PaperWork: So many memories in a lifetime, then you get that moment

I had my moment.

I kept telling myself that when we drove away from the hospital Sunday afternoon.

I had seen the hard truth on Saturday. Sarah’s tiny frame on the hospital bed. Her face covered with a mask feeding her oxygen. She looked so young. Maybe it was the haircut her daughter had given her. No one’s hair looks good in a hospital bed, but strangely, her hair looked beautiful.

Clearly, every breath was a strain. And a victory. She had told us she was going to fight the lung cancer. She was doing that now.

I was stuck staring until she rolled her head and saw me. Her left hand raised, reaching, until I walked over and felt her grip. Through the mask, her eyes to mine, I saw the words more than heard them. A whisper, “I love you.” I squeezed her hand and tried to smile.

I heard those words hundreds of times with a hug after every family gathering. This was different. It would be my moment … to keep.

In any room or even outdoors, her energy, distinctive voice and laughter touched everyone and boosted her stature. She was used to jokes about her height — 4 feet, 11 inches.

“Squeak” was her nickname when growing up. Her mom, Cathy, reminded me that Sarah did not start talking until she was 2, but she did a lot of squeaking. And she was a tiny thing, like a little mouse.

I remember watching her while her mom and dad were out doing whatever. I was in charge. The little pixie was beginning to talk. I was explaining to her how to use scissors. I’m not sure why, but it seemed logical at the time.

“You just put your thumb in this hole,” I showed her, “And then take this little sucker [the other finger] and put it in the other hole.” She told Mom and Dad later that Uncle Lonny taught her how to use scissors. And then she showed them.

“You just put your thumb in this hole,” she said, “and then take this little sucker and put it in the other hole.”

Her mom and dad were surprised. She had scissors in her hand. Not good. She could use them. Not good. And she now knew a different use for the word “sucker.” I thought it was hilarious.

At her birthday party in January, Sarah endured several reminders that she was now 50 years old. Hey, you’re-getting-old jokes never get old, right? Then life happens. Plans and dreams and those Tuesday night trivia matches she loved were forced aside when a breathing issue turned into much more.

All the medical talk was tinged with tiny bits of hope. But hope was a painful tease that turned into a fast track to a hospital bed, then a ventilator and the final choice, which is not really a choice, to let her rest in peace.

Sarah knew before the rest of us. But none of us expected how fast her fight would end.

“I will miss her smile, laugh, fierce love of family and fun-loving spirit,” my wife told friends. “She was brave in the face of a devastating diagnosis discovered less than six weeks ago. ... Tiny in stature, but oh so big in heart and courage.”

Sarah wanted to write a letter to her three children: Alex, Andrea and Ashley. She ran out of time. They can fill in the blanks, but not the gap when you lose a mother.

Sarah loved family. Her way. She was not afraid to say how she felt. She turned life into fun when she could, especially for her two grandsons – Jaxon, 6, and Landyn, 5. She and Jeff, her husband of 23 years, have gone through plenty of struggles. But they persevered and were enjoying life and their country home near Wedron with their cats, chickens and a turkey.

Together they discovered the Jeep community with road trips, joy rides with the grandsons, fundraising outings and new friendships. Their Jeeps were toys. They both had one, illuminated like Christmas trees in parades across La Salle County. Sarah told Jeff to stay in the parades as they discussed final arrangements together.

I did have one more moment. A touch and a whisper, “Hey Squeak. Don’t forget I’m the guy who taught you how to use scissors.”

About another moment that still makes me smile. I won’t forget it. I won’t forget her: Sarah Ellen (Jones) Rodgers, Jan. 13, 1975 - April 13, 2025.

Mother, grandmother, wife, daughter, sister, friend and more. And my niece.

• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.