Otherwise

Tuesday, I learned that a friend of mine had died. So on Wednesday, she was very much on my mind when the following poem by Jane Kenyan appeared in my email box, beneath a signature block. 

 "Otherwise"
 
 I got out of bed
 on two strong legs.
 It might have been
 otherwise. I ate
 cereal, sweet
 milk, ripe, flawless
 peach. It might
 have been otherwise.
 I took the dog uphill
 to the birch wood.
 All morning I did
 the work I love.

 At noon I lay down
 with my mate. It might
 have been otherwise.
 We ate dinner together
 at a table with silver
 candlesticks. It might
 have been otherwise.
 I slept in a bed
 in a room with paintings
 on the walls, and
 planned another day
 just like this day.
 But one day, I know,
 it will be otherwise.
 

It’s a beautiful, deeply conscious poem, noticing each minute the privilege of that moment. And I suppose the last line, “But one day, I know, it will be otherwise,” could mean all sorts of things. It could refer to, say, a change of job, a change of partner, a change in health, retirement. In fact, I guess it could refer to life. We all live always knowing that “one day … it will be otherwise.”

But coming on the day it did, the poem spoke to me of the inevitably of death. Each day, I go to sleep planning another day … but one day, it will be otherwise. This time, it was a friend’s “otherwise,” and my response to her death reminds me that one day it will be mine, too.

I met my friend through my work as a volunteer, a sort of “buddy,” with Boulder County Aging Services. From the first day I met her, I loved her spirit, her wit, her determination to be as engaged in her world as she could be—this despite a progressive illness that was stealing her physical abilities and would eventually diminish her mind as well. That first day, we spent a couple of hours talking, getting acquainted. In that conversation, I got my first glimpse of her sense of humor as she told me stories about her life and her kids. Like, about their embarrassment (which disguised delighted pride, I quickly realized) at her playful, unfettered approach to life. Once, traveling on a mountain road with her kids, she took a pit break next to the car. One son said (I imagine him rolling his eyes in jest), “I wish I had a proper mother.” “What would that be like?” she asked. “A mother who wears white gloves and plays Canasta.” She laughed and drove on. I learned so much about her from stories like that—and she had many.

That initial conversation also gave me an idea of what an active, engaged life she had led before she got sick—“back when I was alive,” she said. As I left that first day, she gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Definitely not something my family has ever done, even with one another, but it seemed right and welcoming. I soon learned that this is the standard Dominican greeting and farewell for family and friends. Once, she asked me why I didn’t say hello to her when I arrived. “But I did,” I insisted. “You didn’t kiss me.” I got it: No hello (and no goodbye) counts without a kiss on the cheek. I left hoping we would become friends.

On our first outing together, we went to the senior center to see what programs there might catch her fancy. We signed her up for a simple fitness class (“Sit ‘n’ Fit”) that seemed suited to her ability and interest, and then for lunch at the center on the two days the class met. Leaving the building, she seemed quiet, and I asked, “Are you exhausted?’” She answered, very quietly, “I’m excited!” And I thought, “I love this woman!” It fit so well with my own wish to stay engaged and alive as I age. How could I not love someone who shared that wish?

I took her to the fitness class the next day, planning to drop her off at the class and return later for lunch. I sat beside her in the exercise circle before the class began and asked if she was OK. “I’m scared,” she said. My instant reply, “I’ll stay.” Now, I have to admit that some of my reaction comes from my own wish to be needed—after all, how better to stay visible? But I also loved her willingness to share this range of emotions—“I’m excited” and “I’m scared.” It was a great match. She was energetic (insofar as her disease allowed), witty, loving, enthusiastic, smart—just what my soul craves. And she seemed to like and trust me. Perfect.

And so began nearly two years of bi-weekly exercise classes followed by lunch at the senior center. Over the past year, I have seen her health declining. She complained more often about not feeling well, but she still wanted to go to exercise class. “If I don’t go, I’ll do nothing,” she said. “That’s worse for me.” Conversations had always been hard for her because her disease meant that her ability to speak lagged way behind the thoughts she wanted to express. Over time, this had become more noticeable. Plus, it was harder and harder for her to show any sort of facial expression, and that bothered her. Try though she might, she could barely force a slight smile for a picture. In fact, I didn’t realize how much her physical appearance had changed until I compared two pictures I have of her—one taken at last year’s holiday party at the senior center and the other at this year’s party. Last year, the smile came easily. This year, it was faint. She reminded me (and others) that this was “the mask” that characterizes her particular illness.

I saw her last Thursday for the annual party. We ate junk food together. (She loved chocolate. She said she ate chocolates because opening them was good exercise for her fingers.) And I took her picture with the fire chief, who stopped by to visit. (She loved firemen. She always said that she liked to fall because then the handsome firemen would come help her up.) Then I dropped her off at her home, saying two goodbyes as we always did—once inside, with a kiss on the cheek, and then again as I stood outside the door, our palms touching through the screen. I said I’d see her Tuesday. Instead, Tuesday was the day I learned she had died.

So now it’s Thursday, a week since we last met. I went to the visitation today and saw her lying in her coffin. Some folks say that this experience provides “closure.” Perhaps the reaction is cultural or regional or dependent on one’s religion. But I didn’t grow up with “viewings,” and the few I’ve attended did not bring closure for me. Her lifeless figure didn't feel like the woman I knew—whereas the picture to the side, the one with just a hint of a mischievous smile, did. Tomorrow is the final service, and my time with her will be over.

Just last Thursday, I saw her. We joked, talked about her plans for Christmas, and ate chocolate. Tuesday, “I got out of bed on two strong legs,” planning to see her … but it was otherwise. Inevitable perhaps. But it makes me really sad.