rice pudding
The sprinkler at my neighbor's house across the street seems angry as it jerks across her front yard, spraying her grass, the sidewalk and the neighbor's trees. Just a month or so ago, when I looked out my window, she was out there, weeding her flowers or planting tomatoes. I was always comforted by the sight of her at 86, caring for her yard and talking to neighbors who might walk by. She and I became good friends several years ago and I visited her and her husband every Saturday. He died about 5 years ago at 99. After that, she and I would go out for breakfast once/week at least - or lunch. Then we would wander around T.J. Maxx usually not buying anything. She is a good friend and her age doesn't matter to me. She comforts me when I need it and we talk about all sorts of things. I like her stories about growing up in Salt Lake. She voted for Obama and wished that she had tried pot in her younger days. She used to sing in a band with her husband who played a trumpet. She misses him a lot.
The last time we went out for lunch was in May, a day before her 86th birthday. I picked her up and she came springing down the steps of her house, clutching her purse - wearing a black and white jacket and cropped pants. She has an amazing sense of style and did not at all look or act her age. When we were about a mile from home she said "you are going to think I belong in the giggle college, but I think I forgot to turn off the iron". So we went back home and checked. We went to Ruth's diner up Emigration Canyon. I remember how much she enjoyed sitting outside that spring day and how happy she seemed. She and her husband used to spend a lot of time in that canyon and being up there brought happy memories to her. Neither of us figured that would be the last time we would get to go out.
Shortly after that, she was diagnosed with Gall bladder disease. At first it seemed like a simple surgery to remove her Gall bladder. She was convinced then, that she had cancer. I tried to ease her fears by telling her how much better she would feel once they removed it. She was right about the cancer. Unfortunately it had spread into her liver as well. Because of her age, chemo was not an option and she came home under hospice care and the care of her grandson and her daughter.
She was okay for a while, with drugs to help her appetite and pain medications. I think the drugs made her feel good and she was optimistic, talking about painting the bedroom and baking lemon pies. But the inevitable is happening - she is "shutting 'er down" as my mom used to say. She still knows me when I go over and even asks about my grandson. Not knowing what else to do I bring her rice pudding. We used to go to a coffee shop where we were the oldest people and the only ones with natural colored hair and no body piercings. They had wonderful rice pudding. The stuff I make is more like rice soup, but it has a good taste and she likes it.
When I look out, I don't see her in the yard. I see her grandson smoking on the porch or turning on those angry sprinklers. Usually there are people coming in and out all day - hospice nurses, chaplains, and nurses aids. But I know that she is behind the window with the pretty lace curtains in the bedroom her husband died in. Her poor little dog barks constantly, knowing something is not right. She has become quiet, less willing to talk, and her eyes are viewing something I cannot see. "What is happening to me?" she asks. Her eyes beg me to tell her what she already knows. "You are sick" I say. "And we are all trying to make you comfortable."
Her family did not want to talk to her about her impending death, but I knew I could not lie to her. If she asks me if she is dying I will tell her. I think she is afraid and she is worried about her family. She won't let go till she knows they are accepting of her death. She knows that she is dying - I am pretty sure of this. I want to tell her it is okay.
I am so sad about losing my friend even though I know it is life. She is 86 and has lived well. She has been so kind to me and knowing she is across the street always made me feel happy. When my dad died, she knew before I told her and came over with biscuits and gravy and scrambled eggs - the perfect comfort food. When I retired, she was so happy but she was sure we would move away. Now it is she who is leaving. And I am so grateful for knowing her and all she has taught me both in her living and her dying.
Somehow I want to celebrate her life and to make her death a happy one. I know I can't do it though...death is something a person must do on their own. And despite all of our advances in life saving, we still don't do death very well. Maybe we should treat it like we do birth. It is a right of passage and it is inevitable.
When I am dying, I want people to be open about it, and be there for me with happy music and lots of beer. And I want the curtains open and the lights on.
The last time we went out for lunch was in May, a day before her 86th birthday. I picked her up and she came springing down the steps of her house, clutching her purse - wearing a black and white jacket and cropped pants. She has an amazing sense of style and did not at all look or act her age. When we were about a mile from home she said "you are going to think I belong in the giggle college, but I think I forgot to turn off the iron". So we went back home and checked. We went to Ruth's diner up Emigration Canyon. I remember how much she enjoyed sitting outside that spring day and how happy she seemed. She and her husband used to spend a lot of time in that canyon and being up there brought happy memories to her. Neither of us figured that would be the last time we would get to go out.
Shortly after that, she was diagnosed with Gall bladder disease. At first it seemed like a simple surgery to remove her Gall bladder. She was convinced then, that she had cancer. I tried to ease her fears by telling her how much better she would feel once they removed it. She was right about the cancer. Unfortunately it had spread into her liver as well. Because of her age, chemo was not an option and she came home under hospice care and the care of her grandson and her daughter.
She was okay for a while, with drugs to help her appetite and pain medications. I think the drugs made her feel good and she was optimistic, talking about painting the bedroom and baking lemon pies. But the inevitable is happening - she is "shutting 'er down" as my mom used to say. She still knows me when I go over and even asks about my grandson. Not knowing what else to do I bring her rice pudding. We used to go to a coffee shop where we were the oldest people and the only ones with natural colored hair and no body piercings. They had wonderful rice pudding. The stuff I make is more like rice soup, but it has a good taste and she likes it.
When I look out, I don't see her in the yard. I see her grandson smoking on the porch or turning on those angry sprinklers. Usually there are people coming in and out all day - hospice nurses, chaplains, and nurses aids. But I know that she is behind the window with the pretty lace curtains in the bedroom her husband died in. Her poor little dog barks constantly, knowing something is not right. She has become quiet, less willing to talk, and her eyes are viewing something I cannot see. "What is happening to me?" she asks. Her eyes beg me to tell her what she already knows. "You are sick" I say. "And we are all trying to make you comfortable."
Her family did not want to talk to her about her impending death, but I knew I could not lie to her. If she asks me if she is dying I will tell her. I think she is afraid and she is worried about her family. She won't let go till she knows they are accepting of her death. She knows that she is dying - I am pretty sure of this. I want to tell her it is okay.
I am so sad about losing my friend even though I know it is life. She is 86 and has lived well. She has been so kind to me and knowing she is across the street always made me feel happy. When my dad died, she knew before I told her and came over with biscuits and gravy and scrambled eggs - the perfect comfort food. When I retired, she was so happy but she was sure we would move away. Now it is she who is leaving. And I am so grateful for knowing her and all she has taught me both in her living and her dying.
Somehow I want to celebrate her life and to make her death a happy one. I know I can't do it though...death is something a person must do on their own. And despite all of our advances in life saving, we still don't do death very well. Maybe we should treat it like we do birth. It is a right of passage and it is inevitable.
When I am dying, I want people to be open about it, and be there for me with happy music and lots of beer. And I want the curtains open and the lights on.
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