Thursday, March 16, 2006
Goodbye
My friend and neighbor Linda died last night. This did not come as a surprise; strangely, it was more of a relief. Her condition had deteriorated so rapidly, and she was in so much pain, that I I'm glad her suffering has ended.
Watching from outside as her husband and daughter have dealt with her sickness and death has made me dizzy. So many emotions and feelings have buzzed in and around that house: Profound disbelief, boundless hope, darkest fear, relentless frustration, unbelievable compassion, fierce loyalty and willing denial. I've heard that dying from cancer can seem like a rollercoaster, and surely the ups and downs over the past months have been terrifying and exhausting. But from my vantage point, the process lacked the cyclical nature of the rollercoaster and resembled more closely the strange, unfamiliar deceptions, twists and turns of a house of mirrors.
I last saw Linda on Friday March 10, just before I left to go out of town. It was two days before her 49th birthday, and she greeted me with what I thought was drug-induced raving: "Someone's been playing with my candy!" But after she kindly explained it, I realized she was joking. Her husband, she suspected, in his endless quest to ease her pain, had changed the timing of her pills. She looked weak, and sweat dripped from her forehead in rivulets, but otherwise she was lucid and funny and positive. I drenched a washcloth in cool water and rubbed the inside of her wrists and elbows, then put it on her forehead.
Linda's husband was caring for her tirelessly and singlehandedly with the help of various family members who took turns staying at the house and taking Linda to her treatments in North Carolina. During the past month, he hardly went in to work at all. Friends and family urged him to bring in a nurse, but he fought the idea and equated it with giving up.
During our talk, Linda's 8-year-old daughter came upstairs several times to change clothes, and each time Linda called her in to evaluate whether she would be warm enough. Weakened and bedridden, Linda's concern for her daughter never wavered. Each time, the 8-year-old responded with the same fake exasperation that I've heard so many times from my own daughter -- she was obviously enjoying her mother's attention.
I left thinking that Linda looked better; I was surprised and excited at the possibility that perhaps it had been the brutal rounds of chemo and radiation that had left her so weakened, and not the insidious progress of the disease. I knew the prognosis wasn't good, but I left sure I would see her again. Looking back, I can see that she knew otherwise -- each time I tried to plan something or express a hope for the future, she responded with silence or changed the subject.
The day after I left, she took a turn for the worse. Her husband took pictures of her daughter opening presents on Linda's bed on the day before her birthday. By Sunday, her actual birthday, Linda was too sick to talk. Monday morning, her husband laid her gently in the back of the car and drove her down to Duke to the specialist who was their last hope. He was not sure she would survive the trip.
Linda died last night, Thursday May 16. Today, as I missed her, I found my thoughts turning to her family. We watched her husband come home, looking exhausted and devastated. How lonely it must have been for him to walk in to his house for the first time as a widower. How strange it must have been for him to watch his daughter play, knowing that she won't feel the full weight of the day's events for months or years to come.
A group of neighbors spontaneously gathered in front of Linda's house tonight, sharing wine and talking quietly. Her husband came outside and joined us; her daughter played with the group of neighborhood children running in and around the group of parents. As the husband took a glass of wine and sat down on the steps next to his sister, his eyes filled with tears.
Watching him, I felt admiration for the unceasing love and compassion he showed over the past year. My heart ached as I tried to imagine the pain that will fill the days, weeks and months to come. But I also felt hope for a new beginning for him and for his daughter, a chance to step outside that house of mirrors and get right back onto that rollercoaster that we all ride day to day. And, looking around me, I felt grateful for the community of friends and neighbors who will help make the ride is as smooth as it can possibly be.
Watching from outside as her husband and daughter have dealt with her sickness and death has made me dizzy. So many emotions and feelings have buzzed in and around that house: Profound disbelief, boundless hope, darkest fear, relentless frustration, unbelievable compassion, fierce loyalty and willing denial. I've heard that dying from cancer can seem like a rollercoaster, and surely the ups and downs over the past months have been terrifying and exhausting. But from my vantage point, the process lacked the cyclical nature of the rollercoaster and resembled more closely the strange, unfamiliar deceptions, twists and turns of a house of mirrors.
I last saw Linda on Friday March 10, just before I left to go out of town. It was two days before her 49th birthday, and she greeted me with what I thought was drug-induced raving: "Someone's been playing with my candy!" But after she kindly explained it, I realized she was joking. Her husband, she suspected, in his endless quest to ease her pain, had changed the timing of her pills. She looked weak, and sweat dripped from her forehead in rivulets, but otherwise she was lucid and funny and positive. I drenched a washcloth in cool water and rubbed the inside of her wrists and elbows, then put it on her forehead.
Linda's husband was caring for her tirelessly and singlehandedly with the help of various family members who took turns staying at the house and taking Linda to her treatments in North Carolina. During the past month, he hardly went in to work at all. Friends and family urged him to bring in a nurse, but he fought the idea and equated it with giving up.
During our talk, Linda's 8-year-old daughter came upstairs several times to change clothes, and each time Linda called her in to evaluate whether she would be warm enough. Weakened and bedridden, Linda's concern for her daughter never wavered. Each time, the 8-year-old responded with the same fake exasperation that I've heard so many times from my own daughter -- she was obviously enjoying her mother's attention.
I left thinking that Linda looked better; I was surprised and excited at the possibility that perhaps it had been the brutal rounds of chemo and radiation that had left her so weakened, and not the insidious progress of the disease. I knew the prognosis wasn't good, but I left sure I would see her again. Looking back, I can see that she knew otherwise -- each time I tried to plan something or express a hope for the future, she responded with silence or changed the subject.
The day after I left, she took a turn for the worse. Her husband took pictures of her daughter opening presents on Linda's bed on the day before her birthday. By Sunday, her actual birthday, Linda was too sick to talk. Monday morning, her husband laid her gently in the back of the car and drove her down to Duke to the specialist who was their last hope. He was not sure she would survive the trip.
Linda died last night, Thursday May 16. Today, as I missed her, I found my thoughts turning to her family. We watched her husband come home, looking exhausted and devastated. How lonely it must have been for him to walk in to his house for the first time as a widower. How strange it must have been for him to watch his daughter play, knowing that she won't feel the full weight of the day's events for months or years to come.
A group of neighbors spontaneously gathered in front of Linda's house tonight, sharing wine and talking quietly. Her husband came outside and joined us; her daughter played with the group of neighborhood children running in and around the group of parents. As the husband took a glass of wine and sat down on the steps next to his sister, his eyes filled with tears.
Watching him, I felt admiration for the unceasing love and compassion he showed over the past year. My heart ached as I tried to imagine the pain that will fill the days, weeks and months to come. But I also felt hope for a new beginning for him and for his daughter, a chance to step outside that house of mirrors and get right back onto that rollercoaster that we all ride day to day. And, looking around me, I felt grateful for the community of friends and neighbors who will help make the ride is as smooth as it can possibly be.
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This is such a lovely post. I don't even know Linda and her husband and child, but now I feel I do, and I feel their pain and, as you say, the opening up of possibility as well. Thanks.
I am so sorry. I can't even begin to put into words what the loss of my best friend Amy would be like. I think my heart would stop. Your friend had her husband stay and help. Dying alone is my one, great fear. She passed surrounded by love. Thank you for posting this.
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