Gratitude * Sunday
Quote of the Week
“I am not going to die, I’m going home like a shooting star.” Sojourner Truth
Sunday Haiku
March is a little
lion, lying about spring,
denying the sun.
Sunday Musings
Trigger Warning: Death and Dying
What is life? What is this life? Whatever it is, the human body is ineffable. Miraculous. Amazing. To be or not to be. It is not a question. We are alive or we are not.
How is it we arrive, so tiny, naked, bloody, perfect, for most of us all the parts there, lungs breathing, digestion churning, output flowing, voices intact? How is it this strange adventure we call life on this planet leads to leaving the body we were born with that served us all our lives?
How do we know each other? How do we become friends? How do we recognize or maintain connections even within a family group?
I’m no expert on just about anything, but we have experiences in this body, and the brain that comes along with it records them and processes the information. Sometimes we have fun, sometimes we have lessons. Sometimes we have ups, other times downs. Sometimes we just are. If we are lucky to have a good friend, we have the best of fortunes.
I had my last sleepover with my BFF, and I will call her that throughout this essay, no names and ambiguous details for the privacy of her family. She was an intelligent woman who earned a master’s degree in theology from Berkely, taught theology at a Catholic high school in California, and ended her career teaching entry classes for a local Catholic church in the Portland Metro area. I learned so much from her; she did not care one whit that I do not put labels on my spiritual beliefs. In our teens we had shared interests in Ouija, seances, the supernatural, ghosts, Tarot, and witchcraft. In the end dogma and scripture worked for her, not so much for me, but it made no difference in our friendship or connection. The only questioning we did of each other’s spirituality involved learning and understanding. We never shared a harsh word; that’s rare. She was and always will be my sister from another mother.
We’ve known each other since elementary school, nearly sixty years, besties then, besties now. Our families have been intertwined for decades: my mom was our Camp Fire Girl Leader; BFF’s house was a close safe place for me to escape the chaos of home (she had her own room!); we babysat her brothers together when they were toddlers and we watched them grow into young men and contributing citizens; she avoided liver and onion dinners at her home by begging invitations to ours; my mom and hers were friends and art buddies making and creating art from recyclables along with fine paintings; when BFF’s mom passed my mom helped her clean out the house and organize an estate sale; when my mom passed BFF was the first person I called and begged her to meet me at mom’s house, she arrived before me, ready to hold me in her arms. BFF delivered mom’s eulogy at her memorial service, and it was such a comfort to the whole family to have a theologian who knew mom and not a pastor who had never known her.
So many stories I could tell. We’ve been parted along the way in our lives, not talked to each other for years because of our jobs, schooling, families, but when we get back together, you’d never know time had passed, like picking up a book you’d just put down and reading the next chapter. She was the kind of woman who had many besties who said the same words. That right there is her legacy: how so many people loved her.
BFF has had dementia these last ten years or more. Pre-Covid her brothers arranged for home help for her, but Covid blew the whole mess up and her brothers put her in senior care more than five years ago. Last October they moved her to memory care. Watching her brain die has been hard knowing the intelligence and education and independence she’d had all her life. The progression of this disease is devastating to watch. She had become quite sad and lonely, and she became quite vocal about her regrets: the lack of a lifetime companion, children, grandchildren, that she never shared an epic love with one partner. Though she raised many children not her own through her teaching career, she wanted to skip parenting and go straight to grandchildren.
When the call came that she was in hospital crossing the earthly bridge I had so many thoughts, and I struggled. I wanted to remember her as the lively lovely friend I’d had all these years. We’d spent so much time together, laughing, eating, thrift shopping, philosophizing, weekends at the beach, and having adult sleepovers in which we creatively fixed all the ills of the world. She was a single woman and visiting her was a respite from the chaos of my own household. It took me way too long to decide but when I finally did I could not bear the thought of her being alone at night. I headed out for our last sleepover.
I was a bad scout. I did not go prepared. I grabbed my phone, my charger, wallet, keys, glasses, shoes, a handful of snack items to keep my blood sugar even, a water bottle, and flew out of the driveway like I was Batman. I did not have a hairbrush, toothbrush, or a change of clothing. I forgot my meds. I didn’t grab my backpack which is constantly at the ready. I always have a handful of books in my car but forgot to grab one of them to take into the hospital.
So much forgetting. I may have been a bit rattled. I made mistakes while there, fortunately all for myself. I didn’t move enough. I couldn’t stay clean enough and had an outbreak of the fungal rash I can’t get rid of. My skin did not thank me; my bones and muscles did not like me. Forgetting my meds was my biggest mistake. So very fortunate my sister takes the same medications and was a fifteen-minute drive from where I was. Her husband packed me a very vital lunch and an hour later I had my meds and healthful food for the day. Family saved the day. Again.
I made two other mistakes: I wore my bees and lavender healing socks, and my magical medical mask, a mask hand-made by my niece with a nebula and spots of stardust, also meant for good outcomes. BFF did not need healing; she needed release. I should have worn my dragonfly socks to help her fly away, and likewise, my butterfly mask might have been a better choice, though a quick release could be considered a good outcome in this case. So much for the power and magic of material things and talismans.
Her brothers, whom I’ve known since they were toddlers, were in charge of her care. They graciously allowed me to spend three days with her until she was moved out of the hospital into hospice care. They brought me food and a toothbrush. The nurses brought me coffee, a washcloth, a blanket, snacks, and made sure I ate. I was the extra eyes and ears and hands for those three days, and judiciously called the nurse when BFF struggled and could not settle. Certains measures were beyond my skills. BFF had decided previously she would be DNR, on comfort care only.
When I arrived, it was clear she was leaving her body to this world and though the friend I knew was there she would never again have the capacities she once had. The hospital provided BFF with a private room so she could pass in peace. There was a nifty recliner with wheels in her room. I could position it at night so I was within a few feet of her and able to hear any change in her breathing or sign of distress.
This is hard stuff. We don’t talk about death and dying, as if it’s something shameful to be talked about only behind closed doors with whispered voices. We don’t teach about dying in health class in high schools, but we make kids carry around ten-pound sacks of flour to learn parental responsibility. Nurses tell me they have to have extra education to help the dying as their goal is to assist the living. But death is a part of life and living, and it needs as much knowledge around it as we can learn just like birthing. At least science has told us a few things and we’re still learning about the body, its life, its death, its processes. Always learning.
We euphemize death: “she passed,” “he crossed the bridge,” “they left this earthly plane,” because it is not easy to say someone died. It’s scary, possibly contagious, indeed, inevitable. It’s a bad word, like an f-bomb in polite conversation. Yet we use words about death in regular conversation: “I’m dead on my feet.” “I’m so tired I’m brain dead.” “I’m dying here.”
Thing is, we don’t know enough about death. We have assorted belief systems – heaven, salvation and eternity, reincarnation, nothingness – but nobody has come back to say, “Oh, this is what you go through.” We only know what we see the person struggling through as the body stops working to support life. The struggle of the body and the brain letting go of this earthly life can be horrifyingly challenging. Or not. BFF agreed with me as she sat up after she heard me say the word “horrible” looked past me and repeated the word.
This sleepover we didn’t tear up the world or fix anything with our innovative ideas. However, I had plenty of time to tell her what I needed to tell her about leaving vs staying; about my love for her; about what was going on in the world and how she didn’t have to fret about that any more though she could do some directing when she gets to the other side; the snowdrops and daffodils were blooming; and as the natives say it was a good day to die. I reassured her there were ancestors waiting for her to show her the way on the other side. I told her jokes and brought laughter into her room. At one point she sat up, looked at me, and said, “hehehe,” laughing with me. Perhaps she was being facetious as I have a quirky sense of humor and I am not always as funny as I think I am.
I held her hand, smoothed her hair away from her face, gently stroked her feet and arms and shoulders. I arranged her sheets, helped pull down the blanket when she seemed hot, and fanned the sheets when she felt even hotter, grateful she was not running a fever. I talked and sang and talked more. She heard it all. She heard the silences as well.
BFF looked at me, looked past me, and looked through me. She gave an unintelligible lecture, talked to people unseen to me, and kept putting her arms around an invisible somebody. She was between two worlds, valiantly working her way to the other side. One of the nurses, I’ll call her Liza, told me her End-of-Life-Theory-According-to-Liza, that BFF was doing the paperwork on the other side while still hanging out here. I loved that and ran with it; her Application has been accepted and right now she’s in Registration. Next it’s Check-in Time, Placement Tests, then Orientation, all before she even gets to stand before the gates of St Peter.
Her brothers did all they could to reach out to everyone they could think of who might want to say goodbye to BFF. Friends visited, there was music, our favorite Beatles’ album “Rubber Soul,” a harpist came and played, scripture was read, verses recited, prayers said, last rites given. Another classmate from high school more than fifty years ago also lived locally and visited daily. He had delivered the information to classmates through a couple of pathways with classmates responding. He read those comments and responses to BFF, and we could tell she was hearing them.
I had time to wonder about our use of drugs for comfort care, how science has brought us great knowledge, yet digression must play a part. There is a fine line between comfort measures. The struggle of a dying person is hard to watch. If a little morphine takes the struggle away, why not? I’ve many more thoughts on this topic but now is not the time for that, another essay.
It’s almost a gift to drop dead suddenly, or in your sleep, to at least have a quick and easy release from this body. It’s hard for the dying and the living when a body struggles to die. I wish neither on anybody, but we have no alternative. We all, at some point, have to experience leaving this body and moving to the next level, whatever that may be, also another essay.
As difficult as it was to watch BFF struggle with her body and her dementia, I do not regret a single minute I got to be with her. The whole point of being with her was to have no regrets. Dementia is a trickster, telling the body different things than is it used to or supposed to do. She knew I was there with whatever senses she had left. I got to say my goodbyes, in private, only her and me just like so many sleepovers before.
Writing this is as hard as the experience. BFF died three days after I left her side. She waited until the full moon, the snow moon, and George Harrison’s birthday (he was her heart throb forever). Waiting for the final call was hard, not being with her was hard, watching the sorrow/relief of her brothers was hard. It’s my turn to let go: let go of my anger at diseases like dementia that rob one of personhood, anger at death. I am grateful she no longer has pain, either physically or mentally. I will never let go of the memories we made together, but I hope her spirit flies freely on the other side, whatever that might or might not be.
Color Watch – colorful attractions in my neighborhoods this week – bright yellow daffodil faces to send BFF on her ride to the other side.
This week I have been grateful for:
- The health and wit I have.
- Buddy Rescue Cat being safe inside our home when he has nightmares.
- My fanciful compression socks, so fun to wear.
- Home again, home again.
- My own shower, fresh clothing, fresh bed linens, and my own bed.
- My own coffee machine and grind after horrible hospital and McDonalds coffee.
- The knowledge and love I shared with BFF, who will always be in my heart.
- BFF finally being at peace.
- Tears to wash through the sorrow.
- Getting a visit from my kids.
- The kids getting a better, safer car.
- Strawberries.
- Water.
Hoping you have a lovely week.
Namaste. Peace. Blessings.
Floral ribbon border by Laurel Burch
Sassy Kas 