Saturday, March 19, 2011

In the Father's Hands: a Farewell

The night air is crisp and smells clean and new, like the promise of a rain that has yet to fall, or the memory of one that has just passed. Here I sit at the coffee table surrounded by a sea of green -- my plants, where I arranged them earlier to catch the sun: spikes of spath; the fronds of a potted Asiatic palm; the riot of vines and heart-shaped leaves that is a philodendron; the folded little leaves and white flowers of a shamrock; a tiny cactus, all spines. The only sounds are the tap of my fingers on the keys as I type; cars passing quietly on the Avenue, and the charger to my chair juicing up the battery for another day's run. Judah has curled himself into the lining of my winter coat tossed across the easy chair, a comfy little kitty nest. There is a glass of blush wine within reach of my left hand. Tonight, I am content.

I needed this. Last week was hard; so hard and so emotional and so very exhausting. Last week, I lost a friend to cancer. My friend passed away, and while I was busy attempting to process the reality of it, of the permanent absence of her smile and the feel of her hug and the sound of her beautiful tenor singing some old Episcopal hymn, I still had to slog through schoolwork: essays and Economics and Government and the nuances of the NASW code of ethics and conflict resolution in the macro environment ...

She died on Tuesday, early in the morning, in her sleep. We all knew it was coming; there was no avoiding it: the disease she'd fought off twice before appeared for its third go-round, this time in her brain, and it could not be fought. No amount of chemotherapy or radiation would budge it -- the treatments only made her miserable and weak. So she stopped getting the treatments. She accepted the fact of her coming death and settled in to live her last days in her own home, under the care of hospice and her beloved husband.

They had been married less than two years. He was her high school sweetheart, come back into her life after she endured a nasty divorce from an unfaithful man. She adored him, and he doted on her. When they first began dating, she'd chatter about him and then giggle like a schoolgirl and blush at her shoes. She had cancer then, and he knew it. He knew it when he asked her to marry him. He knew it when they said their vows. The whole time, it never made one bit of difference to him. Sick or well, he treated her like she was the most amazing creature he'd ever seen, some rare and exotic bird that he got the privilege of holding in his hands. And she glowed. Sick as she was, her face lit up when he walked into a room. They were two older people in teenager love. It was a romance that defied a movie screen.

I only saw her once after the cancer hit her the third time, in the grocery store. She looked so weary. She was unsteady on her feet and leaned hard on her husband's arm. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. When I hugged her, gently, she nearly toppled over. It made my heart hurt. I knew, from the way her body felt in the circle of my arms -- so many hollow sticks for bones -- that we were going to lose her. I didn't want to think about it. I pushed it out of my head, put it on the back burner. And it stayed there till this past Tuesday.

When I first heard the news of her passing, I seesawed between guilt and nonchalance: I should've called more often; I should've done this or that, or, oh, it didn't matter because I'd see her walking down the street next week or something. Wednesday was the same. Thursday the sadness sank in, but I could not cry: instead I sank into sleep, curling onto the couch with my body twined around a pillow and the cat tucked into the hollow of my lower back, between my spine and the cushion. We stayed there all day, and the next day too.

Saturday afternoon was the memorial service. I put on my best black skirt and slid my feet into a pair of flats, pulled a camisole and an olive-green top over my head, and sneaked timidly into the church I stopped attending nearly two years ago. I felt a moment of panic: it was packed to the rafters, fuller than I'd ever seen it, and I hardly saw anyone I knew. That certain smell of furniture polish and spearmint gum that always seems to hang around churches sent me close to the edge of my childhood, which only added to my unease. I took a moment to be thankful that I'd slipped an Ativan under my tongue before leaving home.

I ended up sitting four pews back from the front, with a direct view of the back of the widower's head. Don was surprisingly composed. He sat with his back straight and his hands folded across his knees through the Episcopal ritual for the dead: recitations from the book of Common Prayer -- hear us, oh Lord, we beseech thee -- the procession of the Cross, covered in a deep purple cloth in honor of the Lenten season; the reading of Scripture; the Eucharist, the Kyrie-- Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy-- the hymns that he did not sing: I noticed the absence of his voice with a pang of understanding: he was holding his grief trapped like a swallow of bitter wine, and if he opened his mouth to sing without her voice to join his in their usual ringing harmony, he'd spit it out and there would be no taking it back.

It wasn't till the end of the service, as I was preparing to leave, that I was able to peek through the crowd and notice that there was a small, square object concealed under a spotless length of white linen on display next to the altar railing. The realization that it was my friend's ashes hit me square in the gut with a sickening thud. My beautiful, smiling, singing friend had been reduced to a box small enough to fit under my arm. I couldn't process it; not then -- Mama and Daddy and Biz and me were going to a dinner that had been scheduled weeks before, tickets purchased in advance. The evening included a comedian. I ate my grief in dinner rolls and chicken and cake that was too dry and laughed too hard at things that weren't nearly as funny as I was giving them credit for.

When I got home later, I kicked off my shoes and stared glumly at a bottle of wine. I turned on the T.V. and started watching a re-run of SVU while drinking the wine straight from the bottle in halfhearted sips. I noticed that I was rocking to and fro imperceptibly,a self-comforting habit of mine. And then I was crying. I ended up on the floor with my head buried in the couch cushions, the better to keen out my sorrow without alarming my neighbors. I did not want to be interrupted. I sobbed myself out, and then curled up on the floor and fell asleep fully clothed. The next morning, I felt better.

The pangs of sadness are going to continue for a good while though, I think. Today, for instance, was a beautiful day: sunshine, sixty-six degrees, a fresh breeze. My friend passed away during a two-week stretch of gray, cold rain. She would've loved today. It would have made her sing. I'm sorry she missed it, even though she probably doesn't care: if her version of the afterlife came true for her, she is someplace far, far better than small-town Pennsylvania on the first warm day in March, which has got to be truly wonderful indeed, because today was exquisite by any standards. And still, it matters to me that she wasn't here to see it.

I know what she'd say, though, if I told her I was sad she's gone. It would involve an understanding cluck and a gentle reminder of keeping up on my schoolwork so I can continue becoming an "admirable young woman," and then a pat on the shoulder or a peck on the cheek. So hey, Mary Lou: no need to worry, dear. I definitely have the schoolwork covered.