before the gate

At the end of the second century there lived in Babylonia a Talmudic scholar named Abba Arika, who came to be known simply as "Rav." He left many glorious quotes on how to live, and how to approach death, of which one is my favorite:

Man will be called before the judgment seat of God to give an account for every legitimate pleasure he denied himself in this world.

I have been thinking about these matters. We are not here to seek suffering, but to uncover and share the joy that we may call our soul, our essence, our God.

These are, in the Jewish tradition, the Days of Awe. In two days, Yom Kippur begins, the holiest of days because on this day the accounts come due, the gate closes, and our soul, our essence, our God answers the big question: In the year to come, who will live? And who will die?

Rich shall not live. But neither shall he die.

Because a gate has something on the other side. Maybe it's about the law of conservation of energy -- what is created cannot be destroyed. Where Rich is going is where he once was, and will be again, and in the time in-between he gave others the pleasure of his work, myself the pleasure of his love, and never denying that his life was so, so blessed.

And he enjoyed good Scotch whisky, single malt preferred.

Rav would be pleased. I expect God will, too.

May we all have a sweet year,

Candace

ditto

Rich is sinking.

Today he ate some supper. I fed him a small wedge of quiche, a few pieces of yam, some grains of rice. Yesterday he still tried to use his left hand, with some success. Today the effort was gone.

And he slept, a lot. For the first time. He never slept during the day.

He didn't say much.

"This sucks."

Couldn't argue with that.

And when Jeff, the social worker, stopped by and held his hand, and asked why he was in the dining room and not outside, Rich had a quick answer.

"Because the Fibonacci numbers are better here."

I laughed. Jeff looked at me, uncomprehending.

"Look at a sunflower," I said. "Or find a physicist to explain."

So I hold onto yesterday, when Rich didn't say much, either, except one sweet eruption.

"I love you so, so much. More than anything."

I held his hand.

"Ditto," I said.

He didn't laugh. This, for years, was our shorthand for expressions of affection.

"Say it," he said.

I hesitated. Because I didn't want to cry. But I did.

"Thank you," he said.

And now I think of all I need to thank him for, but there's no time left.

Candace

questions

She died while I was drinking tea.

She was a newbie at Hospice, arriving about two weeks ago, in the room next to Rich.

She died alone.

We heard her final moans, but didn't know they were her last.

"Everyone is suffering," Rich said, eyelids partly closed.

It was that sort of day. Quiet, mostly. We didn't speak much. He asked questions I couldn't answer.

"How is this different than death?" and "When will this end, E.T.?"

Tonight I assisted Theresa, another extraordinary aide, in moving Rich from the Gerry chair into bed.

"What's the difference?" he asked as the preparations began.

"Between what?"

"This and bed."

Another unanswerable question.

But the move went well. I pointed out that, for the first time in months, his feet were not swollen, the rash and peeling gone.

"As sexy as ever," I said.

At this, he smiled.

I said nothing about his matchstick-thin legs, muscle vanished. But I looked, and I will remember.

Before leaving, returning my mug to the kitchen, the undertaker passed by, rolling out what was once a person who had dreams and fears and, I hope, love. But now she was a corpse, zipped up in the velveteen burgundy bag that all the undertakers seem to have, no choice of color.

I bowed my head, and John Donne's meditation whispered: never send for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

But not, yet, for the boy next door with sexy feet and skinny legs.

There is a difference.

Candace

lost

Three days ago, Rich said when I arrived: They almost lost me last night.

I nod, and ignore. After all, over the past ten weeks he said they lost his food, his meds, his laundry, and none of the accusations were true, only products of frustrated confusion. How could they lose him? He's a big guy.

But the next day John says, you know, we almost lost Rich, and pats Rich on the shoulder, relieved and shaken as he tells me he went into Rich's room after I left, and Rich was staring vacant, frozen, unresponsive.

A seizure, is the best guess, and I'm not surprised. As the chordoma expands, it will reach deeper into Rich's brain. Fortunately, both John and Flay, the most experienced nurse, were with him, and didn't panic (though Rich wonders how could he take meds from a nurse named flay). Probably, this will happen again, and again, while I watch him wander further from the person I call "Rich."

Joe, the designer of Hospicare's prize-worthy gardens, is also a talented musician. Yesterday, as he has already done several times, he stopped by and played the piano. Under his flannel shirt was a T-shirt inscribed: "All who wander are not lost."

Rich's motto, now. Mine, too.

Candace

beginnings

Scenes from this week:

1) A wedding of a resident's daughter, the date quickly moved up. Hours pass while the twenty or so guests wait on the lawn, darkness comes, rain clouds appear. At last, after much care by the staff, Mother is wheeled out, outfitted with wig, a chiffony lavender dress, high heels. I shiver. But the bride and her other daughter are beaming, and Mother tells her daughter she looks lovely, and I take Rich's hand and tell him we probably should have celebrated more.

What was there to celebrate, he says.

2) President Obama is on the television screen, giving his health care speech, while we are in the Hospice living room. Rich is in his chair, wanting to see this; Natasha the housekeeper is leaning next to me on the sofa, and John the aide has taken off his new sneakers and is rubbing his feet.

In Russia, says Natasha, everybody gets care. You understand? Everybody!

I do.

You need a hot soak for your feet, I tell John.

He isn't listening. He's waiting to hear if he can get health coverage while working full time as a musician. If he can, he will leave this job.

John gives Rich a shave without being asked, brings blankets before Rich starts shivering, and always gives me a hug and tells me to take care of myself.

For the moment, I've become a Republican. Screw care. I want John to stay.

3) Sarah offers me use of her kayak, any time. She's the Thursday dinner volunteer, and I linger in the kitchen, stirring ice cubes into Rich's hot cocoa. He's not alone, so I don't rush; friends are visiting and they're laughing and even if Rich is not, smiles are more therapeutic than tears. We talk about a lake trip together, maybe next spring. "We" is Sarah and I.

A week of new lives beginning, for the bride and the immigrant, maybe for John, slowly for me, and all the way for Rich.

Something to celebrate, for all.

Candace

always

In the last moments of the day, my head resting on his left shoulder, everything is right. We speak only of a world bright with love, with each so, so sorry for hurting and disappointing the other.

We can't have conversations much, not anymore, not without Rich sliding off into a new place whose language I can't understand.

I can't understand how we got here so quickly. Even if, this week, it has been 36 years since we met. I can't remember Rich walking, smiling, mowing grass, knotting his tie.

One moment, at the end of the day, remains.

"Sleep well," he says, always.

Sleep well, my love. Always.

Candace

camelot

My voice mailbox is full, says the disembodied messenger. It's all Rich, beginning in the first week at Hospicare when he sounds so healthy, by turns frustrated and hopeful, still concerned about getting his computer up and running and still believing that, with physical therapy, he too would be up and at least walking, a bit, and needing warmer clothes because the snow will start flying before we know it.

And then, a few weeks in, there's an early morning message.

"I think this is the end, E.T.," he says, and then there's a break.

He's crying. And he's the only person who ever calls me E.T. because he thinks I'm far removed from this world, and maybe, just maybe, I can take him to my far-away land where it's never too hot and never too cold and no one gets too sick or too sad and love never comes to an end.

He chokes out the rest of his message.

"You have to write down...there are so many people to thank, how will I thank them all..."

He doesn't call much anymore. He can't remember how to use the phone, and his voice is weak. But today, lying in his Gerry chair in the Hospice garden, he appreciates the rare streak of dry, sunny, cloudless end-of-summer days.

"Camelot," he says.

Huh?

"Like E.T. land. Perfect 365 days."

He seems satisfied.

But his expression soon changes.

"What will we do when the snow starts flying?"

It would break my heart to answer, so I don't, and soon this E.T. won't know where to call home.

Candace

fat and sugar

Sunday 3 a.m.

I'm falling off the edge. Awake, heart racing, I cool down, drink water, answer Thunder's howls. I breathe, I think, I decide: Let the garbage fly. I'm taking a vacation. Not of the Disneyland sort -- though a pretty good scene could be written with this as backdrop -- but in the vacare sense, the original meaning: To vacate, to empty, scything through the noise while focusing on my life and death, Rich's death and life.

Sunday 6 p.m.

Four of us are in the Hospice kitchen -- myself, the nurse, the nurse's aide, and the graduate student volunteer. At last, a resident has moved in who can still eat "real" meals -- Rich's had been supplied by his private brigade -- and the kitchen smells of garlic and onion, vegetables in the pan, brownies in the oven. We're talking about some of my favorite topics -- Broadway, food, travel, while I boil water and rip open a packet of "Hot Cocoa with Dark Chocolate Flavor."

"This is destroying my real food bona fides," I say, adding a few ice cubes to this Frankenfood mix, a bastard offspring of cocoa and milk.

While I measure the drink into a sippy cup, the volunteer shows me a list he's made.

"Everything I Should Have Asked Candace First," he calls it. Grammatically, not a perfect sentence (unless First is my last name, or I'm royalty, or a pope), but I'm flattered that I'm his go-to guru for places to go, shows to see, careers to consider.

I'm more than a slave of the chordoma, more than a pit bull protecting Rich.

"Rich never liked hot cocoa," I say, preparing to return to his room, leaving laughter behind. "But at the end, it's like the beginning, just like mother's milk. Fat and sugar, that gets us going and takes us out."

The volunteer grabs a pencil.

"I have to write this down," he says.

I laugh. This is proof I'm alive. And this will change as soon as I reach the end of the hall, as soon as I position the straw for Rich, as soon as he says, this place is a zero...why did you put me here...

Then, he offers me his drink.

I shake my head.

Why are you starving...I can't figure out...

Vacare. Harder to get to than Disneyland.

Candace