The Constant
An oxygen concentrator hums and rattles as my friend sleeps. I’m just so grateful to be here with her, the noise almost fades into the background along with the vibrating A/C unit just under the window of her small sunny room. Memories of her as vibrant, vertical and on the move are clear, their edges sharp on my heart.
She asked for a Frosty and I brought us each one—chocolate and vanilla. She chose the latter, her slender hands barely holding the cup and long-handled spoon. Her smile said it all as she took that first bite, eyes closed in a savoring moment of sweet cold relief. Later I would bring her a frozen strawberry soda (they were out of the blue raspberry she preferred) and enjoy that same look on her face—utter contentment from the simplicity of it all.
My last best friend on earth is in hospice.
Thirty years ago, we began gathering our stories, knitting them together around a shared commitment to Lakota ways, listening and watching closely as she and her husband taught us about food, humility, laughter as good medicine and how to conduct oneself during ceremonies. I still have her fry bread recipe, in her delicate handwriting, with a disclaimer note at the top of the instructions stating, “mostly spirit-filled”, lest I think I’m in complete control of the process. Once, at a party she hosted in her beautiful home atop a wooded hill, she served platters of three varieties: plain, cinnamon sugared, and drizzled with melted dark chocolate. There were no leftovers.
In the years that followed, we quickly expanded our common ground to include justice for the vulnerable and misunderstood, compassion in all directions for everyone and the stress-relieving benefits of the occasional snarkfest. She taught me courage and deepened my convictions; I gave her humor and consistent presence (though she has the final word on that). I cannot count how many times I fell asleep on her couch while the men were taking in a sweat, how often her voice accompanied me on my way to and from work, the number of feral cats she fed or the hummingbirds that buzzed her windows when the feeders were low. She was the best antiquing-and-lunch pal and could easily teach hospitality and manners to five-star hotel concierges. She’s a force of nature, a woman to be reckoned with and the first to offer an understanding nod.
As I sit vigil at her bedside, companion to her intervals of napping and wide-eyed alertness, I write down what she says, spontaneous bits of insight and life wisdom that are pure Jackie—intentional, calm, unassuming and explicit. You know where you stand with her, what she cares deeply about and what she will not abide. She does not suffer fools gladly and yet keeps her embrace wide and forgiving. I’m still a student in her Life Class sometimes and once again wonder if I gave her anything of equal value in our three decades of friendship. If I voiced that question aloud in front of her, she’d give me a side eye of disbelief and admonish me lovingly with “of course you did” and I’d receive it without argument. In between bites of Frosty, she locks eyes with me and says, “You’re very interesting. We both are. We wander, you and I. We wander, without apology or explanation.” I will be unpacking that for a long, long time.
I feel selfish in my sadness as I realize, slowly, that she is the last person in my life who knows my stories from the past thirty years. When she makes her walk, I will be friendless in a way I’ve never been before. I won’t be able to call her on my way to or from work, hearing her views on the news of the day or how she always (always) asks how I’m doing, how’s the job, how’s Patrick. She is gifted in the art of well-timed irreverent humor and is not offended by much, save for human cruelty and malicious intent. When I was sick several years back, her support and encouragement was not only unflagging, they saved me and my little life. I would not still be here without her. What if I face another dark time? Who will I go to with all that fear and uncertainty, seeking the reassurance that only a shared history can offer? The very thought rattles me and grief once again wraps itself tightly around my throat. She would understand, would not want me to struggle too long in this place and tell me that, when I’m ready, I’ll see things in a different light. I’ll try, Jackie. I’ll give it my best shot.
Until then, my friend, I will fetch you more Frostys and frozen sodas, watch your chest rise and fall as you dream about horses and the hell you’ve been through these past two months and pray fiercely for a smooth crossing to wherever you’re headed next. Mingled with my tears and fears and grief is the constant thrumming of gratefulness that we met, that we built thirty years of solid, real friendship between us.
I will sift through the rising bank of stories we created together and look for those lessons that stopped me in my tracks.
I will keep taking you on my morning walks to the trees who know you by name.
I will let your voice echo in my memory’s hallways, “you’re a magical woodland creature”, “you’ve got this”, “there, there…”, “I love you.”
I love you too, my friend.
