Janae Beau White Eagle was an incredible woman. She died just four days short of her 66th birthday. Born on the day Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, Janae slipped out of this life quietly in the hours between one day and the next. No one was there with her. A nurse checked and Janae was there, and when she checked again my friend had gone.
Janae lived long enough to visit with her beautiful daughter and hold her precious grandbaby. Janae loved that baby deeply and dearly, even before he was born. She had time to be initiated into another level of her religion. She lived long enough to welcome death when it came.
Janae was a remarkable woman, self-made in many ways. She was an incredible artist and in recent years had earned her living as a professional quilter. Janae's quilting was incredible. The lucky quilters who have her stitches on top of their quilts own nothing less than a work of art.
At the end, we who loved Janae did our best to surround her with love, even if we couldn't be there all the time. Even though she seemed to be drifting, already halfway out of our world, I know she understood that we were there. I read from her holy book and sang a prayer for her that is important in her faith. We all told her we loved her.
Mostly we held her hand or stroked her hair or just sat beside the window in her room, watching the days grow shorter and darker.
And then she was gone.
Some of us gathered and toasted her memory with hot cider and cookies. Two or three three of us were hard about the work of emptying her house. We fulfilled the wishes of her will as best we could. And still had a house filled with things.
The sorting and boxing and labeling and such began before Janae died. It will be done for good Wednesday when Goodwill comes to take away the remaining boxes and bags. I don't think it will be sad. I have said my goodbyes. It hasn't been easy, spending hours at a time in her house, touching her things, listening for her laughter. But I have talked to her, I have sat in her house and cried until my eyes ached. I think now I can bear to let go of the last of her things.
Janae believed that we are all born over and over until we get it right. And that we share each lifetime with the same people, but in different positions. Maybe next time your husband will be your sister or you will be your aunt's mother. In many conversations, Janae and I came to agree that undoubtedly we had known each other in previous lives. We only shared this life for a year, but it felt like we had been friends forever.
I hope Janae was right. I told her that. During those last days I told her that, with her getting there sooner than me, she has to put the word in with the big Boss. No more of this stuff of finding my friend and then losing her so soon. This has been too hard to bear.
Next time, in the next lifetime that Janae and I get to share, we have to meet sooner.
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Monday, December 17, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Love in a Time of Loss
Right now a woman is lying in a nursing home not far from my home, asleep and unaware.
She is my friend, and she is dying. A few months ago she stopped taking the chemotherapy that was turning her skin into on huge painful blister. It was the fourth round of chemo and was only intended to postpone the inevitable. Four month without more chemo, they said, and that seemed like such a long time. But that was three months ago.
Last week Janae and I planned Thanksgiving dinner. She was bringing yams with pineapple and pecans and marshmallows on top. I told her we'd give her a ride if she didn't want to drive. No problem, she said. It was Wednesday last week, nearly a lifetime ago.
Friday I got a call that she was in the hospital. Saturday morning I opened the door to room 622 on the Oncology Wing expecting to see my Janae sitting up, commanding the nursing staff from her bed. Instead I found her tiny and gray, curled under the blankets, sleeping so deep it seemed she was in another world. When she finally woke, she told me where to find her will. How to call a friend in another city. Who should get her pearl jewelry. She fell back asleep every few words and I had to wake her to finish each sentence.
Is it drugs? I asked the nurse. She shook her head.
You know the head shake. The one that comes with the tight smile and the set facial muscles. You see it all the time on television medical dramas just before the words "I'm afraid the news is bad."
The news is bad. The disease that has eaten her kidneys and swollen her liver so big it has pushed her stomach out of place has found its way into her brain.
Amazing things have a way of happening when life is short. Old friends find their way to the hospital bed. Estranged family members remember the love and fly into town. Good people find time to visit someone they never met for love of a friend. Through it all, flurries of emotion and care-taking erupt and subside all around while Janae sleeps at the eye of the storm.
Everything has been done that can be. All the phone calls have been made. The lost children have been found. We are all watching Janae together now, holding her in our hearts while starting to let go, praying her passing will be easy and peaceful.
Today I will spend Thanksgiving with my husband and sons and a pretty girl named Kait who will find it difficult to make it through dinner without holding my younger son's hand. Janae will not be with us.
Instead she will be three miles away, hard about the business of dying. It isn't easy to watch. Janae's body has more life in it than most. I fear that it won't let go without a hard fight. But in the end, the body will give way. It always does.
Janae's faith instructs that when her soul leaves her body it will be rejoined with the Inner Master and then will find its way into another life, one that will be better for the hard lessons learned while ensouled in Janae. I hope she's right. I hope that her soul's next life will be as part of a large, close, loving family. Maybe my soul's next life can be a next door neighbor.
Sometime tomorrow morning I will drive to the nursing home. I will sit beside the narrow bed by the window in Room 29, holding Janae's hand and telling her stories of Thanksgiving day. I'll bring some bit of stitchery to show her in case she opens her eyes. I'll tell her to hang on a few more hours, long enough for her daughter to arrive with Janae's newborn first grandchild.
I will leave her then to her sleep, to the kindness of Hospice caregivers, to the hard business of cutting the cords that hold her to this life so she can fly to the next.
She is my friend, and she is dying. A few months ago she stopped taking the chemotherapy that was turning her skin into on huge painful blister. It was the fourth round of chemo and was only intended to postpone the inevitable. Four month without more chemo, they said, and that seemed like such a long time. But that was three months ago.
Last week Janae and I planned Thanksgiving dinner. She was bringing yams with pineapple and pecans and marshmallows on top. I told her we'd give her a ride if she didn't want to drive. No problem, she said. It was Wednesday last week, nearly a lifetime ago.
Friday I got a call that she was in the hospital. Saturday morning I opened the door to room 622 on the Oncology Wing expecting to see my Janae sitting up, commanding the nursing staff from her bed. Instead I found her tiny and gray, curled under the blankets, sleeping so deep it seemed she was in another world. When she finally woke, she told me where to find her will. How to call a friend in another city. Who should get her pearl jewelry. She fell back asleep every few words and I had to wake her to finish each sentence.
Is it drugs? I asked the nurse. She shook her head.
You know the head shake. The one that comes with the tight smile and the set facial muscles. You see it all the time on television medical dramas just before the words "I'm afraid the news is bad."
The news is bad. The disease that has eaten her kidneys and swollen her liver so big it has pushed her stomach out of place has found its way into her brain.
Amazing things have a way of happening when life is short. Old friends find their way to the hospital bed. Estranged family members remember the love and fly into town. Good people find time to visit someone they never met for love of a friend. Through it all, flurries of emotion and care-taking erupt and subside all around while Janae sleeps at the eye of the storm.
Everything has been done that can be. All the phone calls have been made. The lost children have been found. We are all watching Janae together now, holding her in our hearts while starting to let go, praying her passing will be easy and peaceful.
Today I will spend Thanksgiving with my husband and sons and a pretty girl named Kait who will find it difficult to make it through dinner without holding my younger son's hand. Janae will not be with us.
Instead she will be three miles away, hard about the business of dying. It isn't easy to watch. Janae's body has more life in it than most. I fear that it won't let go without a hard fight. But in the end, the body will give way. It always does.
Janae's faith instructs that when her soul leaves her body it will be rejoined with the Inner Master and then will find its way into another life, one that will be better for the hard lessons learned while ensouled in Janae. I hope she's right. I hope that her soul's next life will be as part of a large, close, loving family. Maybe my soul's next life can be a next door neighbor.
Sometime tomorrow morning I will drive to the nursing home. I will sit beside the narrow bed by the window in Room 29, holding Janae's hand and telling her stories of Thanksgiving day. I'll bring some bit of stitchery to show her in case she opens her eyes. I'll tell her to hang on a few more hours, long enough for her daughter to arrive with Janae's newborn first grandchild.
I will leave her then to her sleep, to the kindness of Hospice caregivers, to the hard business of cutting the cords that hold her to this life so she can fly to the next.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
The Road Less Travelled
It's remarkable how many opportunities we have during a lifetime to lose friends.
Really, if you consider, they are all crossroads. Maybe you went to one high school and your friend to another. Or you went off to college in another state while your high school friends stayed home. Regardless of all the promises to be "Best Friends Forever", you lost touch quickly and it was all for the better. You entered the world of work and bonded quickly with the people you found there. But on the day you got married and your best Buds stayed single, something happened. You tried to stay friends, but somehow it got harder and harder to get together and you became closer and closer to other married people. When the first baby came along you crossed another road. Good friends suddenly looked at you as if they were seeing a maniac. And all just because you couldn't stop gushing about poop and spit-up and breast milk accidents. Your friends were other parents from then on.
Then came the day you got sick. You probably were sick for a long time before anybody, yourself included, noticed. We tend to operate like that. But once it was undeniable, once you had a label, it all happened so fast.....
At first, there was an outpouring of love and caring. Friends sent flowers. Acquaintances brought over pots of soup and casseroles. "Let me know if you need anything," they said. And they meant it. But you kept on cancelling get togethers. You became the constant no-show. And when you did make it, there were all those other problems:
You couldn't stand the sunlight, couldn't eat that food anymore, couldn't walk so long or stay up late. And more mind-boggling, maybe you just didn't have money any more. Two incomes had become one income and one constant source of medical bills. You were no longer able to drop into Starbucks for a $4 cup of coffee every day. Even if you felt like it.
Friends had come and gone before, but this one hurt. You really did need them.
Some of you even watched your spouse walk away.
If you were lucky, there was one good friend who stuck it out. The loneliness felt like another symptom, one that meds couldn't fix.
How do you make friends when you can't even get out of bed some days? How can you feel attractive and interesting when you hair is coming out in clumps and all you can talk about is the latest med and its affect on your body. Where are those people who will fold you into their arms and close ranks around you, loving and giving you encouragement and care?
Well, many of them are online, in special communities devoted to the particular illness or condition they share with you. I got lucky. When I needed friends the most, I found compassion, understanding and friendship online in an online Lupus support group.
Some of your friends-in-waiting are in support groups in your community. Check newspaper listings, ask your physician, call the nearest hospital. They can put you in touch. There may even be mentors for your condition, people who have been where you are and can help you through it.
When you become chronic, your life will change. It is, after all, another crossroads. You are taking the road less travelled, not by choice but by chance. But if you can look around you and reach out, just a bit even, then you will find that others are also traveling that same road. They will see you as you are now rather than as you were. They will learn to love you right now, in this moment.
Don't be afraid. Reach out, even if it's just by phone or computer. We need friends and companions on the road with us. They make the journey worthwhile.
The sites where I found friendship and compassion were a Lupus organization
and a Sjogren's Syndrome site.
Peach and blessings,
Matriarch
I have included two links in this post for supportive online communities. If you know of others, please send them and I will include them in future posts.
Really, if you consider, they are all crossroads. Maybe you went to one high school and your friend to another. Or you went off to college in another state while your high school friends stayed home. Regardless of all the promises to be "Best Friends Forever", you lost touch quickly and it was all for the better. You entered the world of work and bonded quickly with the people you found there. But on the day you got married and your best Buds stayed single, something happened. You tried to stay friends, but somehow it got harder and harder to get together and you became closer and closer to other married people. When the first baby came along you crossed another road. Good friends suddenly looked at you as if they were seeing a maniac. And all just because you couldn't stop gushing about poop and spit-up and breast milk accidents. Your friends were other parents from then on.
Then came the day you got sick. You probably were sick for a long time before anybody, yourself included, noticed. We tend to operate like that. But once it was undeniable, once you had a label, it all happened so fast.....
At first, there was an outpouring of love and caring. Friends sent flowers. Acquaintances brought over pots of soup and casseroles. "Let me know if you need anything," they said. And they meant it. But you kept on cancelling get togethers. You became the constant no-show. And when you did make it, there were all those other problems:
You couldn't stand the sunlight, couldn't eat that food anymore, couldn't walk so long or stay up late. And more mind-boggling, maybe you just didn't have money any more. Two incomes had become one income and one constant source of medical bills. You were no longer able to drop into Starbucks for a $4 cup of coffee every day. Even if you felt like it.
Friends had come and gone before, but this one hurt. You really did need them.
Some of you even watched your spouse walk away.
If you were lucky, there was one good friend who stuck it out. The loneliness felt like another symptom, one that meds couldn't fix.
How do you make friends when you can't even get out of bed some days? How can you feel attractive and interesting when you hair is coming out in clumps and all you can talk about is the latest med and its affect on your body. Where are those people who will fold you into their arms and close ranks around you, loving and giving you encouragement and care?
Well, many of them are online, in special communities devoted to the particular illness or condition they share with you. I got lucky. When I needed friends the most, I found compassion, understanding and friendship online in an online Lupus support group.
Some of your friends-in-waiting are in support groups in your community. Check newspaper listings, ask your physician, call the nearest hospital. They can put you in touch. There may even be mentors for your condition, people who have been where you are and can help you through it.
When you become chronic, your life will change. It is, after all, another crossroads. You are taking the road less travelled, not by choice but by chance. But if you can look around you and reach out, just a bit even, then you will find that others are also traveling that same road. They will see you as you are now rather than as you were. They will learn to love you right now, in this moment.
Don't be afraid. Reach out, even if it's just by phone or computer. We need friends and companions on the road with us. They make the journey worthwhile.
The sites where I found friendship and compassion were a Lupus organization
and a Sjogren's Syndrome site.
Peach and blessings,
Matriarch
I have included two links in this post for supportive online communities. If you know of others, please send them and I will include them in future posts.
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