rodeokitchen

Thank you for your bravery. Thank you for being a visible advocate for so many of us spoonies. Thank you for caring. I was 36 years old when I learned to use an inhaler properly. I’ve had asthma all my life. You listened to my lungs and showed me how to get this life saving medicine to work! On the side of a mountain, you thought I was important enough to stop for a lesson. You instilled in me that when I can’t breathe, it is – in fact – a big deal.

Thank you for mailing medicines across the country in celestial seasonings tea boxes when I had pneumonia and no address. As a nurse you were technically risking your license. Thank you for showing me I mattered, and that my quality of life is always important.

I learned of your passing last night. Now, I am here with a million thoughts and all the wrong words. DNR. Palliative. Hospice. Our conversations about my big shakers, your diagnosis. Our Left Eyes. Art.

Ironically, my lungs needed attention the day you left us. I took shallow breaths in the heat of the kitchen and the thick humidity outside. Thankfully the evening air was turning cool, and would bring relief. An unexpected crisp breeze. I said it was summer slipping through our fingertips. Really, it was you. A night so clear we could see the Milky Way from here in Northern Alabama. The next morning I drove to work under a sunrise red as your beautiful hair. All day I praised how effortlessly I could breathe. I picked up a pack of Dr Seuss Whoville pencils on my way home. I poured myself a rare glass of wine, then I learned you were gone.

You were a stellar nurse and a whimsical artist! I dreamed of you opening your own art therapy practice { like Iris } when you got better. My brain glitch is in the exact place you knew it was. I discovered the x- factor you were searching for, but never had a chance to discuss. A chemical cross contamination was progressing the seizures from focal to cluster. So sharp, you were consistently one step ahead of all the doctors!

Tess was always encouraging me to find answers even if it meant more exams. She reminded me not to accept the doctors that push my concerns ‘under the rug’. She recognized when my quality of life was deteriorating. I feared the same for her. I learned how to advocate for myself in all realms of acute care as I painfully watched her lead by example.

Over the past 4 years, my friend struggled with increased hospitalizations. She truly believed in knowing and vetting the options. She didn’t jive with all the treatments I did, but she tried the Reiki I sent her anyway. I prayed for her to enjoy some relief.

There’s a communal understanding that while we’re all going to drop dead at some point, it’s a whole mood when you’re on the listening end of this conversation with a doctor. Tess was a vital part of my handbook for sanity within this insane unknown. Mere mortals are scared of mortality. Some friends disappeared, Tess leaned in. She was an absolute lifeline.

While I survived on cranial sacral treatments and rick simpson oil, Tess was having more surgeries. I was humbly receiving donated PT sessions, planning fundraisers, using a walker and a cane. My nervous system was malfunctioning. DNR. Palliative. Mobility Aid. Those were my words last year. The doctors weren’t sure I should continue care due to the mass, palatable on my skull. This increased the severity of my situation considerably.

Tess and I shared the same fears. Still, we chose to stay in our bodies, even when it wasnt easy. I didn’t want to, that’s for sure. Having Tess by my side – even miles away – made me want to try harder to find a treatment plan instead of jumping off a bridge. Somewhere along the way I knew I was ok with my own death, and I started to forgive those around me for not understanding.

Last Friday I felt the best in my the best in my body that have in years. A stark difference from where we were just months ago. I’m ever grateful and it does feel more like a miracle every day. Yet, my happiness seems disproportionate after a season of losing so many people that I love. I wish more of us had the opportunity to heal. Without a doubt, I know my extra time on earth is a gift not everyone receives. May I use it well, may I honor those I’ve lost through helping where I am needed.

With Grief and Gratitude.

Today is 09.10.2021

I’ll miss my friend Tess. Her strength, her transparency, and her fragility helped save my life a little every day.