I visited her the next week. When we met, Marcia described what Marlee experienced while she struggled to survive in an iron lung, stories I had never heard before. “I hated seeing her like that,” Marcia said. “She was so full of life before that. Even though I was young, I knew it was important to visit her. I’m so glad my parents insisted.”
When Marcia and her husband decided to downsize into an RV, she began searching for me. “I wanted to bury a bracelet your mother gave me at the cemetery by Marlee’s grave. It’s made up of the Catholic medals that children left for Marlee on the front porch,” she told me, “But when I visited there, not only did I discover that she didn’t have a headstone, they told me only a blood relative could put one up. That seemed crazy to me, but that’s when I knew I had to find you.”
If Marcia had Googled me, she could have found me in about two minutes. But Marcia was old school. Over the course of three years, she ordered my family’s birth certificates, requested deeds, examined military records, contacted long-estranged cousins, and eventually, tracked me down.
“I’d like to order a headstone,” she said, and then with a sigh added softly, “but I can’t afford to pay for the whole thing. Would you be able to do it? I’ll pay you for half of it—over time--if that’s OK.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’d be honored.”
A few months later, I called Marcia and let her know the headstone had been installed. “I’ll send you a picture,” I said.
After a short pause, she said, “Thank you. Very much.” I could hear the relief in her voice, like this marked the conclusion of a long journey. “I hope you’ll keep the bracelet. You should have it.” I assured her that I would.
“I also found out that Marlee’s dad didn’t have a headstone.” He had died four years after Marlee, never having recovered from her death. “He was buried in the pauper’s section. I know that money was tight with all the medical expenses and everything. I didn’t know how tight it was, though. I got him one too.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I’m sure your mom would appreciate that.”
Marcia and I talked one more time before declining health caused her to move from her home to an apartment to a senior living center. The last I knew, she had moved in with her daughter, whom I had never met. At almost ninety, I’m not sure if she’s still alive today.
What is still alive is the loyalty she showed a friend, not only as a child but throughout her lifetime. She hung on to the bracelet and her connection to Marlee, but even more importantly, she never gave up searching for a relative to help her mark her friend’s grave—the very definition of a faithful friend.
Note about the photos: If you’re an avid reader of Accidental Mentors (thank you so much!), you will recognize a couple of the photos I included here. Yes, you have seen them before, but this is a new piece about them. Thanks for hanging in there!
Next post:
Connections and love. Lessons we all need.