A Shared Journey
As we flew over the North Pole from Portland to Palermo, our friend, Steve, was on a journey of his own. We knew he was fading, as surely as the September daylight diminished. Steve had been hospitalized two weeks ago, where he was told that his cancer had spread to his spine, lymph nodes, lung, and liver.
Our group of four had enjoyed our last dinner together a few days before my husband, James, and I left town, one meal in a long string of shared Thursday night outings. Kay and I wore dresses and both fashion-savvy men had chosen suits for the occasion, as if it were something special, which, indeed, it turned out to be. We settled in our outdoor seats, the patio lush with greenery and speckled with late-afternoon sunshine. After drinks, delicious food, and a shared dessert, Steve said, quietly but firmly, that he’d like to pay for the meal. He was clear that this required no quid pro quo, and that it was important to him. It seemed a gentle acknowledgment that our foursome would not endure, a silent appreciation of our shared friendship.
Kay and I had met about eight years earlier as older women taking ballet classes together, and our relationship had expanded to include all aspects of our lives, including socializing with our partners. We’d supported one another throughout surgeries, injuries, and shared joys, and I desperately wanted to be there for her as she cared for Steve during his last days. But, no, I was far, far away, and wouldn’t return for nearly four weeks.
After we recovered from our jetlag, I called Kay, who told me that she’d set up a bed downstairs for Steve, so he wouldn’t have to climb the stairs. On the fourth day of our trip, I decided to send a text to them, intending to send joy, but not sure how it would be received. Would Kay feel jealous that I was free to travel? Would my texts and photos cause Steve sadness, knowing that he’d never see sights like these again? I wrestled with my fears, picked up my phone to text, and adopted a breezy tone to hide my anxiety, wondering what was right in this situation.
Ciao, thought I’d share photos with both of you, if you’re interested. Plus, I’ll send a poem I wrote yesterday. We’re thinking of you both and sending lots of love. Hope you can escape into some of these photos….
Sicilian Sunday morning
Church bells calling
We dive into our salty sanctuary
Floating on our backs,
My love says, “This is heaven.”
I hit “send,” and released my words into the cloud. Within moments, Steve responded,
I love it...simple, and I hear it, smell it and feel it.
Thrilled that he could still text and that he seemed open to communicating, I wrote back,
I just realized I sent a lot of food pictures!
It happens in Italy, he replied.
I could tell from reading his response that he was smiling, his eyes were twinkling, that his senses had been activated, and that he had, for just a moment at least, been transported. We continued to text, going deeper. Although I couldn’t bring food or flowers to their house, I realized that I could perhaps support them in a different way from half a world away. I abandoned the breezy tone and voiced heartfelt words.
Steve, you made tears come to my eyes. Thank you for receiving this. Wish I could have a plate of pasta delivered to you. It’s a modern miracle that I can, at least, send images and words that magically conjure up a different place, filled with sensory delights. If it is possible, in some spiritual way, to bring you here with us, we are doing it. Each day we talk about you, wishing you both could be here having dinner with us, or for a stroll along the waterfront in the cooler, evening air, washed clean by today’s intermittent rain.
He responded, This is the most kind travel post that we have ever received.
Tears in my eyes, I wrote,
I guess that means you’re feeling the love I’m trying to express. Honestly, it makes me happy too, because I’ve felt badly about not being there, and now I am finding a way to ‘be there’ in a different way. My mom used to say that all we can do is ‘do the best we can with what we’ve got.’ We are all doing just that.
Kay weighed in,
This brought a big smile to both of our faces. Well-needed. Thank you for sharing. We feel a little bit like we are there. We are in spirit.
Thus began our almost-daily correspondence, which was good for all of us. Having found a way to support them, I felt buoyed. And it helped me to be more aware of my own feelings and sensory experiences. I was fully grateful for being able to travel to a beautiful place, to taste the foods, see the light reflecting off the sea, hear children laugh. Each day, I looked and listened for moments that I could describe and send to my friends back home who could barely leave their house, who wondered if each walk in their garden would be the last one they would have together. Soon, he would be confined to one small room, while I stared at infinite spaces.
Would you like to go for a swim with us in the Tyrrhenian Sea? Oh, Kay, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to get in the water, so you can sit on the beach and watch. We walk the 300 or so yards from our room to the sand; it feels almost like the soft, white sand on the Jersey shore. The sea is rough today, and first, I stand and observe the shape of the waves, where they break, and the strong sideways current. The water is quite shallow, causing waves that whomp. We step in the water, not tropical, but just fine, jumping over breaking white water. The bottom of my two-piece bathing suit won’t hold up to such pulling, so I crouch on the smooth, packed sand and dunk under each wave, one after another, maybe five seconds apart. While I stay low, James jumps the white water and is swept further away by the sideways current each time his feet leave the sturdy bottom. We see a beautiful, smooth, 25-year-old bum, threaded by a thong. Seeing her, I think of myself, those bikinis of my own youth. James strides against the powerful current and we walk in together. He faces the shore, and I back out, keeping my eyes on the ocean, as I was taught. James and I are exhilarated.
Steve responded quickly, expanding my short description.
I’m there with you two in the ancient waters. Isn’t it magical how the same sea floated Phoenicians, Romans, Moors and so many explorers, conquering fleets and simple fishermen for millennia?!
I so appreciated being able to co-create stories with Steve. We’d written together once before, when he committed to putting some of his own life stories into print. He’d reclined on the couch while he told me the tale of his daughter’s birth in a teepee. I’d typed out what he dictated, sent it to him for editing, and then returned another day to craft the final version together. We’d planned to write other chapters, but his health had declined by then and it never happened. But writing together was a conduit for connection I think we both were happy to traverse once again. I texted back to him.
I love how you added the big picture of this story, the layer of history over my personal experience! Yes, exactly, we are at the juncture of the Tyrrhenian Sea and the Mediterranean. Couscous is on most menus. Of course, this is a big fishing area, especially for red tuna. Close your eyes and savor a taste of salt water. Kay can make you a small glass of salt water or you can taste what your own body produces. Isn’t it also fascinating that our tears aresalty like the sea? It’s a clear physical connection of our bodies and the sea.
I closed out that day’s conversation with aline about life, and implied death, a line that I deleted and rewrote over and over again, until I gathered the emotional strength to send it.
When a cloud covers the six-p.m. sun, we walk, barefoot, like the children we remember being, to our room. It is time for gelato as the sun goes down behind the lighthouse in this town, called San Vito, or ‘life-giver.’
The next day’s text was lighter, a fanciful story that was actually true.
Today, I met someone. It was a short relationship, but profound. I was in the water, and he came close to me, facing me, right in front of my face. He moved near my shoulder, almost touching my skin. He seemed to show off by curling up and then straightening. I called him Roberto and spoke to him in the soft voice I use with babies and puppies.
Roberto was a fish, about 3/4” long and thin, bright silver, like a glittering pin. After 10 minutes, I caught a wave. When I returned to the vicinity of our rendezvous point, he approached me again. I was so happy to see him. ‘Roberto!’ I cried, smiling, ‘You found me!’ I blew gentle bubbles on the surface to try to communicate with him. I tried cupping my hands, but as I brought them closer to his sleek little body, he darted away, and then turned and came right back. I dove and looked up at him from underneath, the sunlight behind his quivering body.
We seemed to stare at each other for about 15-20 minutes, reminding me of that feeling of inter-species intimacy when Pippy stares into my eyes. When I was ready to swim to shore, I said, ‘Ciao!’ Amazingly, he turned and flicked away, and I never saw him again.
Steve was right there with me, his sense of humor intact. He wrote,
Imagine the story Roberto has shared with their school. Perhaps to be included in Roberto’s next book ‘Fish Tales.’ Chapter 10:An Amazing Conversation With a Kind Stranger.
I answered,
First of all, Steve, what a creative and funny idea! I didn’t even think of that angle. You consistently take in what you read and then come up with a fresh extension. We’re good writing partners. James and I seem to go back to our room around 4:00 p.m. to rest, and I look forward to writing to you during that time.
Later, I learned that they had seen the oncologist that day, andthat Steve had chosen not to receive any more chemotherapy. His prognosis was from one to two months. I was aware that the days were marching on, one after another, closer and closer to the day he would not be able to read, to smile, to text.
Today, the wind is strong, and I listen to it swish and swoosh and rattle among palm fronds. I watch it make the sea dance, her white skirts flipping. I once observed a conversation with kindergarteners about the wind.
“Where does the wind come from?” the teacher asked. Five-year-old scientists thought it came from the trees, the sky, or trucks passing by. Five-year-old philosophers thought God sent the wind. Five-year-old artists believed the wind came from leaves.
Can you draw the wind, or can you only draw the impact of the wind on physical objects? Pondering the wind in these ways leads me to think of cause and effect. Pulling out and considering the bigger picture, as you so wisely have modeled for me, leads me to the metaphorical. Can the wind also carry that which is invisible, yet powerful? We know that wind originates far away, and smells hitch a ride.
But can it carry that which is not sensory? From whence does this wind come? Does this same wind travel to you, so I can send my wishes and tender thoughts upon it? I want to imagine it can. I believe that people over the millennia have sent messages upon the wind to loved ones. Can this wind blow into your window and sweep clarity and compassion and calm into your mind?
I have an image of a soft wind entering one ear and bringing beams of glittering light and gentleness, and then exiting the other ear, clearing out shredded remnants of fear and pain and anxiety. Can this wind rush to you awareness of beauty and wisdom, and envelop you in gusts of love? Can this wind find you, among all the millions and millions of beings in the world, and touch a kiss to your forehead?
This time, it was Kay who wrote back first on what had morphed into a group text.
OMG Nancy. You have me in tears. The wind just released a flood. Thank you for the prose. My heart is so heavy right now that all those beautiful words bring me some comfort. We had a 2-hour hospice meeting yesterday which was very informative and helpful. This whole process is so difficult, I get lost, don’t know what to do next. Steve’s brother and his wife came yesterday. It is so good for Steve to have his brother here, but his endurance is zero. He got so worn out that it will be important to moderate the rest of his family that is coming Saturday to Tuesday. So much to do and not always sure where to start. Thanks so much for sharing your adventures. I miss you guys a lot.
Realizing that I needed to step back while his family visited, and taking in the truth of his physical deterioration, I wondered if we’d reached the end of our digital conversation.
But Steve followed up with a poignant response,
So beautiful. I was deeply moved. To tears, silence, and gratitude…to have lived long enough to have read this.
Indeed, these were the last words I received from him, a precious gift from a dying friend. I answered,
Thank you, Steve. I imagine you being so grateful for these little things in life in a way that I do not yet fully comprehend but will someday.
I called Kay on the phone and listened to her mix of anxiety and acceptance. Steve understood that he was dying; at this point, he was more concerned about his pain than he was about dying. She said he was having a hard time reading, probably due to the stronger pain-killer, and that he still read texts. Since she told me that the texts brought a smile to Steve’s face, as well as comfort to her, I continued to send messages. Meanwhile, Steve could still get outside for a short walk, and he still watched Bloomberg News, but he slept more and was nauseous. But my words felt more like entertaining stories than shared conversations.
Screenplay for Movie: “The September of Our Lives”
Setting: We are in San Vito lo Capo, Sicily, at 7:15 on a Saturday night in September, after sunset. We hear the sea in the background. Our couple is older, tanned, he is wearing a white shirt and tan slacks, and she wears a sheer tan top and a black and tan long skirt. She wears a delicate black and gold necklace from her step-mother, who used to live in Italy with her Italian mother.
Scene 1: James and Nancy walk up four steps into a restaurant and are greeted like family by Rosa, a charismatic, young, dark-haired beauty with sparkling eyes. Her father, stocky and balding, recognizes them with a grin, shakes James’ hand and kisses Nancy on the cheek. The couple sits at a table for two and enthusiastically shake hands with Buba, a friendly, tall, slim, smiling waiter wearing a white shirt, originally from Guinea, who is studying fashion. The restaurant is still empty, since it is considered early for Italians.
Scene 2: Rosa walks to the microphone and begins to sing an Italian song, accompanied by a man playing keyboards.
Scene 3: James stands and holds his hand out to Nancy, palm up, and they dance a jazzy foxtrot between the tables. In the background, Rosa is watching them, smiling broadly, her eyes soft. She is in the spring of her life, and she appreciates the older couple in the September of their lives. They will soon move to winter, but, in this moment, they still feel a light touch of summer, of youth. The couple laugh when Nancy misses a step, trying not to bump into a table, and they continue dancing, him holding her closely and leading gracefully. The male keyboard player sings harmony and James dips Nancy gently backwards. When the music softens to a close, they sit back down at their table.
Scene 4: Rosa comes to the table and takes their order of limoncello spritzes and cannoli.
Scene 5: The father surprises them with the gift of 2 slices of toasted bread topped with caponata and Buba brings a plate of the beautiful cannoli, the plate sprinkled with delicate white powdered sugar.
Scene 6: As the camera pans out, we see fireworks burst over the sea in the distance. We see the tall, white lighthouse on the point in the background, while Rosa sings another song.
I did not hear back from either of them that day, and the next morning I wrote,
Good morning, my dear friends. Although it is almost evening here, I want to send you a sunrise story, if you feel like reading…In my dream, I said, to no one in particular, ‘Music clears the soul and the dance replenishes it.’ Then, in the dream, I danced a bowing movement to the sea.
So, when I awakened, before sunrise, I walked down to the beach. Sitting, the cool sand tickled my toes. It was seven a.m., and the sun was rising from behind puffy white clouds that reflected the light. The sea was flat and glassy, with only tiny swells that came from the north to rest on this peaceful shore. I stood, and saw my sunrise shadow stretch across the cool, morning sand like a Giacometti statue, or the point of a compass, across the sand from east to west.
I performed a full-body sun salutation and recalled the many times I have stood humbly before the altars of so many suns shining on so many seas. The waves of my life tumbled before me one after another: the wave that pushed me from my mother’s womb to her loving arms; waves in my tiny baby years, me running to the edge pf the sea, high-stepping with abandon; waves of childhood, holding my mother’s hand or riding on my father’s back; waves of my teen years, studying the unique movements of those particular swells , then diving under them, and riding them one after another, in and out, in and out. Each of these histories breaking upon the shore, and then receding into foamy memory.
All of which brings me to this calm bay, these tiny delicate waves, waiting for the legendary seventh wave, here in my seventh decade, the salt-encrusted sand already warm from the sun. My hair is wild, happily free, as I create a dance of gratitude before this altar, pouring into my dawn body the words and motions of my dream the previous night.
I received no answer. A social worker came to their house and coordinated services. A hospice nurse visited. Steve consulted with volunteers who came to the house to answer questions and give insight into what it would be like to participate in the death with dignity program, which was legal in Oregon. Steve’s brother flew into town, followed by more family members. Kay told me that the combination of pain and medication made him really tired. Steve was fairly calm, peaceful, and loving, and appreciative for all the help and support he received.
I waited a few days and wrote,
I know you’ve had family with you for some days, so I’ve backed off. Still thinking of you, and talking about you both, daily. We’ll be home in about a week.
And again, another day,
Good day to you, dear friends. I notice that I didn’t write to you as much when surrounded by the beautiful bustle of city life. Perhaps the external noise and constant movement overwhelm the internal words I can hear in quiet places. But even in the cities, I brought you along. I lit a candle for you in a church before a sculpture of Saint Martin, on horseback, reaching down to give his cloak to a pauper. For some reason it called to me, and I thought of you, Steve, so I lit a candle, and I noticed, as I did so, that I thought of strength, your strength, and generosity. and kindness, which are embodied in this statue. And, Kay, I felt you at an outdoor altar. You’re with us in each little shop as we looked at and touched clothes. Of course, I took bites for you both of pasta, tuna, pizza, cannoli, and sips of aperol spritz.
I continued to describe our experiences for them, but did not receive written responses from Steve. The absence of words spoke loudly and clearly. There were to be no more clever phrases, no more jokes. I forwarded them a music video made by our daughter and they listened to it together during their daily private time together, between 4:30-6:00 in the afternoon. Steve told Kay that the song could be a real hit. He was in the moment, still present and not fearful. Steve was dying kindly and generously, as he had lived.
More family visited Steve, and then a chaplain and Father Ryan from the Episcopal Church, who gave Steve his first holy communion. As a child, he had wanted to opt out of the communion ceremony, due to questions about his faith, and his mother had given him permission to put it off. Somehow, it had never happened, which he discussed with Father Ryan. The priest offered to give him his first holy communion then and there, so both Steve and Kay received communion together, the afternoon light illuminating the scene like a Renaissance painting. That was the beginning of the end.
Steve was still alive when we returned. Four days later, we helped transport Steve to a hospice house so the nurses could manage his pain. It was a stunning facility, built like a Northwest ski lodge, with high ceilings, long, strong beams, and wide hallways. Each room was private, with a patio that faced the surrounding grounds. A life-like statue of a deer stood in the distance, still, as if listening to us speak. The sky was blue, and Steve was able to stand outside and pose for one last photo with Kay in the thin, October sunshine, and he said to us, “Just five days here and then I can go home.” We all wanted to believe that would happen, but Steve did not go home again. His short stay at the hospice house was the last leg of his graceful journey to eternity. I had no more words.
