TM

I feel like screaming. Literally, growling or yowling, and wonder if that would help at all. After two weeks of managing all right, my legs are killing me and walking is nearly impossible. The damnable thing is that I have no idea why. 

It’s not like I did anything terribly different yesterday than I had on any of the previous days. I did walk a short way through the woods with my dog buddy for the third time in four days. I felt okay, relatively, when I went to sleep. But, I woke up at five this morning in pain and uncomfortable, and my walking is in the shitter. 

I had been feeling more hopeful. After our trip to Oaxaca, Mexico, in December, I had an appointment with another neurologist (one I had seen many years before).  I was not able to walk well in Oaxaca. This was unfortunate because as much as I love Oaxaca it is not the accessibility capital of the world. 

In any case, Ronnie and I decided we were going to pursue a diagnosis for me no matter what it took after all this time.  I wrote out my “Chronology of an Illness” with all the details of years of frustration. So, my request for him was written down as:

“What I am asking for:

• Updated MRI, with plan for yearly MRIs to monitor
• Diagnosis and/or treatment plan
• Referral for electric wheelchair
• What would you do if I was your wife?”

The neurologist looked at my history, what I’d written, notes from other neurologists, test results, all of it, and popped off with, “Have you heard of TM?”  

Ronnie and I looked at him and shook our heads no.  He said, “It’s Transverse Myelitis.”

In unison, we said, “What’s that?”

He went on to explain it’s a autoimmune disease that started out when I was much, much younger either from a viral infection or trauma. Ronnie and I exchange knowing looks. Trauma from childhood is my middle name.  It attacks the myelin coating of the nerves effecting the central nervous system.  This was in keeping with what we have known before. 

Then, there was a good news, bad news situation. He said the good news is that it hadn’t turned into multiple sclerosis and won’t now due to my age. Also, the autoimmune issues settle down as you get older. (I just proudly turned 60 which he noticed.)  The bad news was my body’s ability to cope with the previous nerve damage lessens. 

So, there it is.  As for electric wheeled devices to help one who can no longer push themselves?  Only if one can’t get around their own house. For work or community, it’s on me.  And, no, there’s nothing more he could do for his wife or daughter or brother or uncle or aunt or cousin. But, getting exercise is good for you. I haven’t figured out entirely how to do it without causing a flare with the related incapacity. 

And, here I am.  Extremely uncomfortable with no known reason why, trying not to think of what tomorrow will bring whether good or bad.  Because, tomorrow is of absolutely no help for today.  Thus, I think I’ll go brush the dog out on the deck and look at Mt. Rainier.  I don’t have to stand, and it’s exceptionally rewarding in its accomplishment.  It makes the dog very silky, and the house less hairy.  What’s not to love?

L’Chaim. 

Joceile 

1.14.18

For more stories, go to:  joceile7.blogspot.com

I Nearly Lost Her

At 14, I wanted to kill myself.  I thought about it constantly but I just couldn’t throw caution to the wind, pull the trigger, or take the whole bottle of pills.  Other than my friend, Sasifraz, who was a mystery voice in my head, Suicide was my constant companion. 

To be sure, there were times when I took a calculated risk by taking the rest of the bottle of pills. It was never quite enough to take me out, though. One time I did end up losing three days because of the overdose. Sadly, it was harder on the people around me who were actually conscious than it was on me, because I had very little memory of the event.

I was 21. I remember Elizabeth, my partner at the time, yelling at me and pushing me down the hallway out to the car to go to the emergency room.  I remember the nurse handing me some type of tube like container to get urine thinking I was male.  I went and got a cup to give her.  I remember being in the hospital bed with Dr. West talking to me and me crying about my parents.  

The worst thing was that Elizabeth and I were supposed to move that week.  She was really pissed which I understand.  I seemed to have forgotten about the upcoming move. I remember going to work on the third day because I was worried about losing my job.  My boss asked me if I was okay.  She said I seemed inebriated.  I think I went home.

There was another time after that when my stomach was pumped.  I had taken a shit load of sleeping pills and went back to bed later in the morning.  Unfortunately, my mother dropped by unannounced.  I couldn’t stay awake.  My mom thought I was sick and left.  Elizabeth knew I was drugged and once again yelled at me to stay awake as we drove to the emergency room.  Why didn’t she ever call 911?  I guess we thought it would cost money. 

There were some other times involving my wrist and a razor blade.  At 17, I was in the emergency room shaking after they stitched up my arm.  The nurse said, “Well, if that doesn’t kill you...” gesturing at my arm, “this will.”  

I said, “This what?”

She said, “The drugs you’re on.”

“I’m not on drugs.”

“Oh,” she responded and instantly started being nicer to me.  It appeared that people who take drugs don’t deserve compassion but mental patients do.  I was grateful I fell on the mental patient side.  The next day I went to the psych ward at UW Hospital.  

That time I was terrified that I was a lesbian.  At a younger age, my mom told me she went to high school with a young woman who jumped off the Narrows Bridge.  Mom said she jumped off just because people thought she was homosexual.  I took that to mean it was better being dead than gay.  I don’t remember if “gay” was even in my vernacular then.

There were many, many more times with the stitches and the ER.  So many times that I’ve long since lost count.  There were two issues for me around self harm.  One was the ongoing internal discussion about suicide.  The other was the intense anger turned inward.

Because my anger was turned inward, I did not harm other people.  I acted out but mostly toward myself.  I was deeply disturbed and angry about the abuse and harm I was subjected to as a child.  I was so angry that I wanted to kill somebody.  But, my belief system did not allow me to harm others.  I believed the only thing I owned was my body.  I believed that my body was the only thing I had a right to harm.

It is a sad, sad point of view.  However, it kept me from committing crimes and going to jail.  Instead, it lead me down the garden path of mental illness.  The difference between being a criminal and being a mental patient is just a quirk of fate.  Whether the anger goes inside or outside, it is still profound anger.  That is partly why men are more likely to be in prison and women more likely to be in mental hospitals.  We are trained that way.  There maybe some biological imperative.  I don’t know anything about the science.

My desire to kill myself or hurt myself led me through harrowing times.  It hurt my family, my partner, and my daughter.  Obviously, it hurt me but that is not the burden I carry.  I nearly lost Ronnie.  She hung in with me until finally I was so far into depression she said, “I can’t live with suicide as your secret mistress.  I need you to stop that affair.”

It was a moment where our relationship hung in the balance.  At that point, I heard voices yelling at me to just bail.  I couldn’t dream of letting go of my suicidal fantasies.  At the start of the year that nearly destroyed us, I chose suicide over Ronnie.  I ask myself, “How can that be?”  But, the answer is that nothing was clear at the time.  It only clarifies on reflection.

At that point, Ronnie and I had been together for 21 years.  She had hung in with me through thick and thin.  Initially through four years of an on again, off again need to use a wheelchair.  But, the mental illness part was always there.  It always had been.  It was not like it would just go away.

I went to counseling faithfully every week.  I worked part-time for the state.  Our daughter was with us half of the time.  I had gone through three months of being off work due to depression while I switched state agencies in 1995.  There were times Ronnie told me later that she wondered how she would make it through to our daughter leaving home.

The final crisis happened after our daughter had graduated college.  I became disconnected from everything but work.  Ronnie’s parents had died.  My grandparents had died.  I was just obsessed with killing myself.  We had long since agreed that I would not cut myself.  Unfortunately, there were a lot of other ways to hurt myself including scratching and biting.  

After I chose my suicide mistress over Ronnie, we tried couples counseling.  But, I just fell further and further into a deep depression.  Since, I thought we had broken up I went back to cutting myself.  It entailed several self directed visits to the ER.  Finally in September of that year, I was hospitalized.  After I got out, I got hooked up with an exceptional psychiatrist.  Dr. McNabb actually listened to me and worked with me as a partner.  

I got a new therapist named Steve.  I had never had a male therapist before.  He was an extremely gentle and loving soul.  He taught me about Powerful with Love.  I was hospitalized again at Thanksgiving.  When I got out, I kept working with Steve.

Ronnie and I continued to live together.  We had a basement apartment that I stayed in.  I spent half the week with a friend and her family so that Ronnie and I could have a break.  I looked at an apartment once thinking that I should move out. It was in my price range. I went in. It was dark with an upstairs bedroom. I thought, “I couldn’t hope to not die here by killing myself.”  I didn’t look again after that. 

Ronnie was looking for a house too. Neither one of us really wanted to be apart. She was looking for a house with a mother-in-law apartment for me, or a small attached house, or a little house just down the street. She wasn’t having any luck. 

We were still uniquely suited to be together. In the summer, we had a garage sale. We worked like a well oiled machine. Ronnie, who was thinking pretty clearly, thought, “Really, we can do this so well together and we have to break up?  Really?”

Ronnie was in terrible pain.  I was mostly out of it.  One day, Ronnie asked me what I wanted.  I stuttered.  “I want... I want.”

“What do you want?  I’m serious.”

“I want more of the Great Grey Nothingness,” I responded.  At that moment, I knew it was true.  I just wanted the great grey nothingness that came seductively with depression. 

Ronnie had been saying I was depressed for years.  But, one day, she said, “You are clinically depressed.”

Like an idiot that comes to, I responded with, “Oh, Clinical Depression.”  As if to add, “Why didn’t you say so.”

“That doesn’t really mean anything diagnostically, you know.”

“Maybe not.  But, it means something to me.”  Having a name for the severity of what I was experiencing was helpful to me.  It didn’t matter that it was diagnostically inaccurate.  I finally got a glimmer of the huge problem that was enveloping my life.  And Ronnie’s life.

As winter began to withdraw that year, I slowly started to come out of my self imposed prison.  Powerful with Love work with Steve included sitting in my loving space and sending that love far across the world to someone, somewhere who needed it.  It gradually expanded to me sending the love to some past incarnation of myself.

Also, the medication that Dr. McNabb gave me started having an affect.  I continued to hurt myself regularly but the fog was starting to clear.  I spoke to Steve about it.  He said, “Ah, the assistance of medication.”  But, we also continued to work on the love piece.  

Steve suggested I look at pictures of the folks I loved.  I did.  I looked at pictures of my daughter, my grandparents, and the friends of my youth.  At some point, I stumbled on the videos I had taken of our daughter while she grew up.  I was particularly taken with her earlier years at three.  I would play a few minutes of the video before I went to bed at night.  I would feel the love I had for my daughter.  Gradually, I would reach for the video whenever I felt really bad.  It could be several times a day.

Then, one day, I discovered a small part of the video that included Ronnie.  I was filming my daughter when Ronnie came in the room.  I didn’t have much video of Ronnie because filming her wasn’t her favorite thing.  As she came in the room and laid down on the couch to read, I caught her.  I swung the camera her way and said her name.  She looked up at me with an astonishing smile filled with genuine love for me and said laughing, “Hi, Joceile.”  I saw it.  In that moment, I saw she loved me.  I remembered she loved me, and I loved her.  I played it over and over again.

I remembered she was not my enemy trying to take away my suicidal mistress or making me someone that I wasn’t.  She just simply loved me, and I had forgotten.

Around the same time, we were visiting my daughter.  My daughter and I were lying on the floor joking about something.  She traced a scar line along my wrist.  She said to me, “You can do what you need to, but you can’t leave me.  Because, then I will feel like I did something wrong.”

At that moment, I knew I was done.  I couldn’t leave my daughter or Ronnie.  I was done with the great grey nothingness.  I was done with hurting myself.  I was done with Suicide.  It took months of talking to Ronnie to begin our recovery.  I needed to listen to her.  To listen to the hurt my illness had caused.  To listen, respond without defensiveness, and listen some more.

I wanted my Ronnie back.  I remembered the love in her face when she looked at me in the video so many years ago.  I knew that I had to make amends.  

It has been seven years now.  Ronnie and I have worked hard to rebuild our relationship.  I have worked hard to listen to her instead of the voices.  It is not easy.  It is not quick.  But, it is the most important work I have ever undertaken.  

We will always be recovering from that time.  We refer to it as the dark time.  Few weeks go by without our referencing it.  It was terrible.  It was catastrophic.  Sometimes, catastrophe can be the opening for healing.  It is an opportunity.  It is not without difficulty.  It is a challenge.  Knowing how close we came to losing each other pushes us to work hard to address issues over and over so we can stay together.

I nearly lost her.  I am glad every day that I didn’t.  It makes these older years so much sweeter.  Something to be savored and grateful for daily.  Thank you to the power of love.  And, Ronnie, I love you and me too. 

L’Chaim.

Joceile

12.5.17

The Thanksgiving Swear Word Story

Growing up my mother swore. My dad swore. My Grandma Teresa swore. Many of the adults I knew swore. But, children were not supposed to swear.  My mother was very firm about that.  I lived with this inequity until I was ten. 

The summer of 1968, I spent a week with my Grandma Teresa in Olympia on the west side in a pathetic duplex on Mud Bay Road that was torn down about 20 years ago to make a brand new neighborhood with no trees.  

Grandma Teresa was my mother’s birth mother. She was a wild character with a strange history. She was married and divorced four times. Before she died, she was working on her fifth marriage.  She hitch hiked from Olympia to Texas and back during the 50’s.  Early during the war (WW II), she drove an Army truck on Ft. Lewis.  My mother told me she spent time in Western State Hospital during the period Frances Farmer was there some time between 1943 and 1948. My mother could never explain why. So, that’s a mystery. 

Grandma Teresa and my Grandpa Joe got involved while Teresa was still married to her first husband, Henry Minnick.  In 1935, Teresa got pregnant with Joe and had my mom before she had divorced Minnick.  Teresa didn’t want my mother to be born out of wedlock, because that was considered a very bad thing then.  So, she put Minnick as the father on my mother’s birth certificate.  Later, my mom was hurt that Joe never officially adopted her.  I seriously doubt she ever told my grandpa she was hurt.

Various people told me that Joe and Teresa were real partiers and drinkers. At the time, my grandpa was a logger and spent the week days up in a logging camp.  My grandpa told me that while he was working in the woods he learned that Teresa was entertaining other men.  I have no idea about the truth of any of it.

Joe and Teresa separated at the beginning of the war.  During the years that Teresa was out of commission in the hospital, my mom bounced from one foster home to another.  She hasn’t told me much about this time.  I understand that she went from one abusive situation to another before finally moving in with Joe and his new wife, Lucille, in Des Moines, Washington.  She was 11.

But back to my visit with Grandma Teresa, she swore like a trooper but I wasn’t supposed to swear.  Later that summer, we visited my dad’s parents in Oklahoma.  On the way back, we visited my uncle’s family in Myrtle Creek, Oregon.  I got to stay with my cousins for a week.  My parents would meet my cousins in Portland to pick me up.  Their family included Aunt Hoda (Mahoda) and my cousin, Patsy Ann.

My cousins lived a bit out of town.  We had three meals a day which Aunt Hoda said was farm life. You either showed up for meals or didn’t eat.  No eating between meals. I had to go pick beans with them on weekdays for money.  I’d never picked beans or anything else like that before.  It was hard, boring work.  I didn’t take to it too well.  In fact, a couple days in, I got sick.  Apparently, too sick to keep picking beans.  I felt bad both physically and mentally, but picking beans was worse.  The second day of picking beans I started swearing about damn this and hell that.  In those days, swearing consisted of damn and hell.  My cousins were surprised.  They said, “We didn’t know you swear.”  

I felt elated and responded, “I do now!” 

I would stay up late talking to Patsy Ann and Aunt Hoda.  I remember the talks being mostly about Patsy Ann’s love life.  She was the oldest.  Patsy Ann said, “You are such a good listener and you have good ideas.  You understand beyond your years.”

My response was, “You’re damn right.”  Both Patsy Ann and Aunt Hoda giggled.  In fact, all my cousins laughed when I swore.  The more they laughed.  The more I swore.  

I knew, though, that a reckoning was coming when I would meet my parents to go home.  I was an honest kid.  I didn’t know how to lie.  I didn’t know how to keep a secret.  My mind would be tortured by keeping secrets from my mom.  But, I LOVED swearing and getting to let out my feelings. 

We met at Jansen Beach, an amusement park in Portland, on Sunday at the end of the week. Reflecting on it over the years, it’s hard to explain just why I thought I had to tell my mom, but I did.  I was so happy to see my mom.  We were wandering around the amusement park.  I was trying to stamp a coin in a machine with the right letters of my name and was frustrated.  At one point, I blurted out to my mom, “I started swearing.”  My mom looked at me, pursed her lips, and refused to talk to me for the rest of the day.

I was bereft.  Here I had been away from her for a week, and she was giving me the silent treatment.  I knew I shouldn’t have told her but I was conflicted.  Eventually, she got over it.  I swore I would never make my kid not swear if I was swearing.  I also wasn’t going to lie to my kid about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy.  We could play the game, but I wasn’t going to lie to MY kid.

Fast forward twenty-four years.  My daughter is five.  Because we all swore in my house including Ronnie, Alex, and I, I didn’t think too much about it until Thanksgiving with my grandparents.

It was the first time they came to my house for Thanksgiving.  I’m sure Ronnie did most of the cooking, because she’s such a good cook. Things were going along swimmingly until Alex got finished eating.  She got up from her chair and calmly announced, “I have to take a shit.”

Startled, I said, “Okay, honey.”  She left and I looked at my grandparents.  My granny’s lips were pursed (Lucille).  My grandpa’s lips were twitching as he tried not to smile.  Ronnie was looking at me expectantly wondering just what I would say. I took a breath and did the only thing I could do in the situation. I shook my head and said, “I haven’t had the grandparents talk with her yet.”

Later that night, Ronnie and I began explaining to Alex that there were four places she couldn’t swear:  in front of her grandparents, at school, at her friends’ houses, and in the grocery store line.  The rule was reiterated many times.  Alex didn’t have any problem following the rule.  I got to live in an equitable home that enabled me to happily swear as much as I wanted.  My daughter knew and followed the rules. And, my grandparents never again heard that my daughter had to take a shit for which I was eternally grateful. 

Happy Thanksgiving to y’all. 

Joceile

11.22.17

(Photo:  My mom, Teresa, 4th husband, Jimmy.  Circa 1948)

The Passing of Edith

Edith fell ill last June both literally and figuratively. She passed away six weeks shy of her 100th birthday. 

I first learned that Edith was in trouble when I got a call from her son, Gene, telling me she had fallen twice. He had found her on the floor the day before and in the bathtub that morning.  He called the medics who took her to the hospital.  All sorts of pictures went through my head about what that looked like. But, I was wrong as Edith patiently explained to me when Ronnie and I visited her in the hospital. She explained it many times. 

It seems she was going to change from her day clothes to her night clothes while sitting on the edge of the tub before falling backwards into the tub.  She then spent the night in the tub before Gene found her the next day. 

In the hospital, I asked her how she felt. “Oh, I feel fine. I don't know why I'm here.”

“You're here because you fell and spent the night in the tub.  Do you remember that?”

“Oh yes, I was quite comfortable.”

“Were you cold?”

“Oh, no. It was very comfortable. I had a pillow,  I was fine.”

Ronnie chimed in, “You had a pillow?  How did that get in there?”

“Well, I don’t know.  Maybe it was a towel but it was very comfortable.  But, I still don’t know why I’m here.”

“It’s because you have pneumonia,” explained Ronnie.

“Well, I don’t feel sick.  I feel just fine.”

“You have at temperature of 101,” I added.

“Oh, I wonder why.”

“Because you have pneumonia.”  Ronnie again.

“Well, how did I get that?”

Ronnie:  “It just happens.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Ronnie:  “You just get pneumonia.  It’s like getting the cold or the flu.  It just happens.”

Edith pondered, “I wonder how that could be?  How could I have landed in here?”

We both say, “You fell and spent the night in the tub.”

To which Edith responded, “Well, I feel fine.  How long am I going to have to be here?”

Me:  “Until your temperature gets down.”

“I’m ready to go home now.”

Me:  “You’ll have to wait until you are better.”

“Who knew that could happen to me.”  A few minutes pass.  “I just don’t understand why I’m here.”  And, the three of us go patiently around again.

It was the first time I experienced Edith not being on top of things.  Ronnie was exceptionally patient and loving.  

Edith said, “I have to go to the bathroom, but they said I need someone with me.  I don’t know why.”

“I’ll go and get someone,  But, I might have to tell them I’m your daughter.”  Ronnie replied smiling.

“I’d be pleased to have you as my daughter,” Edith stated.  Ronnie was touched by the thought.

On Ronnie’s return, Edith went on.  “Can you tell me why I’m here?”

Ronnie:  “Because you spent the night in the bathtub and have a fever.  Do you remember spending the night in the tub?”

“Oh, yes, I was very comfortable.  But, I was mad at myself for falling and figured I’d just sleep there.”

“Do you think it’s normal to spend the night in the tub?”  Ronnie queried.

“No, I don’t suppose it is.  But, I could have gotten out any time I wanted.  Gene didn’t have to get me out.”

“Oh?  Do you remember Gene had to get John (Edith’s grandson and next door neighbor) to lift you out?”  Ronnie again.

“Oh, yes.  I remember that.  But, the next thing I know I’m here and I don’t know why.  I guess I just keep asking the same question.”

Ronnie responded, “Yes, but that’s okay.  You just ask when you need to, and I’ll keep answering you.”

I marveled at my partner’s patience and kindness.  It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen it before, but it was usually directed to me.  I wasn’t generally able to observe from a distance.

I was texting Edith’s granddaughter, Sarena, who lives in Tennessee.  She was trying to decide when to come.  I said, “You need to come sooner than later.”  I had no idea how much time Edith had.  When she was taken to the hospital, it was discovered she had a grapefruit sized tumor on her back just behind her right shoulder.  No one knew it was there.  It hadn’t been there for her physical eight months prior.  It was cancer, of course, making it’s way internally to her lungs.

Sarena, a massage therapist, was texting me asking if she should cancel her clients for the next day and come as soon as possible.  I didn’t want to be responsible for that.  I told her it would probably be okay to fly out the following day.  I fervently hoped that was the right decision.  It turned out we had a lot more time than I thought.

We came up to Des Moines, well technically Burien, from Olympia several days in a row to see Edith in the hospital.  Two nights later, we came and met Sarena in the hallway.  We hugged like long lost friends.  Sarena was exhausted.  She was staying at Edith’s and spent most of the day and evening at the hospital.

Edith had been living alone in her house since her husband, Wave, passed in 2001.  John lived next door.  Gene and Mary (Gene’s wife) lived two doors down.  Edith prided herself on her ability to care for herself, tend her garden, and freeze and can her crops each fall.  She had told Ronnie and I only a few months before that she wasn’t going to have a garden that year.  She was only going to plant tomatoes and cabbage next to the house.  At the time, Ronnie and I exchanged looks.  We knew it was the beginning of the end.  Was she going to make it to November and her 100th birthday?

Sarena  told us it was so painful to have to tell her Gramma that she wouldn’t be able to go home.  Sarena cried telling us that daily care at home for Edith was too expensive.  It pained her to tell Edith she couldn’t go home.  In the coming days, Sarena, Gene, and Mary worked with the social worker to find a small adult family home (AFH) that Edith could go to.

Still, as Ronnie, and I sat with Edith, she kept asking, “When can I go home?”  If we tried to explain she couldn’t go home, she just said, “I feel just fine.  I can take care of myself.”  It wasn’t true.  We knew it wasn’t true, but it was a truth Edith just couldn’t accept.  

She started on occupational and physical therapy in the hospital.  I thought the mantra should be, “Edith, if you can walk down the hall, get yourself to the bathroom, and make a meal, you can go home.  Do you feel like walking?”

Her response was, “No, not right now, I’m just too tired.”  She wasn’t able to demonstrate her physical capacity but her mind was undeterred.

Sarena, Gene, and Mary found a AFH in Des Moines which was just a mile from Edith’s house.  A younger woman and her sister-in-law ran the home.  There were only six or so beds.  When Edith got settled, Ronnie and I went back to visit.  She was happy to see us.  Then, she wanted to know when she could go home.

Sarena was there looking very tired and stressed.  She met with the social worker and nurse.  But, said she had to go home to be with her husband.  She wasn’t sure if it was okay to leave her Gramma.  No one could answer that.

As is her nature, despite wanting to go home, Edith found the good things about the group home.  She said it was pretty and she liked the people.  She liked the food the woman cooked and thought she was a good cook.  It was good to see her eating.  She had been eating less and less.  I thought that at least during this last phase of her life, she wouldn’t be so lonely. 

While Sarena was still there, she took Edith to the beauty parlor to have her hair done.  It was so familiar to see the lovely cloud of fluffy white hair that Edith always had.

A few weeks later, we came up after Sarena had gone home.  Gene and Mary were meeting with the hospice nurse.  Mary came over to Ronnie and I.  She said, “We talked to Edith.  She doesn’t want anymore treatment.  Just comfort things.  What do you guys think?”

We agreed that was the best thing.  Then, Mary added, “We talked about what to do after she passed.  I wanted to tell you after we went over her list, Edith added, ‘And don’t forget Joceile.’”  Tears were in my eyes.  I thanked her for telling me.

I was so touched to be included, to be important in this woman’s world.  Although, I grew up several doors down from her.  I had never been close to Edith until the last 20 years.  She had taught my mother to sew and watched her grow up.  She was my brother, Zack’s, godmother.  But, I had always been a bit afraid of her.  She was so firm and seemingly unyielding.  

I did not feel warmth from her until in 1998 she took my Granny in to care for her.  Unbeknownst to us, it turned out to be my Granny’s last four days.  But, she died being happily cared for by a relative by marriage.  It was the way of things in farm country where Edith and Granny had grown up in the south.  I saw Edith in a whole new light.  It changed our relationship forever.

I had been calling Edith every week for several years.  We talked about her garden, her children, granddaughters, and great granddaughter, and her favorite TV shows.  Now, calling her became more difficult.  She had been having more difficulty this year following any change in the conversation.  Allowing for transition time, we were able to cover our same old topics.  

At the AFH, she began mostly sitting in a recliner chair.  She stopped watching TV.  She stopped going outside.  One of my topics, things she remembered from long ago were now almost impossible for her to track.  I realized I had asked her all the questions about the past that I was ever going to be able to ask.  There wasn’t much more to talk about except, “Ronnie and I are thinking of you and sending you our love.”  At the end of every conversation, I said, “I love you.”  Her voice would get a softer tone as she said, “Love you too.”  I was afraid for the day she might not be able to give me that response.

I was able to visit her at the AFH a couples times alone.  Ronnie was able to come with me a couple times.  She slept more and more.  She had a hard time following conversations.  After about fifteen minutes, she was too tired to talk.  We sat with her.  “You don’t have to talk, Edith.”  We’ll just eat our lunch.  She struggled to stay awake.

The tumor kept growing at a rapid pace.  Toward the end, it was melon size.  She wasn’t in pain.  She kept saying she was fine even when she had absolutely no inclination to do anything other than sit.  She had some difficulty getting comfortable leaning back in the chair due to the bulk of the tumor.  I never knew when my visit would be the last.  I knew it would come.  

Ronnie always called Edith a Force of Nature.  Strong and independent, she kept living.  Some times, she had trouble choking a bit.  Later, she needed oxygen.  I knew one day I would get the call.

From the outset, I was mostly texting Mary.  Gene wasn’t a good texter.  I would check with Mary for an update.  I had learned from when Edith was in the hospital that she was not a reliable reporter on the state of her health.  Gene would take her to her doctor’s appointments and drive her around.  Mary reported that one day they were going by her house.  Gene asked her if she wanted to stop in.  “No,” she said, “I’m just too tired.”  When I heard that, I knew the end was getting closer.

One night a few weeks ago, I was meditating before I went to sleep.  The meditating guide was telling me to check in with my body from head to toe.  As soon as I started, I was teleported to a place where I felt Edith getting ready to leave.  With my imaginary body, I could feel her leaving.  It was a powerful feeling of her moving out of her body with me as a witness.  It lasted several minutes.  I was surprised.  I doubted I had actually felt the moment of her leaving.  In my heart, I wished her a safe journey.

The next day, I texted Mary asking about Edith’s status.  Mary’s brief reply was, “No change.”  I wasn’t surprised.  Sarena came towards the end of September but didn’t stay very long.  Edith was glad to see her.  Both of them were sorry Sarena couldn’t stay longer.  Ronnie and I made our last visit at the end of September.  Edith was surprised and glad to see us.  But, she simply could not stay awake for more than a few minutes.  I held her hand and sat with her.  As we left, I cried.  It was not because her dying was wrong.  It was the pain of saying good-bye to such a long and later, loving relationship.  

It was the morning of September 28, 2017 that I woke up to the text from Mary that I had been expecting but dreading:

“Hi, Joceile and Ronnie.  Sorry to tell you that Edith passed away at 1:00 this morning.  Her breathing got real bad yesterday.  She went peacefully in her sleep.  Sarena is coming this evening.  Will know more later in the day.”  When Ronnie woke up, I told her.  We sat in stunned silence.  The Force of Nature had passed on.

Edith’s death is the final passing of my grandparent’s generation.  There is no one left who remembers those days before all the children were born.  When Edith and my Granny were young and married to two brothers.  Two brothers from Arkansas who came to Washington to work for Boeing.

A few days later, Mary told me that Sarena wanted to start going through things at Edith’s house.  This was basically the culling of accumulated things from when Edith and Wave moved into the house in 1957.  The year I was born.  Mary texted me, “Is there anything you want to remember her by?”  I responded I was only interested in pictures of Edith, my grandparents, and my mother, father, and brother.  

Later, Mary told me there were a lot of slides because Wave was very into them at the time they were popular.  Having spent my time looking at slides as a kid, I said, “No, thank you.  I’m good.”  If you’ve ever looked at slides one at a time by popping them into a reader with a light, taking a look, popping it out, and then putting in the next one.  You know, life is too short.

A day or so later, I texted Sarena to ask her how it was going.  She responded, “It is strange being here without Gramma.  Finding some interesting things.”

“What kind of interesting things?”

“Oil stock certificates from 1910.  Property deeds from around the same time.  Also a book... How to Attain and Practice the Ideal Sex Life (1940).”

My response was, “No matter how old we are, we all were younger at one time.”

Ronnie’s response was, “Where was that book hiding?”

“In the bottom of Gramma’s dresser drawer.”

Ronnie and I laughed.  Such a tried and true place to hide your secret sex things.  So far, no vibrators.

Later, Sarena, Gene, and Mary, found the attached photo of Edith in her twenties which would have been about 1940 give or take.  In the picture, Edith is holding a guitar and smiling.  It is an Edith I have never seen before.  Both Ronnie and I said, “I didn’t know she played the guitar.”  There is so much I didn’t know about Edith’s life.  I asked her every question I could think of but there will always be the unanswered questions.

The night before she passed, Hugh Hefner’s death was on the news.  He was 91.  The day before that, Ronnie’s 90 year old cousin in Montreal told Ronnie that her best friend from early childhood, Eva who was also 90, passed away from a two year process of cancer.  Ronnie’s family is Jewish.  

Ronnie and I pondered the arrival of Edith, Hugh, and Eva at the gates of heaven.  We figured Eva showed up and they said, “The kosher banquet food is over there.”  Edith showed up and they said, “So, glad to see you.  We’ve been expecting you.”  Hugh showed up and they said pointing, “Take that non-stop elevator down.”

Edith’s other granddaughter and great granddaughter are coming for Edith’s service later this week.  Ronnie and I are not going to make it because we are out of town.  I am clear that nothing I do from here on affects Edith.  My only consolation are those three words she said at the end of her list, “Don’t forget Joceile.”  With those words and her sweet ending to our phone calls, I know she loved me.  

Even Forces of Nature eventually turn to dust.  “I love you, Edith.”  The soft voice answers, “Love you too.”

Joceile

10.5.17

For another Edith story, go to:  joceile7.blogspot.com, “My ‘Aunt’ Edith”