I have a friend who is dying from cancer. She is only thirty-six years old, and she is dying from an aggressive, rare form of cancer. So rare that even the old sawbones at the University of Michigan Medical Center are scratching their nerdy, Ann Arbor hippy scalps over it.
Okay, now I have gotten the facts out of the way. The general facts that is. Usually when I write, I tend to take the reader on a voyage and that part of the voyage above could have stretched on for quite some time. This time it could not. I needed to get that out of the way so you could understand quickly. I need that.
For you to understand quicky. This has to be a quick entry.
I went to visit Ellen at the hospice. I was amazed that there was a need to buzz into the hospice through a security door setup. That place is more secure than The Thunderdome. It is for security.
Apparently, there are sickos who cannot wait for those in the hospice to pass and they need protection.
Her mother was there, waiting. Ellen was asleep. I sat down, near Ellen in a chair. Then her mother moved and I sat in a triangle formed between Ellen, her mother and myself. Actually, it was more of a diagonal line. Forgive me if I exaggerate a bit, the whole deal seemed a bit exaggerated.
So, there I sat. Humming “The Lady’s Bransel” to myself. I sat there and looked over at her mother, an elderly woman watching her daughter…and waiting.
Did I mention that Ellen is only thirty-six?
I sat there and felt awkward. Should I say something? What do you say to a sleeping person? “WAKE UP!” is what you say. But what do you say to a sleeping person who is dying? Nothing. You sit there and you hum “The Lady’s Bransel.” Eventually, I had to go. I told Ellen that I loved her and that she was definitely a child of the Goddess. I did expect more of myself, being a priest and what have you, but that is what I had to give; the Crossroads is a tough place to be…
Her mother followed me out. She remembered me and gave me a hug. She told me that Ellen was sleeping the best she had been: that snore she had was her normal snore. I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I understood.
Then I left.
During my show last night, I opened with a song by The Damned: “The Portrait.” I got a complaint at the dedication to Ellen. I took no offense. How was that one supposed to know that that was the song playing as I drove away? I offered no explanation. Who needs to? I ended my broadcast with the song that was playing as I found my way to see Ellen. A song by Sting: “Fragile.”
“Lest we forget how Fragile we are…”