August 14, 2020 – Friday (still in covid/things are not improving/no end in sight)
I lost a good friend yesterday.
It’s been a tough week. A brutal week at times. And the one thing I kept telling myself was … Give it a day.
I seem to say that a lot … this year, especially. Friend’s parents have died of Covid-19. I lost a brother-in-law to ALS. A few of the dogs I have taken care of have passed – one is on his way to that bridge. Our country is a mess. Our President is inept and scary. We are still in the middle of a health crisis that, seemingly, is never going to go away because our leaders are idiots and the American people, at large, are selfish and confuse rights with respect. I’m no closer to moving than I was a year ago.
And it seems every night before I go to bed, I say to myself … Give it a day.
I said that on Tuesday when I sat next to my good friend and neighbor, a lovely man whose fight with cancer had run its course. He was losing ground. Every day for the past two weeks we saw him slip further and further from himself. I sat with him as he struggled to stay with us … fought to stay by his beloved’s side … whispered, “Bye-bye, honey” to my tear-stained face.
I cried all day and went home that night hoping he’d go forward and leave that emptied body and be free.
But Wednesday dawned and he was still there … still struggling … still fighting the fight. It broke my heart. But that night, as I sat with this man that had come to mean so very much to me, I knew he was slipping away – painfully slowly – as he was unresponsive … away – somewhere else – while I regaled him, again, with my renditions of Heaven.
Tuesday I told him that all who went ahead before him would be waiting at the gate for him – welcoming him home … his two kids, his brother, his parents, a multitude of friends and his beloved fur babies. I said a parade was starting to get into formation … he was the Grand Marshall and it was in his honor – so when he was ready, they’d start to march … confetti and ticker tape. To that he cooed, “Wonderful.”
Unlike the NW, I told him all days were temperate and the sunsets were pink and golden. And he could fly around the world seeing everything he wanted to that he hadn’t – or revisit places he loved. No plane or passport required.
A buffet with everything imaginable would be on a long table and he could eat black cod – his favorite – and have as much as he wanted of that or ice cream – or both.
I told him he could do anything he wanted in Heaven. Heck, if he wanted to kiss a walrus, he could kiss a walrus. He smiled at that. My heart ached as I knew it would be my last “Jim smile” – slightly crooked/full of wonder.
That “Tuesday night face” – that “Jim smile” is the face I want to remember. Not the face of Wednesday night – when he laid on the bed, me by his side, so little breathing. He was fighting so hard … to stay? to leave? How do we know?
Hospice up’d his morphine when I voiced my concern about his comfort. I was glad for that. This man had been through so much. Too much. In his last hours I wanted at least more comfort for him.
I met Jim and his wife, Jo, five or so years ago. They were my parents’ age … Jo a few years younger … Jim two days younger than my mom. My dad was a year older. Jim and Jo had an old, black pug dog, Duke. I had an old, fawn pug dog, Gertie. They were buds. When Jim and Jo were having some health issues and thought they’d have to put Duke down because they could no longer care for him – I brought him to my house. He and his diapers settled in for a few months. Jim and Jo rebounded and Duke went home to be with them for another year or so. They were so grateful to have him back and I was more than happy to have helped.
And that’s how our relationship was. Jim would come down and fix a gate for me. I’d go down and fix them lunch. We’d go see the spring tulip fields – his car/I’d drive. We’d go as a group with another neighbor and the four of us would stop for lunch or dinner or a snack … those little field trips were such fun. When something was going on at the local arts center – they always asked if I wanted to join them – knowing I would be less apt to go solo. If any of us had a hankering for Chinese food – we’d get the Mu Shu Mobile up and running and go to dinner. Jim cut the spindles and helped me drill the holes for my fence and told me what screws to get to put them in. Along the way we shared stories of our lives … and I grew to love them – both of them – but Jim especially.
He built their homes, fathered two children/raised four, carved statues of seals. He gave of his time, talents and money and touched the lives of thousands with his countless hours of volunteering and help in the community. He was a good friend and neighbor and a fine man and a decent human.
And yesterday, in the morning, he left us. I want to say, “Finally.” but that catches in my throat and my eyes and lips get tight and the tears start anew.
During one of our last conversations he said he wanted to walk the bridge again (Deception Pass). I remembered the stories of their kayak adventures under that bridge (crazy people – way too dangerous) and the smile on his face as he told me about them.
I popped in to see Jo, knowing Jim was gone – body cold but still at the house, spirit free and flying over the fjords of Norway, no doubt. She was being cared for so I left knowing where I was going and what I needed to do. I drove north an hour up to the pass and walked the bridge for Jim. I was hoping to see a dove or an eagle or something that I could pretend was him … but nothing. There was construction on the bridge and one side’s sidewalk (the best side) was blocked from pedestrians. I had to chuckle. Jim would have loved seeing what they were doing. His friends called him “911” cuz there was nothing he wouldn’t drop and rush over and help fix.
So, I walked the bridge and gave a shout out for Jim as I faced the west and watched the sun sink lower in the sky … it was pink and golden.
I stopped at Taco Bell and picked up some comfort for Jo … two tacos. Her favorite. I brought them to her – cold by the time I got back (but reheatable) … and told her she’d be okay. We’d all be with her and she had good support and we loved her and knew this sucked so badly but that we’d make sure she was never alone or scared or wanting. Her family and friends would make sure of that. I told her I knew all too well that she was thinking this was not how she had envisioned it … that she couldn’t make it without him. And that as cliche as it sounds … time does help heal the broken heart.
And as I kissed the top of her head good-night (through my mask) … I said to her, “Give it a day.”