Babysitting "Uncle Jeff" holding niece Sarah Domke.
(*Note from Doni: This column was originally published on Sept. 29, 2008.)
I finally found this photo (too late) for my brother-in-law, Jeff Shively’s, memorial service. It was taken 29 years ago. It shows Jeff holding my daughter, Sarah, who’d crawled into a pile of cold barbecue ashes while he was “keeping an eye” on her.
Jeff died of cancer last month. He was 54. I’d rather remember him as he appeared in this photo, instead of the way he looked at the end of his life.
One morning about a month before Jeff died, Shelly called and said that Jeff awoke feeling pretty good that day. In fact, he felt so good that he wanted to know if we could join them for breakfast at Deja Vu, Jeff’s favorite breakfast spot.
When we arrived at Jeff and Shelly’s house to pick them up, Jeff was standing in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go. One hand held his portable oxygen tank with tubes that reached his nose. The other hand clutched the shoulder strap that held his black canvas “purse” that contained a pain pump that administered doses of narcotics directly into Jeff’s body.
He was a little loopy from the meds, but in good spirits. Like anyone who’s been cooped up inside for too long, Jeff was so happy to escape outdoors for an outing that had nothing to do with his illness.
The hostess seated us in a booth toward the back of the restaurant. Fine with us. Jeff was a private guy. He didn’t like to draw attention to himself, especially considering his dangling medical accessories. He just wanted to go out to breakfast like any other husband, brother-in-law, father and grandfather.
Jeff with May Bartimioli, his first grand daughter.
Jeff ordered coffee and a huge stack of pancakes. Maybe it was the meds or maybe it was the cancer, but Jeff’s behavior toward the end of his life was sweet and childlike.
Every forkful of pancake was THE BEST he’d ever had. He squeezed his eyes closed between bites, shook his head back and forth as he chewed and said how delicious it was.
Life was good. Pancakes were good. The coffee was good. Everything was good.
The first time the waitress poured Jeff’s coffee, he stopped her and carefully explained that he just wanted “this much” – holding up his thumb and forefinger to illustrate about an inch and a half.
Jeff was so weak that even a full cup of coffee was an effort for him to lift, and besides, full cups spilled easily. But nobody said anything. Jeff was an independent sort, and maintaining dignity was paramount.
The waitress said OK, no problem. She smiled, poured just that much and left.
She was barely out of our sight when Jeff tipped the cup back, drank all the coffee in one gulp and motioned back the waitress.
She came over, smiling. Her smile remained, even after Jeff asked for the same amount of coffee as before.
Over the next hour, I lost count of how many times the waitress refilled Jeff’s coffee cup – just that much.
Each time I prayed she wouldn’t give him a hard time, because Jeff was having such a good time. With a terminal illness, good moments are rare and fleeting. Take them when you get them and be grateful.
Besides, Jeff wouldn’t have put the waitress out for anything. In retrospect, I really think he’d lost track of time between coffee refills.
But then,  I wondered and worried a little as I watched Jeff interact with the waitress.
Did she think his slurred speech and inability to focus meant he was drunk, not medicated? Did she think this guy (a neuropsychologist, by the way) was dim-witted? Did she think he was being a jerk?
No one would have blamed her if she’d eventually snapped and said, “Listen, buster, like it or not, this time I’m pouring you a full cup of coffee because you’re not my only customer. Deal with it.”
She never snapped. But she didn’t patronize him, either. She acted as if pouring less than 2 inches of coffee every five to seven minutes for a man she’d never met was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Maybe she’d seen his oxygen tank. Maybe she’d recognized his pain pump. Maybe she’d put two and two together and spelled serious illness.
I don’t know.
I also don’t know her name.
I only know she was blond; an angel with a bottomless coffee pot.
(*Note from Doni: This is a best-of column that first appeared on Sept. 29, 2008. Jeff has been gone three years now. I never go into Deja Vu that I don’t remember this day. We now know the name of the waitress. It’s Annie O’Brian. Â She still works at Deja Vu.)
Independent online journalist Doni Chamberlain founded what’s now known as anewscafe.com in 2007 with her son, Joe Domke of the Czech Republic. Prior to 2007 Chamberlain was an award-winning newspaper opinion columnist, feature and food writer recognized by the Associated Press, the California Newspaper Publishers Association and E.W. Scripps. She lives in Redding, CA.
