Fading Away

Before she fades completely from my memory, I want to tell you about my friend. She has been missing for years, but I have hope that I might see a glimpse of her again one day. She vanished slowly, so slowly I didn't see her leave. I have a sense of who she was, but I do not have a real clear memory of her.

As a child, my friend was a giggler; she would giggle so long and be so infectious with her soft laughter that others couldn't help but smile even if they didn't know what was so funny. She usually had a smile on her face because she was so eager to see what new wonders the world would show her that day. Her gapped-tooth grin was seen often especially when she was daydreaming. As much as she loved to read, she loved being outdoors more. As a child she spent many hours lying on her back looking at clouds, playing guessing games with herself about the shapes of the clouds. Was it a huge ship with flags waving or a mountain range with trees swaying or just maybe it was a magical dragon? Enjoying the feel of the green grass against her body, she would breathe in the wonderful smell of freshly mowed grass and listen to the sound of the various animals, birds and bugs that were nearby and know she was in her rightful place.

As a teenager she was quiet, shy, and she hardly spoke to anyone. Once she got to know you though, there was no shutting her up. By this time in her life she was known to her parents as the child that caught everything that came around: it seemed like she was always sick. If it wasn't food poisoning, it was an unknown virus or just some anonymous creeping crud that would be going around. She thought it was funny that she always knew when it would rain. How did she know? Well, her bones would ache something fierce the day before it rained. As an adult she didn't find this so funny, the pain was beyond what any human should have to suffer. Three days before the weather changed she would start hurting, the night before rain or snow she could not sleep at all - the pain was unbearable. Then she hurt all the time, the pain being so strong she couldn't determine where it was coming from on her body. It was like she was covered in a dark gray fluttering cloud of god-awful pain. She got to the point she could no longer tolerate anything touching her skin, including clothes; sheets and heavy coats were the worst. By careful elimination she found that soft clothes were tolerable on most days.

She became an avid gardener. When she bought her first (and she hopes only) house she told all her new neighbors, friends and family "I will be pulling up every blade of grass and replacing it with flower beds with paths between them." No one really believed her, but she tried hard to make that dream come true. Knowing that the grass in her yard would be history soon, she didn't bother buying a lawn mower when she moved in. No, she got a weed eater instead. The first couple of years, the neighbors (and some friends) thought she was nuts, because normal people don't mow their yard with a weed eater - it just wasn't done. That first spring and summer she spent a lot of time digging up her yard, planting rose of Sharon trees, daisies, cosmos, zinnias, mums, black-eyed Susans, coneflowers, and marigolds. The ground was nearly pure red clay and it was tough going. Hours puttering around in her yard would feel like minutes. Her next door neighbor would come out after dark and tell her "You need to go in the house now, its dark. You can't garden in the dark." That second spring started out like the first year, with her adding snapdragons, lilies, irises, red poppies, petunias, dianthus, violas, hostas, bleeding hearts, tomatoes, green peppers, zucchini and radishes to the mix. Using that weed eater, she mowed her yard herself until the beginning of summer when she no longer had the strength to hold the weed eater. At first she would laugh off the brown spots in her yard: spots where the grass was completely gone eaten by the weed eater when she dropped it. She would say "That's okay, because I didn't want any grass in my yard in the first place." That summer she had to hire someone to mow her yard. It hurt her to turn her joy over to someone else, someone who would see it only as another chore to do. By the third summer she bought an old fashioned push mower and her mother did most of the gardening, adding roses, daffodils, day lilies, peonies, trees, a blackberry vine, muscadine vines, peas, and cucumbers. Hopefully, she will reappear again this fourth spring and summer and add more flowers to her yard.

Nobody noticed at first that she was trying to leave; it was a gradual thing that took so long that no one really noticed when she finally disappeared. It was a slow, painful parting. If asked my preference, I would have chosen a sudden end instead of the long drawn out goodbye we experienced. Having some phenomenon that I could point to and say "That was the reason" would be a comfort. Sometimes I need something or someone to blame.

I am still trying to come to terms with the fact that my friend is gone now. That woman who was so healthy, full of life and dreams of her future, who has been missing for so long was me. My healthy self is gone now. That healthy energetic me has been missing for so many years that she is like another person or another lifetime ago. My healthy self left so quietly I don't know where she went or how to get her back. Instead of leading a fairly normal life I am left with a number of chronic illnesses that combined together give me a long list of ailments.

Trying to get healthy is a fulltime job for me. It takes a lot of pills each day to keep me going. Sometimes, the quantity of pills I take would outweigh the food I ate. I spend a lot of time going to various doctors to treat a variety of ailments. I'm trying to do gentle yoga, get plenty of rest, eat right, sleep (that's a biggie) and with a lot of help from my mother - gardening. Mostly I stay home. I don't have the energy to go out and visit my friends, to do much shopping, to go to the movies, or to eat out. It all takes too much out of me to do anything beyond the necessities of living. Gardening truly is a necessity of life for me. I manage by sitting or lying on the ground. Standing for any length of time is out of the question these days. My mother is my caregiver; she shops, cooks and cleans for me. Without her I would be living in a house that would be condemned by the health department, eating potato chips and wearing dirty clothes; assuming I could actually get dressed.

I've had to say goodbye to a lot of things because of my health. Only now am I very reluctantly saying goodbye to the healthy me. That lady took for granted the ease she was able to live her life and didn't have to be extremely aware of what was put in her food and how it was cooked. I miss the lady who didn't have to budget her energy. She didn't have to think, "If I do x then, I can't do y or z." Nor did she have to spend time explaining to people, "Yes, I did do x yesterday, but I don't have the energy to do anything with you today and probably not tomorrow either."

I've lost a lot of friends. Most didn't understand why I couldn't do things with them. Before I was ill I had friends at my house more days than not. I loved to cook for them and shared my home and garden with them. I loved hearing about their lives, hopes and dreams. They drifted out of my life and moved on without me. I have grieved over the loss of my friends, my health, my independence, my future, and most of all, my present.

I have also, however, learned important lessons during this time. I've learned to slow down and enjoy the moment - this moment then the next moment and the next. Learning to let go of planning the future far in advance has been painful to endure. I was one of those people who made a list of what she was going to accomplish that day, that week, that year and possible future accomplishments. I've recently learned to let that old way of living go and just enjoy what's right here in front of me. At least, for the most part I have. There are days I'm impatient and long for a different present. I wish I could say I've stopped wondering what else is out there I could be doing and being. No, I still have days when I wonder if I could be a full-time writer/photographer/artistic creative type of person who could work from home or travel at will. I haven't really let go of my dreams, just set them aside for now. The present moment is more important.

I still have a vision of a healthy me in the future. Perhaps my definition of healthy is different from most. For me healthy is: getting up in the morning and getting on with my day without having to notice the effort it takes to actually get out of bed. Now, I notice all those steps: turning over, reaching out and turning off the alarm clock, stretching, sitting up, pushing the covers back, moving my body so that my legs touch the floor, that big push to get out of bed, the moment of settling myself so that I don't collapse on the floor, taking that (what seems to be) long walk to the bathroom. Healthy is taking a shower and not needing a nap afterwards to recover from the effort; it is getting dressed without having to sit down a spell to rest; it is wearing clothes with buttons and zippers and shoes that tie; it is being able to eat without having to swallow a big handful of pills; it is being able to do an activity without thinking about what I will not be able to do later; it is having season tickets to the local theatre, taking for granted I will be able to go; it is visiting with friends; it is being a volunteer; it is enjoying the moment ; and most of all, healthy is being able to garden at will.