I miss you so

My alarm went off early on Father's Day.  I had planned on a run before work, but when I woke the first thing I felt was pain.  Not just in my lower back or neck, as is there most every morning, but all-over pain that kept me from even rolling over. I laid there for a few minutes, thinking, feeling, deciding what to do. 

Suddenly, unexpectedly, I started to tear up.  I said aloud, "I hurt so bad this morning Abba.  I'm so tired.  I don't want to run today."  My next thought was, "That's how Sharon feels this morning."  Next, since I've taken to turning off my phone before bed lately, I thought, "I wonder if I left my phone on last night?"

And then it rang.

And I already knew who was calling.  I already knew what Sandy had to tell me, and I knew it again as soon as I heard her voice.

The past Thursday, returning home after what turned out to be the last overnight I'd spend with her, there was a dragonfly perched against my window.  I'd been thinking about hope when I came through the door; my breath caught in my throat as I stood there, heart clenched, eyes burning.  She was still there when I left for work - over an hour later.





I'd stopped in to see her on Friday, and although she was awake when I arrived, she was feverish again, even more jaundiced than the days before, and struggling for breath as the nurses worked with her. I told her I'd wait in the hall with her sisters, and she nodded her head in understanding. When we returned, she was again deeply asleep and unresponsive. I took her hand and whispered to her that I loved her, and that I'd be back to see her and stay the nights with her as long as she needed me.

I really thought I'd get to speak to her again. The medical professional in me knew it wouldn't be long, but my human heart didn't know how to release my hope that she would live.

The next day, Saturday, I traveled to Duluth with my bike to watch Kelly finish her first marathon.  At lunch afterwards, Kelly leaned in to me to say that a dragonfly had circled her during the early portion of her race, and by the half-way point, set itself onto her shoulder for a half-mile or so as she ran.  She knows; the dragonfly is a living memory and a hello for her, too.

Now, having received the dreaded and aching final call, work allowed me to come in late so that I could be with Sandy and so that I could see Sharon Juliahna in her physical form for the last time. On my way to the hospital, I got a text message from my friend Maribeth. "Biggest dragonfly ever...hovering in the yard as I mow...following me, been five minutes now. Thought of you <3"

Yes, hello my friend.

We spent an hour sorting through and packing up her treasured belongings from the room she'd lived in for six weeks.  I touched the bottle of orange and patchouli body lotion, the one I'd arrived wearing one night and which she liked so much that I left for her.  It was the lotion I'd massaged into her bruised hands and swollen knee when the pain patches weren't helping.  I picked up the tube of Burt's Bee's Ultra-Conditioning Lip Balm I'd brought for her when the Vaseline they were putting on her parched lips made me gag.  As I sorted through her bedside table, I found a book with the following feedback on the cover: "...a story for anyone who crept into their own life without a precise sense of location."  I chuckled, recognizing a piece of our shared heart in her choice of novel. 

Sandy, Mel, and I: we talked.  We laughed.  We cried as we prayed over her body and said goodbye.  Finally, we turned off her favorite lamp and unfurled her pipe-cleaner, smiling purple daisy from its place at the foot of her bed, positioned so she'd always see it first when she opened her eyes.  We said goodbye to the staff who'd begun to feel like family, left the remaining snacks for other patients in the kitchen, and silently wheeled the cart out to the van.

I put the lotion on throughout work that day and felt her with me.  I started reading her book, now my own to keep. 

I felt something in my pocket after work on Monday, and pulled out the tube of lip balm which I thought I'd thrown away.  I couldn't breathe, nor could I cry.  I just stood there in my kitchen, staring at the tube in my hand.

Wednesdays were my nights with her.  I got off work at 7pm and wandered around, not knowing what to do with myself.  In my bedroom, next to a board full of birthday and graduation cards, I noticed my blue windchime, perched there for years.  Sharon brought me this gift from Italy - I've just now remembered it was my wedding gift from her.  I walked back into the dining room to reflect on two other boards.  I remembered that my desire to create these boards came from the "vision board" that Sharon had created for her living space for as long as I've known her.  I put my own together with Jean while I was on surgical leave last year.  Packing the next day's lunch before bed, I reached for a cup of pineapple and saw that I'd written across the top, "229, 6-13."  At the hospital, food had to be labeled with the room number and date; I'd brought it to the hospital last Weds night but hadn't remembered to eat it.  

Such strange senses of disconnection, of nothing making sense.  She's here...but no, she isn't. 



Italian wind chime

Inspiration board

Love board

Thursday's shift brought me to a total of 52 hours in 5 days.  I woke on Friday having finally slept somewhat decently, unspeakably grateful for no plans and no obligations other than to finally give my heart some space and attention.  On Facebook, I saw her comments on my pictures of our time in Italy.  I saw her late birthday wishes to me.  My mom e-mailed about visitation and funeral timing, and I called her back to make arrangements for picking up my own sister, coincidentally flying into town during the service.  I couldn't seem to plan for times or even give directions, nor could I articulate how I was feeling when she asked: so much and yet so little.

But I know this place, this grieving place.  I've been here before, and Sharon walked with me through it, long before we called each other Friend.

I hung up the phone as I looked up at the wall littered with photos of my friends - nine frames of loving and hilarious moments with those closest to me.  At the bottom right is a picture I took of Juliahna, Roberto, Jillian, and Nadia, leaning together at a ristorante in Rome as we celebrated Festa della Nonna (Grandmother's Day).

...exploring and photographing in Rome.

Photos that Sharon took of Jillian and I...

And my legs wouldn't hold me up any more.  I sunk down in the middle of my living room floor and cried until my eyes were nearly swollen shut and my stomach cramped.  I laid there for a long time.

Later, before heading north for the the services, I went for my overdue run.  I ran until the ache in my legs was louder than the ache in my heart.

I had to clutch my microphone with both hands as I sang for her on Saturday.  When Jillian came to sit by me during the lunch, my first panicked thought was, "God, please help me, I don't know what to say to her."  And then as I looked at her, a conversation between Sharon and I, years ago at the beginning of this journey, returned to me. I had arrived to take Jillian to an appointment, as Sharon was confined to her apartment post-transplant.  As Jillian, then seven years old, busied herself packing for our trip, I turned to Sharon and asked quietly, "Sharon, what does she know?  Does she know how sick you are, that this could be fatal?  What do you want me to say or to not say if she asks me?"

She thought for a minute.  And then, in her calm and peaceful way, she said, "Amahnda (pronounced as the Italians do), I don't know what exactly she knows.  She does know that I'm very sick.  But I trust you.  If she asks you, I trust that what you say to her will be the right thing."

Being silly in the car that day.

I knew that was huge at the time, and Juliahna knew that I wouldn't take her words lightly.  But it wasn't until Saturday that I really understood the responsibility, the privilege, and the gift that her trust in me would need to be someday.  Jillian and I looked at each other, both of us so silently but clearly feeling the presence of her mother's absence.  I knew I didn't have to fear the rightness of my words.

It's finally real.  My friend is gone. A friend who spoke my language, a friend who never judged but rather created a welcome space for my every thought and feeling, a friend who supported every outrageous and wishful dream, a friend who lived and fought with courage and grace.  A friend who invited me into her family, both here and abroad.  A friend who let me see her and care for her at her most vulnerable.  A friend who trusted me deeply with her most precious legacy. 

So many memories which I haven't thought of in years, so many pieces of her influence in my home, in my life, and in my heart. It's hard for me to even go to work, to arrive at the U of M without wanting to turn on Oak Street toward the visitor parking ramp instead of around East River Rd to the ambulance bay.  I automatically press "4" in the elevator instead of my patient's floor.

My dearest Juliahna.  I miss you so.