I am between

August 1
I should write about this odd time in my life, when I am between hotel and home, family and friends, work and whatever there is to do that is not work-related. Yesterday I flew to Chicago from San Diego, knowing that I was only spending the night there, so that I could get on a plane early the next morning to Victoria.

I am one of the team from work that is putting on the Summer Institute in Chicago. My original plans, after my ticket to Chicago was booked, was to visit my friend Mary in Victoria following the Chicago Institute during the time that I am going to help move Mikayla back up to school. Plans were in place, airline tickets booked and bought, hotel arrangements made. I knew Mary was not doing well. Her cancer was claiming her. When I told her of my plan to see her August 11-14th, she said she hoped that she would still be around then. She rang the warning bell, as the death knoll rattled her weakening body. I could not figure out how to see her any earlier than that. I have to be in Chicago. Scott was planning on joining me there for a few days. If I didn’t come, it would have ruined his vacation plans. For me to change the tickets that my company had purchased was going to be formidably expensive. After much mulling, I decided to move my Victoria trip up to August 6, so that I would fly directly from Chicago to Victoria.

My line of communication with the situation was through Mary’s son, Bill. He informed me that the 6th may be too late. Again, I could not see how to balance all my commitments to come earlier. It took teasing out knots of thoughts over a couple of days to find a viable plan.

I would take the company flight to Chicago on July 31st, leave as early as possible the next morning for Victoria, and return to Chicago the following day as late as possible. This way, I would be present at the start of the Institute, and only miss some meetings. I would be able to see Mary as soon as I can. Scott could still come to Chicago and enjoy the hotel room in my name, and tour the city.

This is why I am in the middle of three days of hop-scotching around the country. And I am going to say goodbye to my dear friend. I haven’t come to terms with that. All my energy has been focused on getting there, not the reality of what waits for me when I am there. Mary is my second mother, who has known me since I was seventeen. We were very close the six years I lived in Victoria, and I have remained in touch with her the following 28 years. Although her body has declined, her mind has and always was as sharp as it was when I first met her. Every time we get together, or talk on the phone, we laugh a lot. Losing her is losing a lot of laughter.

August 2 morning
I am in my motel room. There is such a contrast from my hotel (The Palmer House) in Chicago and this 1970s era Robinhood Motel. At least it is clean and close to Mary.

Bill insisted on making my coming a big surprise for Mary. I went along with it, as I have gone along with so much so as not to cause any waves. More on that…maybe later. He met me at the door and I walked into the room where Mary was sitting up in her favorite green wingback chair. She was shocked to see me and we both cried a little. I hugged her skinny shoulders and she hugged me back with suprising strength.

Mary looked weakened and in pain. She seemed in between the life she lived and her final rest. Her stomach is “an awful mess” as she says. She feels nauseous all the time, so is always uncomfortable. Her feet are very swollen, no socks would fit around them. I know what these signs mean, having been through the deaths of both of my parents. Talking is tiring for her, but she is still all there, all there in that body that is failing her, that body that is too worn out to fight back anymore… It causes her so much discomfort that she says she just wants out of here.
Today I will see her until about noon, when I have to drive out to the airport, return the rental car and fly back over the beautiful San Juan Islands to change planes in Seattle on my way back to Chicago.

I don’t think I will be able to dwell on the fact that this will be the last time that I will see my dear friend. That is just too painful. I have to remember that there are not too many people who get to live to her age. She tells me she has had a good life. That is all anyone can hope for when they are about to cross over. She lives in her daughter’s home and her son is extremely attentive. She is loved and cared for.

I am going to miss talking to Mary about politics (both Canadian and American) which she followed as closely as some follow sports. To her it was a sport. She knew the players and was loyal to her team, knew all the bad pitches of so-called truth, celebrated the touchdowns and cried at the upsets. When the match was close, she was there in her armchair, cheering her side as vocally as she could. For the last year the captain of her team has been Barak Obama. She had a crush on him, like she did eight years ago on Bill Clinton. “Isn’t he cute?” she’d ask me. She loves everything he says and stands for and just as passionately hates George Bush. I once sent her four pages of Bushisms which had her rolling in laughter for days.

It is her laughter that I will miss most. She found a lot to laugh at. She appreciated my sense of humor (not everyone does) which meant phone conversations were always peppered with laughter.

Many times on the phone, and when I visited her, she would talk about the last half of her life. She deeply regretted that she stayed married to her second husband for forty-five years. When she was 86, she separated from him. She put their condo up on the market and moved in with her daughter. Those last two years were in some ways her best. She had been diagnosed with cancer earlier, and her last year with her husband was one of her worst. She was declining quickly. As soon as she separated from him, her health improved and she started getting more energy. She asked for her baking dishes back from the granddaughter that she had given them to and started baking again. Mary loves sweets and was an expert baker. I will miss her Nanaimo Bars, her cookies and her cakes. I loved them as much as she did.


August 2nd afternoon
I am on the plane headed back to Chicago. I feel like my time with Mary was only 10 minutes long, when right before I had to leave, I got a few minutes alone with her. She sat in her wingback, with waterlogged feet, a small voice and clear, but sad blue eyes. We talked, but there was no laughter. I hugged her and told many times that I loved her. It hurt to say goodbye. We cried. She said not to be sad, but I am. And so is she.

I am losing a dear friend, a second mom, a reason for staying connected to Victoria, which was home to me.

I know it would be better to celebrate her as a long life lived well, but there is no celebration in me. Yet there are very few tears in me, too. Sometimes I question myself and wonder if there is something wrong with me because I cry so little. I shed only a few tears for Mary. I tried to cry in the half hour drive back to the airport but the tears just do not come. Sadness and exhaustion all come, but not simple tears. I have to ask myself what I feel, because I know that I should cry, and I don’t. What is wrong with me? Is there something wrong with me?

I told Mary that I would try to get up to see her again, and she said, “Don’t bother. I am going to get sicker and I don’t want you to see me like that.”

Almost exactly three years ago, I flew over the same San Juan Islands after my mom had died. I have a similar feeling of emptiness. The Islands looked beautiful, but the airplane window I was looking through seemed translucent. Today, the islands looked lonely, disconnected from each other, sometimes reaching out a sandbar arm to a neighboring island, but it trickled off, as if forgetting where it was going.