A couple of weeks ago, I posted an image in honor of Susan Niebur, a local blogger battling a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer.
I didn’t know Susan well – only met her once. But we shared friends and acquaintances. And, of course I followed her courageous story through her writing.
When I learned that Susan passed away on Monday, I was overwhelmed by sadness for the people who loved her – love her – so much. And since then, I’ve spent a lot of time reading their words about this incredible woman.
And I’ve wished that there was something that I could do to help.
Then one friend, Stephanie or “Minky Moo” offered me two opportunities.
The first was a general call to action. She is putting together a book of memories for the Niebur boys, and asked that people share their stories. My immediate response was that this didn’t apply to me, as I had only met Susan briefly at a blogging event. So I did my part by helping to pass on the message – to let others know.
Then I actually read Stephanie’s post about wanting to give Susan’s children memories of their mother as others knew her. And something she said, made me think: “To me, stories of my father are precious jewels. I hold on to them like treasures. I can do nothing to heal their pain now, but perhaps we as a group can give them a gift to treasure.”
When one of my favorite people in the world lost her son last September, I learned a lot about grief. Particularly that there will never be enough memories, pictures, stories… That no detail could be too small to be treasured. And that anything new – previously unknown – is a rare gift.
And it occurred to me that I do have one small thing. One tiny detail: Susan’s smile.
Remember, I did meet her once.
It was a few years ago when DC Metro Moms hosted an event. I was late and didn’t see any familiar faces when I arrived. I don’t know what it is about walking into a room full of women who all seem to know each other, but I immediately flashback to high school and all of the associated insecurities and anxiety.
I can hide it well…but make no mistake – at times like that, I may as well be an awkward sixteen year old, worried that no one will want to talk to me.
Trying to find a seat in that crowded room – hunched over and apologizing – I cringed my way to an empty spot in the front. Then I sat down next to Susan.
The room was quiet – all attention on the speaker at the podium. It would have been entirely appropriate for everyone at that table to make room for me without any ostensible acknowledgement of my arrival.
But Susan did acknowledge me. She turned her attention away from the presentation and looked at me. Not just a quick glance…a distracted nod. She turned in her seat, really looked at me and smiled warmly. And just like that, I felt included.
It sounds like a small thing – a smile. But this one said, “there you are!” It was welcoming. It was in her eyes. It was genuine. And it immediately put me at ease.
I don’t remember meeting her when the presentation was over – though I know we were introduced. People I was looking for but didn’t see on my way in came up to greet me. Susan’s friends gathered around her. Pulled in different directions, we didn’t cross paths again.
I shouldn’t remember my brief interaction with Susan. There was nothing significant about it. Just a smile and companionable proximity. A few words of introduction… But I do remember it because she said more with one smile than others do in an hour of pleasant small talk.
In that brief moment, she told me that she was kind. That she cared enough to make others feel important. That she saw a potential friend in each new face.
She was so obviously that girl in high school who didn’t seek safety in small and exclusive numbers. She made room for one more – as many times as necessary. Or at least, she was that girl now.
She had a smile that was remembered. She left an impression. And I feel honored to have such a memory – one to give to people who can never hear enough about Susan. Who will treasure every small detail of the woman she was and the effect she had on others.
She had a beautiful smile.
…
The other request that Stephanie made was specifically to me.
We are working together on a production of Listen to Your Mother, a show in which local writers read original essays on the subject of motherhood. This is the first year that the national production will be held in the DC area, and Stephanie and I are over the moon excited to be part of it (let alone producing it).
All Listen to Your Mother productions donate 10% of their ticket sales to a local charitable cause. We’ve exhanged several links to causes close to our hearts, and have taken far to long to choose one… But Monday night, Stephanie asked me if we could contribute to Susan’s cause.
You can imagine my response: YES – OF COURSE – SEND ME THE DETAILS – I’LL GET TO WORK ON THAT IMMEDIATELY…
Unfortunately, Susan’s personal cause, the Inflamatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation isn’t local. So we decided to make it local. Introducing: The Susan Niebur IBC Research Fund.
In addition to 10% of ticket sales revenue for the DC Listen to Your Mother show, we invite anyone who would like to contribute to Susan’s cause – her legacy of awareness and support for research – to donate. Whether you do so in name or anonymously, every penny of your donation will go directly to the Inflamatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation.
