A very dear friend of mine died in February (see When Someone is Really Happy to See You – same person). She was 99.
A couple of months before that, on one of my last visits, we had sat in her bedroom instead of our usual spot which was the living room with the view of the field and trees and the mountains in the distance, but also the TV in front of us. Nature shows kept her entertained and helped when the conversation was difficult since in the last few years, her hearing wasn’t so good, so she would sometimes retreat to her own world. The TV gave us something to share in silence or something to comment on from time to time. So this time, we were in her bedroom; no TV, no view except for the trees through the windows, very close, like a deep forest.
She was tired. So tired she was dozing off regularly in her chair and her head would slowly fall on her chest. Then she’d wake up again.
Having met her in her late 80s, I had always prepared myself for the day when I’d be told she was no longer part of this world. I had been lucky enough to have precious, beautiful, fun and funny moments with her. I had observed as her hearing had faded and we had all adapted; we always do in some way, I noticed. I had prepared myself for the day she wouldn’t recognize me or even know my name.
I would visit about every other month. Only once really did she look at me like a total stranger and then trusted her loved ones close by that I was someone close as well. But more often, even when she didn’t know my name, I could tell she knew me in some way. She knew I felt familiar to her and that was enough.
That day in her bedroom, she looked at me intensely. You know, like a baby looks at you, through you to get to the core of who you are. And she recognized me more, yet still not completely. She knew enough to notice I had changed the colour of my hair and that she liked it. She was very tired, yet she felt obligated to hold her part of the conversation. Proper upbringing:). I could see that in her eyes and the effort she was trying to make, so I said that I had friends that I could sit in silence with and that it was such a nice feeling to be able to experience that with someone. She smiled with that twinkle in her eyes. Sharp, smart lady, always.:) We talked of the weather – nice colours on the trees outside? She didn’t care anymore and didn’t apologize for it – and about the different kinds of chocolates and which one was her favorite. “All of them!” she said, but with a tone in her voice that indicated that it was foolish to even think of choosing just one:). She noticed my new necklace and we talked about that, where it came from, what it was and what it meant and she liked the funny name of the figurine it represented.
We had more of a conversation than we had had in months, years, even though she was tired. We’d take breaks. She’d doze off. I would just sit and hold her hand and just love her, surround her with love. It was the easiest thing in the world, loving her.
She’d wake up and ask me to help her to her bed. I wasn’t sure that I could do it properly and kept telling her I could call her son from the kitchen to do it. She’d say yes. He’d come and ask her. She’d look at me in the doorway and then would change her mind and say no. Then she’d talk to me a bit and doze off again and ask me to help her to her bed again. She’d say I could do it so I’d believe her. I would hold her hands and get ready to help her get up and then she’d doubt (smart woman) and would say no. I honestly loved how she’d be able to weigh the situation and still make important decisions about the independence she still had. Her son had done such a great job of always leaving her as much independence as possible for as long as possible; it was beautiful to watch.
Eventually, he helped her to her bed and I held her hand and kissed her goodbye, so grateful for such fun, genuine moments with her. We had welcomed the awkwardness of the silence at first and made friends with it. We had talked of teaching people or children and how and why. We had talked of knitting and how she had picked it up again and was a bit outraged that someone had put it away at some point thinking she would not want to do that anymore. She showed me how to do it. I told her my grandma had showed me years ago and that I wasn’t so good at it because I would go from lose to tight all the time. We had talked of some important visit she had had with people from her past. They were now married. She had taught them when they were little and hadn’t seen them since so it had been quite a reunion.
Many topics; all gifts, each one of them an opportunity for us to reconnect, to agree or disagree, to laugh together, to share and find our rhythm again, just like before, to realize once more that we really were kindred spirits.
It took me months to come to that realization. That visit was already special in my memory but it’s in talking about it recently that I came to the conclusion that her forgetting me, even partially, had given us a second chance at finding a friend in each other again. How often do we get that in life?
Val.
Value who you are; the unique kind of presence you bring to this world and how precious that is to its expansion.
Movement Never Lies 