far too much writing, far too many photos Monday, October 27, 2003 Saturday: drove to Burlington, found my way to the Fletcher Allen health care facility where Kay, one of my downhill neighbors, is receiving treatment. I found her in a two-patient unit on the fourth floor, the room's occupants separated by a white curtain. Kay had the bed by the window -- when I entered the room, her eyes took me in, her face settled into a smile, an expression of quiet radiance. She lay on her back, head cushioned by two white pillows, the sheets on the bed white, her hair a white corona around the thin oval of her face. Her body had grown even slighter than her normal slender state (which is saying something), the muscles on her arms had withdrawn beneath the skin so that the flesh hung loosely. And yet she shone, with a loveliness I'd never seen in her before, as if during the course of this possibly life-ending experience she'd released her grasp on the things she often worried and fretted over, surrendering to a situation that had pulled her out of her home, her normal routines, her accustomed ways of seeing the world and reacting to life. The smile on her face was not tinged with emotions that often seemed to play about her features in the time I'd known her -- frustration, restlessness, fragility. Instead, it hinted at a genuine appreciation of her existence, her situation, the people in her life. I pulled a chair over to the side of her bed and sat down. She lay a hand on my arm, I covered her hand with one of mine. And she talked, easily, the words coming as if she had plenty to say, as if this last week or two had been a hell of a time, a period in which she'd experienced amazing things. She couldn't speak loudly, her words sometimes became inaudible -- I'd lean closer, I'd concentrate, I'd lean closer still, but the ambient hospital noise overrode her in those moments. Asking her to speak up only provoked efforts that seemed to strain her physically, with little result, so I simply listened, letting her volume fall and rise as it would. She told me about having cancer, about being the only person in her family to have developed it. She related the tests that resulted in the diagnosis, about the treatments, about the medicines that had brought physical relief, about being unable to use her legs (that last the product of a tumor pressing on her spine). She told me about the experience of being brought to a medical center near Montpelier, then to this hospital in Burlington. She talked about her husband, Mo, about her kids, about nieces, nephews, grandkids. She spoke about growing up on a farm, about living here in northeastern Vermont. And during all this, I was struck by her distinct resemblance to my mother, or at least to the version of my mother I saw during her final days. Her hair, her features, the overall look of her shrinking body, of her arms and, in particular, of her hands. That last really caught my eye -- my mother had distinctive hands, with long, expressive fingers. It felt strange to find myself in contact with a pair of hands so reminiscent of the maternal ones, in a situation so reminiscent of the last times I'd seen my family's material figure. My mother's final months were not exactly a peaceful time, Herself not being exactly what might be described as a peaceful individual, though the physical limitations of her last years calmed things a bit. She was accustomed to worry, seemed to hold tenaciously to a lifestyle of worry, believing this world to be packed with danger, with the need to be alert, vigilant. Much of her basic take on things tended not to encourage serenity or restfulness. Her prime method of coping: try to control as much of her world as she could, try to impose her will on as many elements of it as possible -- an approach that consumes energy and results in poor, fitful sleep. Which did not deter her from sticking to her customary m.o. She struggled, she sometimes seemed to wrestle with a deep, hard disappointment in life. But she hung in there. She took care of herself as best she could, and she lived in her own home right up until her passing. (Down in Florida, a long way from the rest of the family, but still her own place -- paid for, under her control.) And at the end, at what many would consider a ripe old age, she waited until she'd seen the people most important to her -- me one weekend, my brother, my niece and nephew a few weeks later. And then she let go and passed over, suddenly, quickly, her lungs abruptly filling with liquid, her system packing it in, giving out. Within 24 hours of her death, I felt her around. Or, for those who might cock an eyebrow at that kind of notion, I felt a vivid energy around me that I could only describe as hers. Happier, more curious and enthusiastic about everything than I'd ever known her to be. Think what you will about it, that was my experience. Kay mentioned that she didn't think she would be going home. Both she and her husband, Mo, had told me it was possible she would be leaving the hospital this week, moving to a nursing facility not far from here in Barre, Montpelier's working-class neighbor city. That prospect seemed to please her. Beyond that, time will tell. After an hour, Kay's lunch arrived, hospital staff materializing to set up the tray and move Kay to a sitting position, working in friendly, exceedingly kind fashion. I left at that point, finding my way out of the building into a crisp, gray day, thinking. Absorbing a lot of input. Heading off to spend the afternoon with a friend, for a walk around a lake, in woods still full of color, a nice contrast to the late autumn look prevalent in this corner of the state. This life of ours -- it packs a punch. rws 10:56 AM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 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