Your Gift to Me

Being with you for your last hours was the biggest gift you could have given me. I got your final time. I got to hold you and take care of you and talk to you and hear your last conscious thoughts. I got to watch you and listen to you as you went under, beginning to take trips to the next world, but still coming back.
I read to you from the Tibetan book of living and dying.
And I got to watch Chris Price, guru and earth mother and Esalen goddess, ease you out of this world and into the next.
I got to watch the power of your mind. You were so strong.
We went out to dinner on Saturday night. You wanted to have one last great meal. We put your wheelchair in the back of the mini, your oxygen tank in a backpack, and drove off to Sausalito as the sun was setting. You hadn't walked for days, but you got out, walked into Fish-a yummy West Coast version of a crab shack-and we ate fresh oysters, fried green tomatoes--which somehow seemed like us because it was a movie about a lovestory about two women and pals who took care of each other forever. Until death. You had a giant crab roll and fries and a local microbrew. You ate it all. You even wanted dessert.
You started to fall asleep before the blueberry crostata came out of the oven, so I put you back in the car.
We drove back to the house and Peter, your boardwalk angel, and mine, too, appeared out of the darkness and helped me put the wheelchair back together again. You were so tired.
I put you in your hospital bed, next to the lilies. I lay down next to you on the sofa so I could hear you and help you. You wanted to be held, but you were just too uncomfortable.
At 11:00 p.m. Chris Price appeared at the door, with food, computers, books and a sleeping bag. I love her.
She went right to you and held you and said you had to get ready to die. She said you had to start saying Goodbye. She said you had to practice saying it over and over and over. You had to prepare. Tears rolled down your face, and mine, too. But she was so wise. Why doesn't everyone get someone like her?
She asked if you wanted to see your Dad. She asked what kind of funeral you wanted. She asked who you wanted near you, and how you wanted to die. She was gentle, but never shied away from the truth.
You didn't want to decide. You never wanted to decide. You were about living. Not dying.
She said she would make a plan and you could say yes or no. So she did.
I gave you morphine all night, and Peter brought you an almond budino from Rulli in the morning. You wanted to be outside. So we rolled your lounge chairs together and wrapped you in blankets and made a big bed so you could see your flowers and your creek, and someone could hug you and rub your feet and head and everything. All day you lay there.
You didn't want to talk about your dad. You wanted your mama to come. But you didn't know if she could. You wanted to see Lauren. You wanted to drive into the city and have Sandy bring her from her four hour layover at SFO and meet at Tartine. I think you knew.
And then you started traveling. You knew who we all were. But you were dreaming. You said you had been out bicycling. You told me I had to leave the light on. That I couldn't forget. You told me to take care of Benji's vision, he had double vision, because he was double smart. You said you found three guns, for short range, medium range and long range, and you needed David and Roberto to show you how to use them. You said you wanted me to surf with you, but you were retaining so much water, you couldn't surf. Chris said you were trying to leave your body. It was so heavy, you just wanted to take flight. It was holding you back.
You said you were going snorkeling, you needed instructions. Then you could barely talk. I held you and we looked in each other's eyes. That's all you could do at the end, you hurt so much. Tears rolled down my cheeks and yours. I told you you could go. You didn't need to wait for me to come back to Stinson if you hurt too much. I would be with you. I told you I loved you, and that you were one of the great loves of my life. You cried, and looked at me with one big blue eye.
You were on your way. I could feel you going.
When I walked down the boardwalk and drove out of Larkspur I felt I had gotten your final window. As I drove through the middle of California, with the shadows growing long on the golden hills, I told you you could go. I told you it was OK. There was the most spectacular sunset. It looked like a cathedral ceiling in Italy--huge clouds with rays of gold coming down like God. I felt like you were being lifted up. I stopped at a rest stop and called. Brooke said you had talked to the hospice nurse and she gave you methadone for pain and you were sitting up with Chris Price rubbing your back, and Karma sitting on your lap. So I thought maybe I was wrong. But that night you refused your medication, and the next day you were gone.
You didn't want to live if you couldn't eat food, entertain and perform, and go to the beach. You didn't want to try if you couldn't be fully alive. So you left.
You taught me so much.
Chris Price kept telling you: Your body knows what to do. It is just like birth. You don't need to tell it what to do--it knows. It is a miracle when life goes, just like when it comes. We have that knowledge inside us.
And it was.
You did know.
As I lay with you, knowing you were going, I realized, none of those things matter that you think will matter. You didn't wish you had been more successful, or left more of a mark on the world. All that mattered was that you were leaving the beauty and the love of this world. When you lie there ready to go, that is what you mourn, that you are leaving the love, that you are leaving the beauty. You will regret if you did not savor the beauty of the earth, and bask in the love of those you knew.
I feel less scared.
I looked through your albums, of you, and us.
You wanted us to do it together, but you were too out of it.
We were there in Japan. We were there driving cross country. We were there skinny dipping in mountain lakes and camping in redwoods. We were there at Stinson, and in the hot springs at Esalen, and running races, and with Nick, and in Ventura. We were woven into each others lives.
You loved me in a way maybe three people will in my life. You really loved me, my essence. And I loved you. You drove a lot of people crazy, but I loved you. One person who knew my essence, my history, my life, is gone. I miss you so much.
But you were true to yourself, Nat. You found the place you loved. You found California, with its redwoods and fog, and sunshine and endless summer. You found your fellow dancers and yogis and spiritual seekers. You built your family, the one you felt you didn't really have.
You were true to yourself, Nat. I hope I can be, too.
You loved California. You loved beauy.