The Furious Spinner

Smoky outside. The fire isn't that big, but smoke travels wide and far. So we're stuck inside on this beautiful but hot day. It's fair week. Serena is working the fair, so we'd like to walk down and see her, but it's not safe to walk in these kinds of conditions. (Especially when you're someone with asthma.)

I spent all morning on the phone. Finally got breakfast around noon. Spent part of last night at Linda's. Her caregiver didn't show up, so we went to the house and brought Serena ice cream and pie, and we kept her company for a while. I stroked Linda's forehead and did a "meditation" with her to her favorite place. It's very difficult to see her like this. (That is about the understatement of my life.) She can't really make her needs known at this stage, so we don't know if she's suffering or not. After Mario and I went home, Serena called about 11:30 because the caregiver still hadn't shown up. I called the sheriff's department to make certain no one had been in an accident. After that I talked to Serena for a long time, urged her to try to sleep, was glad she felt she could call me. My body was still pumping with adrenal from her phone call (because it was so late and I was asleep) so it took me a couple of hours to go back to sleep. Even so, I was glad to be there for her. And it helps me too. I can't be in mourning—I can't be depressed—when I've got this girl in my life who needs to step out of what's happening in her life for a few minutes. I've made spaghetti for her dinner tonight. The pie we took her last night was made from apples picked from her mother's apple tree.

I don't want to talk about it any more. Just for a minute. I want to remember my beautiful friend out in the woods, knowing everything, taking her time as she walked from plant to plant, driving me crazy because I wanted a workout not a botany lesson. She was forever teaching me to stop and smell the roses (despite my lack of smell) even when I resisted.

Resistance is futile.

I miss her so much.

After my noon time breakfast, I firmed up all the dates and places for my trip to the Southwest. I'm quite nervous about it. I hope I can physically do it. It'll be a challenge. I hope Barbara and I are friends at the end of it. I've stopped saying this to her, however, since it makes her very nervous. "Why wouldn't we be?" she wonders. "I've never had trouble traveling with anyone." Hmmmm. Whenever I've travelled with anyone there's always a time when we get on each other's nerves and we get a little stressed out. Except Mario, of course. We're perfect together. (You can all laugh now. Of course Mario and I can get irritated with each other too—although it is rare.)

I have little idea about what's going on in the world. I'm pretty much in Linda's world. Although it isn't really her world any more. It's a twilight kind of world, a twilight kind of life. I haven't read what anyone else has been writing or written any letters. I apologize to anyone I haven't written. I would like to be poetic and beautiful right now, but words fail me. Or I fail them. This kind of dying is harrowing. It doesn't seem right. Or maybe it's just us, resisting it, wanting it to be different. Why can't she just hold out her hand and cross over—which is how she views dying? Last night I whispered to her, "You can take off that shoe now if you like." She has told me many times that she viewed death as taking off a too-tight shoe.

One of our friends accused me of allowing Linda to suffer (because Linda said very clearly she did not want morphine) because we are following Linda's wishes. She accused me of other things too. It was very sad. I was so angry and hurt because I was so tired; otherwise I would have taken her accusations in stride. She doesn't want Linda to die, so she's fighting it. Someone told me that next time someone questions what I'm doing that I should take off my shoes and hand them to her. I like that very much. Perfect. Walk in my shoes and then see how your harangue goes. I keep saying, "It's not about you; it's not about me. It's about Linda and Serena and doing whatever we can for them." That's the beginning and the end for me. (And in-between it's about me and everyone else getting enough rest.)

Okay. I hope your lives are fun and exciting or restful and joyful or whatever you need and want. I wish you all peace and great good health.

Much love, love, love.

Labels: Linda

3 comments

3 Comments:

Kim,

I have just started reading your blog over the last month and wanted to give you support in you stance for Linda. You are so grounded, so right; that this is about neither you or those that question you, but about Linda and her wishes. While she is the one at the threshold, you are the holy one at her side; keeping vigil, supporting her in her wishes, even though and especially when they are counter to popular or dominant culture beliefs. I am a registered nurse and was able to be one of the Priestesses that held vigil and midwifed the trasition of my dear friend's Dad last month. Having seen Death at the bedside of many people, I have learned to trust Her and know that each person's transition is unique. It was never about what I could do, or what I thought they should do...I am merely the Watcher that interprets the messages from the one in transition and of Death herself; witnessing the connection of the two in whatever unique process that they choose. I honor you for your stand as I have walked in your shoes; and am sure that we walk the same path. May the grief that you bear, bear you to a place of re-membering--a place of greater understanding of both yourself and your friend and the lessons you were here to teach each other.
In Her Light,
Deb

By  Deb, at 12:52 AM  

Thank you for continuing to write, Kim. I treasure your posts about Linda and Serena. I'm learning and feeling so much. I send you much love.

By  Inanna, at 4:43 AM  

Thank you both so much, and thank you to those who have written to me privately. It means more to me than I can articulate. And I especially needed to hear this last night and again today as I wonder if I did enough--to remember that it's not about me. And whatever is the truth about existence and death, Linda's body is no longer in pain.

Blessed be.

By  Kim Antieau, at 10:54 PM  

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