Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Sunday gratefuls: Slavic, dishwasher repair guy. Kate, her life and times. Sleep. Shadow, my sweet girl. Artemis II. All safe.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Kate of blessed memory

 

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: Five years ago on a cold dark night Kate slipped away. Her breathing troubles, Reynaud’s, rheumatoid arthritis–all solved. I was shocked, so deep in mourning I couldn’t see the benefit to her. Not then.

 

From today’s perspective, she found herself in a difficult and vulnerable place. And stepped away. The path in this life no longer viable. A brave woman. Honest. Unflinching.

Every weekday morning until 2011 Kate got up, loved the dogs, and got in her Tundra to drive to Allina. At work she wrestled eighteen-month old babies. Talked to elementary school kids.

She chafed against corporate medicine. Now they’re only giving us fifteen minutes for a patient encounter. A speed up. We’re also supposed to upcode. Find the most remunerative code that fits the visit. No matter how it affects patients.

Corporate medicine, she would tell you with some heat, is all about revenue–not healing. Not relationships with patients. Made me wonder about all the coding decisions made in her ten last days.

Her last days. Surrounded by family. Visiting friends. Rabbi Jamie. Fitful communication. She would push away the thick plastic triangle covering her nose.

When I came in the room, Kate would look up and sign, I love you. I responded with the same. Each day, sometimes each hour a respiratory therapist would check her O2 saturation. Blood draws. Her arms so thin it was hard to imagine finding a vein.

She lay there in the hospital gown, yellow with red accents, each arm, each leg visible evidence of the strain her body had known since early September of 2018. She often seemed too small, a child sat up so she can see her visitors.

Jon sat in a chair on the left side of her bed. His face a full definition of bereft. Shoulders dropped. Head slumping. Kate reached out, hugged him with her thin left arm. Jon’s relief made me smile. Their relationship, often fractious, melted into mother and son. Each year when we celebrate Jon’s birthday that scene comes to mind.

Five years. A long time. No partner. No Kate. The days collected themselves into months and the months extended into years. Would I find a new partner? Move to Hawai’i? Travel? No to the first. I’ve never met anyone. No to the second. Couldn’t leave Ruth and Gabe. Yes to the third. Minneapolis once. Hawai’i twice. Korea once.

It is not life without her. When I look at the Phoenix in the Mardi Gras poster, I see Kate and me at the Cafe Du Monde, water sweating the sides of our glasses, fresh beignets and chicory coffee.

The chair I use we bought for her. The Hawi’ian painting of sea turtles.  Quilts. Blown glass. Kate in her essence.

She’s with me from the time I wake up until I go back to bed.

She rests.

I imagine.

But, maybe not.