Our Good Bye

We flew down to Florida on New Year’s Eve one year ago and made our way to see you in hospice. It was a quiet ride filled with small talk. The worst kind of talk if you ask me. There was no helping it, though. We looked out the window and watched the palm trees fly by one at a time. I wondered what it was like to live in a place that was forever warm and sunny.

When we walk in the room it takes every last bit of your energy to light up. But you are no stranger to pain and you muster the strength. We are pleased to see that you don’t look like you’re dying. Not today. The TV in your room is on and there is talk of a New Year’s Eve special starting soon. There is excitement, not in our air though. It’s really just confined to this tiny TV hanging on the wall. We take turns looking up at the screen and our faces silently say, “Would you mind? This doesn’t seem right. Please. Not now.”

Without your makeup you look wide-eyed and younger. There is no sign of anger on your beautiful face. There’s no messing around now, things have to count. You can’t afford anything less than true and deep eye contact. I see things in your eyes that I have never seen before: love, acceptance, fear, vulnerability, forgiveness. It’s difficult for me to hold this space with you because it’s so honest and real, and yet, I cannot turn away. When I look at you I feel this involuntary sense of wonder, as if I am a child. Then you say to me, “See how fast things change?”

Is this what it’s like when you are watching someone die? Some kind of unknown force enters the room like a short, chubby, busy housecleaner who comes in and just starts sweeping her broom from side to side. She grabs a dust cloth out of her apron pocket and is mumbling something under her breath while wiping down all the surfaces around us. “We’ve got to clean this place up, all this extra stuff has just got to go. None of this is necessary anymore.”

After a lifetime of experiencing so much pain you are still physically hurting. The simplest of things are heavenly to you: soft and crunchy ice chips, bubbly  and cool ginger ale, the gel the nurses apply to your dry lips, the small familiar towel that Erika brought for you to hold in your hand. It will be one of the last things you let go. And your thoughts are comforting you as you share them with us. These thoughts are like your dying requests though you know you’ll never have them again: martinis with olives, a game of mini golf, schtupel, (which the others in the room translate for me-crusty bread.) The things you want are so ridiculously simple that it’s overwhelming to see you speaking so passionately about them. You look at me and tell me you love me. Erika whispers that she wish Amelie and Harper were here. You make me promise to get all of the children together. I still have to do that.

We leave for the night and quietly bring in the New Year at your house with the German tradition of jelly donuts and sparkling wine. I take a picture of the moment. How long will it be before we forget it?

The next day is January 1, 2013. This is the day that you will die. You talk about music. You love Lionel Richie because his music is romantic. You tell us, to all of our dismay, that you think he’s sexy.  Tom says, “I’ve never heard you say that about anyone. Ever.” You’re on a roll, and I try to keep up with all of your requests for songs by pulling up videos on my phone. We listen to them together, weeping openly, unable to hide our emotion. We end up playing Three Little Birds by Bob Marley on repeat. You sing along at a near whisper, eyes closed. “Every little thing/Is gonna be alright.”

When you start to get sick I take the children home to your house. I will learn a few hours later about the last moments of your life and how your sister and children wiped your mouth and face and held you and then generously let you go just when you were ready.

It is all at once painful and beautiful to relive these moments a year later. Happy New Year, Inge. I wish I could look into your wide eyes tonight and listen again while you tell me what is truly beautiful.