The Furious Spinner

I'm sitting here humming that old Hank Williams "I'm so lonesome I could cry" while I'm typing this. Mario is on the couch reading. I just got back from Linda's house. It was so different driving up her road this time. I've done it hundreds of times. I've gone to Linda's house many times when she and Serena were gone, too, to walk the dogs or wait for Linda or for a myriad of other reasons. I parked in the shade, as always, and waited for the dogs to come running up. But they didn't. They lay by the front door, tails barely wagging. The front door was closed. I hesitated. Then I turned the knob and went inside. A vase of flowers was on the table. Nancy had brought those. The light was on. Linda always left a light on. The radio wasn't playing. When Linda was well, NPR was on all the time. All day. But now it was silent. I stood still. For a moment.

Then I went into the living room. Linda's bed was in the room, diagonally. And it was empty. No Linda. I went over to the bookshelf and got some books that I needed to help me write Linda's memorial. Then I got the books she wanted me to have. Opal books. I took them out to the car. Then I went into the kitchen and took out the big pot of spaghetti we had brought for Serena this morning. I spooned the reminder of it into a smaller container so she would have room in her refrigerator. I felt strange being in the house. For the first time. I felt I was an intruder. It was no longer Linda's house.

As I finished transferring the spaghetti, the dogs started barking. Serena drove up. She came in carrying groceries, telling me excitedly what she'd bought. A friend followed her. I said, "If I leave all this spaghetti for you will you eat it?" "Oh yeah, I'll eat it." I looked up and another person had come into the kitchen. I said hello and introduced myself. The house was suddenly full of young people. Lots of subdued energy. I was an intruder. I told Serena I had borrowed the books for the memorial. "Oh, I'll get some apples," I said. She encouraged me to get all I could carry. I grabbed a bag from the pantry and went out to the old apple tree. It was so heavy with apples that at least one branch had snapped in two. I started plucking off apples before I remembered to ask permission. And then I did ask. Out in the field I heard a wild turkey calling, again and again. I tried to see it but couldn't.

When the bag was half full, I put it in the car along with the empty pot. Then I went back inside. Serena was pulling the sheets and blankets off the bed. One girl watched from the entrance to the room; another girl helped. "You okay to do this?" I asked Serena. She nodded. "It was so strange driving up here," I said. She turned to me and I could see she was crying. Yes. Good. I went and stood next to her and put my arm around her tiny waist and pulled her close to me. I don't even remember what I said or what she said. We just held each other tightly. Then I slapped her on her butt and told her I'd see her in the morning. "I love you," I said. "I love you too," she said.

Just about mended my broken heart.

Then I got in the car and drove home.

This morning when I finally awakened, before all this, I lay in bed. I didn't want to get up. Memories of what had been happening to Linda all week flashed in my head. A couple of our friends had warned that this last awful stage could go on for a long time. I tried to figure out how I was going to keep doing this. How was Serena going to keep doing it? Soon her only memories of her mother would be of this last agony. I felt sick to my stomach, but I knew I just had to keep doing it. Just had to keep walking through it. What else could you do? I whispered into my pillow, "Whoever is in charge, whoever is watching over her, could you please let her go?"

A few minutes later, the phone rang. Linda's weekend caregiver called to say Linda had died. I said, "Thank god." (Just an expression. I wasn't really thanking any god.) The caregiver had called Serena, and she was on her way home. I said I would eat something and then come over. I went to tell Mario, who was taking a shower. My body began shaking. And then it stopped. Mario made breakfast. I ate about half of it.

We drove to the farm. Beautiful day. Cool morning. The dogs were lethargic. I went into the living room and gently stroked Linda's forehead. "I hope you're all right now, darlin'." But she wasn't there. The room was so empty it was startling. Stark. Something. Or maybe it was me. We waited for Serena. She didn't come. The police and the coroner and the people who were going to cremate her body needed to be called. Our agreement had been that Serena would call 911 when she got home. I called her, but she didn't answer. I decided I had to go ahead and do what had to be done. "What is your emergency?" "There is no emergency," I said, "but someone has died and I was told to call 911. Please don't put it over the scanner. She wasn't on hospice so a medical examiner has to come and look at the body." She asked me my name and verified the address and Linda's name. She said the officer would be out soon.

The caregiver had to leave for a funeral. “The coroner will need to know when Linda died,” I told her. “Between 3:30 and 5:30,” she said. 5:30? Why hadn’t she called us until 8:30? Didn’t see why she should wake everyone up. I was dumbfounded. And then I realized Linda had been alone when she died. Not alone. The dogs and the cat had been with her.

Mario sat outside with the dogs. I stood near him, trying to figure out what to do next. I just wanted to do something. So much to do. So many people to call. I wanted to get it going. I wondered where Serena was. I suspected now that her mother was actually dead that if was harder for her than she thought it would be. I tried to imagine what it was like for her. She was essentially an orphan.

A blue lizard popped up on a fence post. We walked over to it. It let us get so close. As I watched it, I wondered where Linda was. She wasn't in that room in her body. So where was she? I stared at the lizard. Do you know where she is?

Serena came home. The deputy came right after her. He introduced himself and then I took him to where Linda’s body was. He had to take photos. Then he looked at all her medications. I told him she wasn't on anything, although she had had one tranquilizer. I opened the bottle to show him. There had been 20 and now one was gone. He assured me this was all routine. He was very kind. While we waited for the medical examiner, I called the company that will cremate Linda's body.

I asked Serena if she still wanted me to notify family and friends and were the instructions the same: no visitors, no phone calls for a few days? She said yes, so I began calling. First was family. I couldn't get a hold of her brother, so I called her sister. Felt strange asking family not to call for a few days. Who am I to relay such a message? Then I began calling friends. After a while Mario offered to make the phone calls. He knew people wouldn't ask him as many questions. Not that there was anything wrong with asking question—it's just that we had lots of calls to make and we had no information about a memorial yet. Had to wait until everything opened in the morning.

Mario, Serena, and I sat side by side in the shade, close to each other, making calls, looking around at the land. Serena said, "I really need to get that thistle mowed." We watched thistle seeds blowing in the wind. "Too late," I said. "Yep," she said. "There they go." She ate the spaghetti we brought her while she talked on the phone.

The medical examiner (district attorney's assistant) came. He offered his condolences and then left after he went into the house. Not long after that, the cremation people came. I went into the house and filled out a bit of paperwork with them. Serena went for a drive while they took her mother’s body away. They brought her out of the house on a gurney and then put her in a long blue thing—like a huge duffel bag. I placed my hand on the duffel bad and said something to Linda. I can't remember what. I didn't feel like she was there, not sure why I was still talking to her body.

Eventually went home and ate, talked with Serena’s godparents.

Later I drove back to the house by myself, emptied the spaghetti out, plucked apples from the tree of life...

Earlier in the week when Linda was still semi-coherent, I told her she was the best friend I'd ever had and I loved her very much. We cried together. She told me she loved me too. Today I have tried to remember some of the wonderful times Linda and I had together. I thought about her last week too. I kept wondering if I had been with her enough. I'd been at the house, but I didn't stay long in the room with her. I'd come in and stroke her forehead, talk to her about her favorite place, but I didn't stay and read to her like I did when she was conscious. I had thought she was sleeping or on her way out...but what if she'd been aware and alone all that time?

We all did the best we could. Especially Linda.

Don't know how many people I talked with today. So many people. Such amazing kindness.

No more today. Thank you all for your support. I know so many of you have been through similar experiences. I appreciate your compassion and kindness.

See you in the morning. 10 comments

10 Comments:

Don't put too much into questioning how you handled the last week. You did what felt right. That's all a friend asks.

By  Will Shetterly, at 11:08 PM  

Dear Sister Mermaid Kim,

I'm sitting with you and breathing deeply during this holy time. Love, love, love. Our hearts get so full of love they break and it all spills out and gushes, kind of like your Falling Creek. I'm so glad that Linda is no longer in pain.

My friend Helen Farias (you may remember her) died of breast cancer in 1994. I remember the process, the suffering, the grace. She is not forgotten, as Linda will not be forgotten. I loved the piece you wrote about your walk in the woods with her. I love it that, through your writing, others will know a bit of her spirit.

Sitting with you, bearing witness.

May the Grace be with you.

By  Joanna, at 7:00 AM  

Sending love, strength, and wishes for deep restful sleep, healing, and comfort, Kim. You've borne loving witness and practical love -take good care of yourself now, for a while, and replenish. I wish I could bring you some soup - sending virtual avgolemono.

I'm so glad you had a friend like Linda, and that she's free of pain - and I'm so sorry for your loss.

By  Theriomorph, at 8:03 AM  

(o)

By  Inanna, at 2:50 PM  

.

By  Tom Marshall, at 5:02 PM  

Blessing, dear one. Linda is not here and you and I share the belief that we don't need to know where--if anyplace--she has gone. She just isn't here anymore.

May these next hours, days, weeks be filled with love, loss, truth, healing and celebration. Linda's was a life well lived and what more can we ask? You have been and continue to be the kind of friend/sister we all hope we'll have when our time comes to leave this wondrous earth.

Be gentle with yourself, dear Kim, this is tough stuff. May you be given all you need to make your way through it, grounded as a tree and resilient as the river. Don't forget to breathe. And take walks with your beloved Mario to the falls. Eat the fresh harvest of summer, and sing for Linda who no longer suffers.

with much love
Patricia

By  Patricia, at 9:11 PM  

Kim, my heart aches for your loss.
You were a wonderful friend to Linda. No one could ask for more.

By  sheila, at 9:41 PM  

Thank you so much, all of you. I am touched and held by your words and love and compassion.

I do remember when Helen died, Joanna. I remember the grace and the pain--and I remembering wondering if I would be able to go through that with a friend, the way you all went through it. This is life, I know, but it ain't my favorite part of it.

I was talking to Linda's sister today about how we navigate all these relationships and feelings--how to navigate all these various "ships." And she was saying that part of bringing peace to our world is learning to adapt to one another and get along with one another. Be with one another. Sometimes this is the greatest kind of peace work. I think she may be right.

Thank you all.

Blessed bee.

By  Kim Antieau, at 11:31 PM  

I'm at work, getting ready to leave for home, and read your post about Linda. Her suffering is over but her friends and family's suffering will continue for awhile. And then, as it often does, it eases while the many treasured memories come forward.

Because of the love you have for Linda you'll see her in the blue lizard, in the sunrise and sunset, in the beautiful flowers and trees that surround you. You'll speak with her still and hear her soft words in return. She lives in you.

You were each blessed to have the other in your life. You both provided us all with a model of how to deal with this difficult phase of life. We should all be so blessed.

Thinking of you and sending you good thoughts and best wishes.

By  kevin, at 8:52 PM  

Wow, Kevin. Thanks so much. I hope you and Vicki are doing well. I know I owe you a letter!

By  Kim Antieau, at 12:31 AM  

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