by Paul Jackson
"Death is only a comma in the sentence of life, a stopping place, a place to pause and then go on." These words, the last Cindi enscribed in her diary, truly spoke to my soul.
As I looked at her lying there on her bed, I realized just how beautiful she really was. Like the leaves on the trees outside her window, Cindi had also changed colour with the coming of her autumn. Yesterday, she had been warm and pink with life. Today, she was cold and pale and carried the blue-grey stain of death. As with the leaves, the touch of frost enhanced her natural beauty.
When she had gone into a coma four hours before, she had thought herself to be alone in this world, without anyone who truly cared for her on a personal level. Even though she and I had shared some intimate moments during her eight-month stay at the Children of Our Heavenly Father Hospice, ours was a professional relationship. I was her therapist, she one of my many patients. Even the fact that she was dying with leukemia did not make her special, for every patient of mine, in the ten years I had been the trigger-point therapist there, had died. Up until this moment, Cindi and I had been only friendly strangers. Now, it was imperative for her to know that she was not alone. I was with her, and would stay with her, because I loved her. She was my friend. And friends are there for one another. Always.
After I held her hand for what seemed like lifetimes, Cindi came back to me. She moved her hand and opened her eyes. I kissed her palm and put it to my cheek.
"Thank you for being here, Paul. I didn't want to die alone."
We conversed for a while, talking of trees, sunrises, heaven, and life in general. Most of the time our dialogue was serious. Dying is an arduous thing to deal with, even for those who, like Cindi, face death without terror. Any change is scary, and death is the biggest change we ever face. Cindi and I talked about it. "I wonder what it feels like to die?"
"How do you feel now?"
"Kind of warm all over . . . and floaty . . . like I'm in a warm bath."
"Are you uncomfortable?"
"No . . . to tell you the truth, I can't even remember feeling more comfortable in my life. It doesn't hurt anymore, Paul."
"I guess that's what it feels like to die then. For you, anyway." "Would you promise me something, Paul?"
"Sure, darlin'. I'm here for whatever you might want me to do."
"Do my eulogy?"
For a Gael, living in Ireland, as both Cindi and I had since the time of our births, the worst thing that could happen would be to die without someone to compose and sing a eulogy, a statement which dramatically presents the sum total of whom someone had been. As I stood there beside Cindi's bed considering her life, I did not know where to begin. I did not know what to say.
I could see myself, dressed in the seven colours of a Bard, standing on the windswept, rocky headland overlooking Dingle Bay, portraying in traditional Gaelic free verse the richness of Cindi Wade's life, a girl who spent sixteen of her seventeen years in twenty-five different foster homes before she died alone in a hospice, a ward of the Republic of Ireland. I didn't even know if there would be anyone to hear my tribute, for there was no one who cared enough about Cindi Wade to even claim her mortal remains. She had never "belonged" to anybody.
But I answered her question directly. "I'll be honored to, Cindi. You are very special to me."
"I wish I could hear it."
"The sun's coming up, lass."
" . . . tell me . . . ."
"It's all pink away up on top of the oaks. Kind of overcast; and the sun lights the clouds all on fire. It changes from gold to red to pink to purple to smoky grey. It's really pretty."
"My last sunrise, and I saw it through your words. Thank you for that."
"Would you like me to lift you up, so you can really see it?"
"No . . . I'm too tired."
I thought about how a new day was truly dawning for Cindi. She wasn't hurting, she knew I loved her, and she wasn't alone anymore. In creating this sense of belonging for her, I discovered something very wonderful within myself; we shared the common bond of love. And what she most wanted out of life, having a person who loved her without reservation, she had discovered.
It reminded me of another entry in her diary. "Life is like a poem. It isn't truly beautiful until it is complete; it isn't truly complete until it is finished."
"Cindi, did you dream when you were asleep?"
For a while she just lay there, and for a brief moment I thought she had died. Then a wonderful peace stole over her face. I don't think the vocabulary exists to describe that look, but it seemed as if all the pain and fear had been eradicated by whatever it was she was thinking about. Right then, in that moment, she was more beautiful that I had ever seen her.
It took me back to a day, only a few weeks ago, when she and I were out walking, enjoying the fall colours. Cindi had mused, "Isn't it wonderful that God can make something so very beautiful even as it is dying?"
I remember thinking about Cindi and answering, "Sometimes I think He does."
A chance remark, perhaps, or it may have been special foresight, I don't know. But it certainly was the case with Cindi Wade. Beauty clothed her in an aura which transcended reality, radiant as the sun.
She smiled and spoke. "I was in a place with lots of flowers and grass. And I saw mountains, Paul! And birds . . . lots of birds. And the air smelled so wholesome . . . like that perfume you bought me. And the colours . . . they seemed so . . . vivid! Like the ones here are just poor imitations . . . And there was Light . . . it wasn't like here. It seemed to come out of everything . . . the grass, the trees, the flowers . . . even the water."
"I heard you calling me, but I didn't want to leave."
She smiled up to me, and I saw the light she spoke of in her face. I knew she was raptured in what she had experienced, and I wanted to see it also. I still do.
"For the first time in my life, I felt like I was really and truly home. I could have stayed there, Paul. I didn't have to come back. Oh why did I ever come back?"
This last was a dirge of despair, and as she realized she was indeed back in her bed at the hospice, most of the inner light faded from her face.
"Why did you come back, Cindi darlin'?"
"I wanted to tell you good-bye. I didn't get to before."
"Tell me good-bye then and go back home."
"Do you really think that's where I'll go? Is that heaven?"
"I believe it is for you. I wish I were going with you."
" . . . You'll get there . . . I'll . . . wait for you."
I watched Cindi get weaker with each passing heartbeat. As much as I loved her, I couldn't stand to see her fighting for each breath. I wanted her with me, but I didn't want her to suffer anymore. It hurt me too much. I wanted my pain to be over, too.
" . . . promise me . . . ," she said.
"Anything," I answered.
"Don't let my grave get all overgrown and full of trash. I know I won't really be there . . . but . . . "
"I understand. I promise I'll look after it."
"I'm glad . . . you're . . . with me now."
"Are you afraid?
"Not with you here."
"I really love you, Cindi," I said.
"Don't be real sad."
"I'll miss you."
"OK. But don't be sad . . . . Promise . . . me?"
"I promise."
"Kiss me good-bye?"
It was less than a whisper, soft as a farewell breathed over a coffin. But the look on her face shouted, glowing like the sunrise. Here, at the final end of her life on this earth, she knew that at last she belonged to someone. Someone loved her. Totally. Unconditionally.
I leaned over and kissed her forehead, gently smoothed back her new-penny coloured hair. Then I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed her palm.
"No," she breathed. "Really kiss me."
I slipped my arms around her and kissed her mouth. It was a long kiss, as kisses go, but sometime during that kiss, Cindi Wade went home. I felt her brush past me as she left.
I stood up and looked down at her lying on the pillow. Her eyes were open a bit, and her lips were slightly parted from our kiss. I gently closed her eyes and picked up her hand, kissing her palm one last time. Even as my lips touched her skin, I knew that what was lying on the bed was not Cindi. It was just a package, discarded because it had outlived its usefulness. Cindi had gone home, and she didn't go alone; my love went with her.
"I'll see you later, my forever friend," I said to the still, empty form which once held Cindi Wade. "I love you."