'the only god / who comes as a servant when he is called'



Here's something I hesitated to blog about, but it's shaken me, and in some odd way reassured me about the nature of this world and the people in it, so here goes.

In today's mail there was a small, bright pink envelope with a computer printed label addressed to the household. Expecting an invitation, perhaps to yet another 60th birthday, I tore it open and found a creamy piece of note paper with our names in fountain pen ink on one side, and on the other, laser-printed in an elegant italic font, a message that began:

By the time you are reading this I will have gone on my journey.

Suddenly the day turned solemn. The note was from J, an older friend we haven't seen for almost a year. She went on:

I have lived a long and interesting life, my health conditions are now chronic and not likely to improve. It is enough, time to let go.

I have always said I would like to have a dignified and peaceful death at the time and place of my choosing. Be happy for me that I have achieved this. I also wished to have a private cremation.

J had been dealing with constant pain for years. Surgery and glucosamine had each helped for a time, and she had made determined efforts to live life to the full: she'd mastered Desktop Publishing when well into her 70s and used it in her volunteer work for OWN (the Older Women's Network); she'd taken out a reverse mortgage on her flat and used the money, among other things, for an exhilarating trip to Paris, a city she had loved for decades but only visited once, decades before. Now she has made this big decision. I imagine her sitting at her desk night after night composing notes of farewell to her many friends. This wasn't a generic letter:

I have wondered often about Mollie. As I have never heard from you I assume she is still with us. Poor darling – it is the last thing she would have wanted. I think fondly of you all.

I don't take 'I have never heard from you' as a reproach -- this wasn't a relationship built on obligation -- but it does produce a sharp pang of regret that we haven't been in touch. Before outings became too difficult and disturbing for Mollie, we would drive her to meet up with J for a cup of coffee every fortnight or so. Their friendship survived the impact of Alzheimers, and J was consistently kind, affectionate and respectful as Mollie's ability to keep up even the pretence of conversation dwindled. She was a big soul.

Possibly because of my Catholic upbringing, I recoil from the idea of suicide and have been enraged when people close to me have taken that path, enraged either at them, or more defensibly at the circumstances that drove them to it. But this letter, and the action it announces, are in a different realm altogether. J certainly isn't asking my approval. I don't know the detail of her passing yet, and I may never know it. What I do know is that she has made her exit graciously, with kind attention to the ones she's leaving behind, even with flair: the note goes on to invite us to 'a gathering for a Celebration of my Life, and I hope a few laughs ... at one of my favourite haunts (no pun intended)', and ends:

I wish you health good enough to enjoy the pleasures still to come in your life, and peace and contentment.

[My title is from Stevie Smith's poem, 'Come Death (II)', written shortly before she died of a brain tumour.]

Posted: Mon - April 28, 2008 at 10:25 PM           |

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