I wrote this as a tribute to the memory of a dear friend. As a writer, I strive to connect with my audience through the visceral nature of shared experience.
We all understand grief.
Margy, I can’t get the image of your mouth out of my mind. It was just so parched, so hungry, so ready to let go. When I last visited, you begged for a drink. I’m sure water would have been enough, but who would blame you for wanting a stiff one? I wanted to wet your mouth with something, to ease your suffering, to rip out your IV and feeding tube and hang glide together out your window and across the Hudson.
But the problem was where to land. Watching you die in the hospital, I knew you wanted desperately to escape, to leave behind all the poking and prodding. And yet the hospital was the safest place to be. At least someone was there to wipe your brow, to turn an old lady’s body so you wouldn’t get bedsores, and to swab out your mouth.
“You have to get me out of here,” you said. You wanted me to take you to the beach. Oh, how I wish it could be so, Margy.
“Yes, let’s go to the beach,” I said. “Let’s close our eyes, and hear the crashing of the waves. Let’s feel the sun on our faces, relaxing our bodies, and listen to the laughter of nearby children as they build a sand castle.”
“No, no, no…Not a sunny beach. A stormy beach. I like the beach in winter on a stormy day.”
Of course, Margy. What was I thinking? The world was always a few shades darker for you. Your favorite song was “Losing My Mind,” from Sondheim’s FOLLIES. You were pen pals and friends with an inmate on death row. You were not afraid of the dark.
When I couldn’t take you out of the hospital to that stormy winter beach, there wasn’t much more to say. So we sang. We sang “Plain and Fancy,” from a musical about the Amish, because you knew the words. And then we sang “Amazing Grace,” even though you were an atheist, because I knew the words. Then we sang Carole King, because we both knew the words. You told me that “Beautiful” was your favorite, which I hadn’t known before. But when I sang it for you, I imagined what the lyrics might have meant to you: You didn’t have the kind of beauty that would land you on the cover of a magazine. Even in photos from your younger years, you looked as if you were wearing a body that didn’t fit quite right.
I know you were ready to go, because you asked me to help—not just go to the beach, but to leave your body behind. How I wish I could have helped you with that! I could see how trapped you felt, how desperate to leave.
The last time I saw you, I wanted more than ever to take you to that beach. You had just been discharged from the hospital to a nursing home in Inwood. Residents wandered the halls with blank stares in their eyes, hair reaching wildly toward the flickering fluorescent lights. I couldn’t find nurses anywhere near your room, and when I entered, you looked so alone. Your hospital gown was up around your neck, your blankets twisted, and your breast was exposed. You looked too vulnerable to be embarrassed, waking up as I covered you.
The skin on your lips was peeling off in chunks, like you’d been wandering in the desert. I guess we are all wanderers, in the end, looking for a way to get home.
I found a nurse and asked if she would come swab your mouth. She tossed me the sponge and the cleaning solution and said, “Here, do it yourself.” And I knew that you probably wouldn’t be turned, or swabbed, or cleaned the way you needed to be in this place.
I leaned over your bed with the sponge and wiped your mouth as best I could. The skin fell away in strips, but your lips looked pink again, which was a start. You held your jaws open wide like a little kid getting ready for the dentist. I scrubbed your teeth with the tiny sponge, until you told me you needed to spit—which, try as you might, you couldn’t quite pull off. But at least your mouth was moist.
I knew you needed to rest, so I told you I loved you, and adjusted your bed until you said you were more comfortable. And that was it. The last time I saw you.
Yesterday, I got a text on my way to work that you had passed in the early morning. I was walking to the train in the pouring rain. A wind advisory was in effect, and I was trying fruitlessly to keep my umbrella from inverting as I fought for every step I took.
I was angry. What had happened? Had you been alone? Were you afraid? Did you know what was happening? Why hadn’t I been there?
Only a day has passed, and I still have a lot of questions. But for now, it is enough to know that you are on a stormy beach somewhere, staring into the awesome power of the spray, singing…