Some time ago, I posted a story of an old friend who'd taken his life---it was hard to post as it was very sad. But I needed to do it and you were very accepting, which was so deeply appreciated. This is the 'other' story---another dear soul who took her life years ago, this week. And I've wanted to do this for a long time. Her friends asked, "would you ever write about her?" Yes. I finally have. This is it. From a longer piece, this is her final day. It's painful, but I needed to find its journey and its hidden lights. I'll understand if you don't want to read it (because of its pain), but if you do, I hope you feel her great light in the end. Further, I ask that you bear with any repetition or un-clearness...I hope you find transcendence in the end. Thanks for reading, as always...Have a fine week, and I'll return to normal posting soon. Peace, health and wholeness to all, mark * * * "Andrea took a bottle of pills---she's dying: Come quick!" (Click.) I couldn't move: Jeff's words hit me like a lightning bolt. I hung up the phone and froze: 'Andrea's dying,' I thought: "Get up!" I leapt up, overcome with shame that I hadn't moved immediately---still I was moving in slow motion, as if through sludge. And why? I'd witnessed her terrible depression for weeks, deep sighs of surrender and stultifying hopelessness; we'd urged her to see a counselor---we practically dragged her to one---yet, when we succeeded, it was too late...she started too late. We knew this day could come, there was no surprise that this could come: But when it actually happened, it was beyond words. It was real, not imagined: You never accept death---never---it until it actually happens. And now, rushing to put my clothes on, her last weeks flashed through my head like drugged ghosts: Her seeking gaze, a piercing, pleading gaze, like she was looking for something, scratching, pawing with her eyes...I'd seen her stare into space, motionless, her eyes vacant as if she'd seen an abyss that no one else could see but which to her was as visceral and touchable as the screen you're looking at right now. She was so focussed on that abyss---while looking so agonized that it was there---I expected her to reach out and throttle it: But she couldn't. She was lost, adrift, all connections cut. Why then were we so stunned when she finally tried to kill herself? It's that no matter how much we prepare for death, we're never prepared when it arrives...So that phone call hit like a million volts of electricity: I was dumbstruck, I couldn't move; a sickly, emptying feeling overcame me as if my life were being drained out of me. I snapped back: 'Be strong!' I thought, as I finished dressing, my mind a swirl of unwanted voices. I took a deep breath, my heart was banging against my ribs, I threw on my coat, yanked open my door, and ran out as fast as I could to Andrea's home---which was all of 2 blocks away. And, though I raced faster than I'd ever run in my life, I couldn't feel my legs: I couldn't feel them---it was as if they'd belonged to someone else. As Andrea's home came into view, I remembered the magisterial tree that protected her house, and its beautiful dark shadows---some of the most beautiful shadows I'd ever seen---and the children playing on her sidewalk, and the exquisite arching oaks that canopied her street like the arms of protective guardians; and this street, this exquisite street, I thought: Did they know Andrea? Did the trees and the shadows and the children and the gardens, did know that Andrea was now near death? The questions pounded in my head as I raced towards her home, that one of the sweetest souls I'd ever known, who, just a day earlier, was playing with the children and exulting in their sweetness, who was looking at her trees as if they were her own guardian angels, and who was so joyous to us...that this same precious and blessing-giving soul was now losing consciousness, lying on a rug and struggling to stay 'with' us---that she was passing, literally passing like a ghost wafting by you on a dark misted road, and turning into a forest, never to come back again... It sounds so hackneyed, so obvious, but could life go on 'as usual' when---a mere 20 feet away---a complete life was now passing, a complete and opulent soul? And did these burgeoning and overarching trees know how tortured she'd been? Or how loving she'd been, or how she'd played with children and gave them gifts and adored all of us and adored all the plants and gardens and shadows, and was such an extraordinary painter---she was a wondrous artist, that's how I met her, with a talent so huge and encompassing it seemed as if it could never die: Did these trees and bushes and sun-drenched clouds and flowers and lush gardens and children know how much agony she carried in her, each day? I could tell you her history---I could---but I can't do it here: I just can't (mea culpa): I can't write the pages it would require to do it proper justice: So suffice it to say, it was enormously painful, she came from a terrible home with terrible strife, she'd had childhood illness (she almost died), she'd lost her sister (and dear friend) at age 6, and her mother at 8...She carried deep loss and pain in every day of her life; yet, as a friend, she exuded gold; and, as an artist, she had that 'explosion' in her, that blasting waterfall you recognized the second you set eyes on her work: Every stroke glowed, every line bristled and clanged and shimmered---her art was the visual analogue to a magnificent carnival of bells, diamonds and waterfalls; it was deep, encompassing and radiant. But that same art was imprisoned in a body mired in deepening quicksand, an emotional quicksand that moored every one of her days as if her light, love and talent were dragging behind her on heavy chains as she trudged through the dread molasses that were her past: One didn't see this at first; but once you got to know Andrea, you saw it every day: She was just a few inches from sinking, each day, with one arm holding onto us and one onto her beloved nature, all to keep her from sinking beyond rescue. And now---tragically---she'd lost that grip at last, she'd lost her grip on everything so was sinking fast and without redemption: She'd taken pills---I didn't know which ones, and, really, it didn't matter---where, despite her loved ones trying to rescue her frantically with instructions from the medics (an ambulance was racing there that very moment), she was finally leaving. She was disappearing. When you saw her that day, you knew: She was disappearing. There was little time left. She was fast dissolving from all life. And, think about it: I must repeat it, even at the risk of saying it too often: "There was little time left": How can we apply those words to a life? How? A young and explosive life with so much energy and soul, with "little time left"? The words were gagging: I wanted to scream at them: I wanted to grab them and shake them and throttle them until all their power had disintegrated into random breezes and dust: Why in the world should someone have "little time left"? Why? What was nature's rush??? Was there not something, someone, some power who could stop this, reverse this, turn it around? Andrea gave love like waterfalls give water---yet because of one moment, god, one terrible, unbearably human moment, she suddenly had 'no more time'? Who threw down this sudden slab of concrete, I thought; this sudden shattered clock-face that made her life stand as still as lifeless stone? Who pressed the faceless button that gave her a "2 minute warning," when a whole hour wouldn't have been enough? And how could a soul so vital---who paid her dues by suffering so long and struggled so hard to overcome and turn that suffering into sweetness and light---how could she be brought to this im-passable cliff because of one horrible, capricious act? Why? Several pills? tiny, rolling, white, clicking pills---and that was it? That was all? But, that's how it is, it's that fast: You make a sudden choice, and you're suddenly catapulting down a cliff at unstoppable speeds, not understanding how you got there and having precious little time to reverse it. Did she realize how fast it would happen? Did someone tell her---from the sky---when she took those pills? Was she aware, did she really understand? My god, I was furious---not at her, but at the cosmos! I wanted to scream and grab the sky: Do you see what is happening now? Do you see? DO something: DO something! How can you sit there and not DO something! I was pleading---while running (everyone could hear me)---with tears rushing down my face, "Andrea, you're not alone, you're not alone! Know this! Hold on---please hold on!" God, if I could've grabbed the sun and put it in her lap so that it would warm every freezing cavern in her body, if I could've grabbed all the stars in the universe to warm just one chamber of her rapidly freezing body, I'd have done it. Miracles, you are nothing, I thought: A life and oceans of love---they outdo you a billion to one! I arrived at the house, the ambulance was pulling up the driveway. The door was open so there'd be no obstruction for the medics; and I ran to her body which was lying on the living room rug, and I fell to my knees. I gasped. She was so stunned and so helpless... How do you express the stun, the sheer incomprehensibility of seeing a loved one suddenly approaching death: There was no illness before this, it happened in minutes. The previous night, she was laughing wildly with us; 2 nights before, she hugged me elatedly in a restaurant...and now she was lying on the floor, pale, gazing into an abyss, her eyes half shut, and barely moving...as I crawled closer, she saw me: I took her hand and whispered: "I'm here, Andrea...I'm here..." And I broke down and turned away---for a moment---so she wouldn't be burdened with my tears. God, then the search: Andrea stared at me, turning her head back and forth like a dog trying to understand a human's gestures: She was searching so hard to 'find' me, to 'place' me, to rekindle the connection that was once so rock-solid, it was heartbreaking to watch. I squeezed her hand more. She drank me in---she soaked me in---but she couldn't place me. I squeezed harder, whispering, "it's ok---it's ok---I'm here, I love you, we love you---" With herculean effort---which killed me because I didn't want her to exert herself one more moment---she was combing through her memory to figure out who I was. I whispered: "it's me, Andrea: Mark...don't try, just rest---" But she kept staring, so pained: But the circuitry had been cut, she couldn't find the connection: It was gone. She looked at me as if I were fading into the distance, flying backwards into rolling clouds of darkness. I held her harder but she saw nothing. "Andrea," I whispered: "It's Mark. Can you see? It's me...I'm here...for you..." (If I could've held her heart in my hands and whispered into all its caverns until her life came flooding back, I'd have done it a million times.) Suddenly, she teared up: My god: She remembered! Then she cried and squeezed my hand and wouldn't let go. I choked up and grabbed her hands with both of mine. "I'm here," I said, "we're all here---the medics are here, they'll save you, they'll save: Hold on...please...a little more..." And at that moment, Andrea, one of the dearest friends I'd ever had, quietly passed. She died. I'd never felt such overwheming silence in my life... * * * The medics stood with exquisite patience, as we hovered over her, weeping deeply. I remembered King Lear's words to his dead daughter: "No breath at all?...never, never, never, never, never..." It was over. And she became, as all passed ones become, an exquisite and eternal child whose silence was her final gift, her final bestowal: the gift of all-bestowing stillness and peace. I let go of her hand---which tore me to pieces because I knew I'd never hold it again---and felt utterly and irredeemably empty. We all sat back, lifeless, as the medics---with infinite gentleness and respect---began their somber rites. They checked her pulse, wrist and neck, and, after a few other tests, whispered: "We're sorry: She's truly gone." (I went through the very same chasm years later, when my sister passed last year---only I was the only person present then: It was so private, so incredibly lonely as I watched my sister, who died alone, suddenly held and cared-for by strangers as they gently tested every sign of possible life; and I slowly accepted the silent surrender of her entire life into the hands of medics as they held it ever-so-caringly and sacredly in their careful, final hands...and I thought, "they are strangers, Lynne---do you feel them?---but they're holding you, they're caring for you...if I could give you my heart to bring you back, I'd do it...but they are doing it now...please accept them...") They closed Andrea's eyes (we turned away as it was so hard to watch that), and commenced with the 'official' acts: The Official Acts---they must be capitalized---where the deceased becomes a 'case', a report, a gigantic formality. It's so sobering...they were so gentle with Andrea, so thorough, so respectful, as they touched, and recorded, and notated... "Andrea," whispered Jeff (her boyfriend, who incidentally had been so gracious to me, as I'd known her longer than he had: I moved aside for him constantly, but he constantly said: "No, stay where you are...you knew her long before me..." So I pulled him to me, and we stayed by her together)...he whispered: "You're in caring hands now" (tears falling all over her beautiful purple blouse): "See? You're being cared for as you always wanted...the world is caring for you now." He broke down and pulled away. Others ran to him and held him. And now, I must say it---we expect grief to be orderly, balanced, in proper manner...where all our feelings happen in 'correct' fashion and are eventually and totally settled. But it never happens---never. Grief is incredibly messy...it's a maelstrom, a whirlwind, a morass of so many conflicting emotions, so many collisions of memory, so many waves of yearning, acceptance, denial then more acceptance...these things flit back and forth like dashing comets inside our heads and viscera for months before they get a bit easier. I wanted to grab Andrea and sway her back and forth in my arms and say, "if only, if only, if only... (Why did I even think that? Why say "if only" to someone who had such pain? She had suffered so much; yet I wanted to squeeze her now, and cry, "if only you'd reached out a few minutes earlier---please---before taking the pills---if only you'd have reached out one hour earlier, one day, one week...we'd have pulled you through, we'd have helped you, we'd have saved you..." Then---again in my head: "I'm sorry---forgive me! You had such pain---forgive me for thinking such things!" These feelings crashed through me like a hurricane, while I never uttered a word (the maelstrom of grief)...Then, the feelings returned once more: "You were so radiant, you had so much love...if only you'd waited a bit longer: We loved you, we loved you..." And I broke down, muttering---aloud this time---"I loved you...so much (almost silently now), so much..." We discovered in the days that followed, that we all had those thoughts. But, hovering over her body now exquisitely and so sensitively being cared-for (the medics were, to us, like angels), I whispered, "you're in peace now, do you see? and we'll love you forever....forever....and may pain never touch your hurting, wounded heart again..." Deep surrender. The police came in...and the medics---after the police determined that her death was not from any violence---put Andrea in a body bag. Gasps. With a single scratching rush of a zipper---whoooosh!---she became a body, a corpse. They took her outside, that dark unwieldy body bag flopping around as they put it on the gurney, and she was taken from the house forever. And, spontaneously, like we'd prepared for this moment for weeks, we followed the gurney like soldiers following a slain brother or sister who everyone had adored; and that glorious tree suddenly became an all-protecting parent to Andrea---certainly in our minds---a mothering, embracing, all caring angel who'd watched over her for many years in the past, and was now protecting her in her stunningly sudden death as she was being taken to the cool impersonal tomb of a city ambulance. But soon she'd be taken to the lush and infinite grace of her beloved forest, where we would spread her ashes according to her wishes. And I wanted to go up to that tree and thank it and hug it with all my might for all I felt it had done. In fact, the whole street seemed to become her mother now, flowing with beauteous outstretched arms in golden late-summer attire, and with crowns of lush greens basking in the late August sun...and that ambulance became, at that moment, a royal cradle taking her to a royal place of rest...and I wanted so much to hear Andrea calling through all this late summer opulence and beauty: "I'm alright---do you see...I've passed to the other side, and oh, it is so indescribable..." * * * They spread her ashes across a beautiful forest, dressed in the most gorgeous late-summer hues. And the ashes blew gently across the ground, and we thought, this is Andrea saying "I'm ok..." I ran my fingers through them---her ashes were shockingly soft and downy, your fingers bounced off them as if they tossed you back in play, and they quietly floated above the earth. And I thought: With all the pain on this earth---which at times is so fathomless---the glow of a single soul is greater than all the pain that could ever exist, and this is the ultimate answer to suffering. I've shared this story not to re-kindle a loving companion's pain, but to say that the splendid light from one heart is much greater than all the suffering on earth; and, if one wants to believe in a 'heaven', it has to be composed of that light. "It is not the wise who are in heaven, but heaven that is in the wise..." I knelt to her ashes now (the valley was a ballet of people kneeling and touching her sacred ashes), and I whispered (and I didn't know I'd say this): "Goodbye, Andrea...I will never, ever forget you...never..." And I turned and walked home, grateful that this cosmos, for all its incomprehensibility, could grant us the light of the precious jeweled heart, and remind us that it will always, always glow, when all darkness has disappeared with the breeze... * * *