As an editor at Alaska Magazine in the late 1970s, part of
my job was to talk to people who brought stories in for our consideration. It's the kind of job that in time you
almost dread seeing someone come through the doorway looking anxiously, their
precious manuscripts gripped tightly in their hands. But it had its joys also. Among the stories about "me and the old lady drove the
Alaska highway and thought you would like a story about it;" "I saw the northern lights last night and just had to write a poem about it;" and the
literature proposed by young collegiate writers, once in awhile a gem showed
up: a real sourdough's tale of
life in the wild, often written in longhand on unlined paper; and even less
frequently a beautifully written piece by a competent writer about a subject
that Alaska magazine actually wanted.
During that tenure Patricia Monaghan walked into the
office. She was probably in her late 20s or early 30s at the time and working as a journalist in Fairbanks. I wish I could remember the subject of
the manuscript she brought now, but it has escaped me. What I do remember is recognizing immediately that this was
not one of our ordinary contributors.
Beautifully written and expressive the story whatever it was, I recall
almost jumped off the page at me as I scanned it. She was offering the story and also wanting to make contact
to send us more as time went on.
One of the unfortunate parts of that job was knowing the magazine would
never pay enough to keep the really good writers contributing for very long. I knew immediately she was one of
those. We would get maybe three or
four stories and then she would outgrow us, as so many others had. But for that short period of time the
magazine would benefit. I doubt I
said it that first time, but I am sure I did at some point in our relationship, that she was too good for Alaska Magazine.
Over the next few years we became close friends, often getting
together when she came to Anchorage or when I went to Fairbanks. No matter what we were doing the
conversations always turned to writing.
I have never joined writers groups or much wanted to discuss it. To my mind writing is not a team sport;
it is done alone, isolated and best kept in isolation. Pat was more of a group person, but she
also understood. Talking about
writing with her was different. We weren't discussing and criticizing each
other's work. We discussed craft
and word usage and at times even read a little of each other's work when asked
and offered suggestions.
The work she hadn't shown anyone else yet was what impressed
me most. At that time she was just
beginning to explore what would become her life's work. I realized that of all the authors I
knew or know personally, she was the one whose talent and intelligence left me
in awe, the one person I ever knew who I accepted was a much better writer than I am. When someone I thought that much of,
told me she liked something I wrote, it held great meaning for me. She was never overly effusive, she wasn't
like that so I was pretty sure she
wouldn't lie to me just to be nice.
She was very selective in what she complimented and never criticized,
and I could tell by what she didn't mention what she didn't like and those
parts I would work on. I did the
same with her.
In the 80s we lost track of each other for a while. She left Alaska for Chicago and I went
off on my adventure. The next I
heard from her was shortly after the Exxon Valdez oil spill. I had taken her out in Prince William
Sound on my boat and she remembered that.
She sent me this poem she wrote about the spill:
There Is
No Way Back
By Patricia Monaghan
On the radio, an old friend's
voice
chokes with anger and grief.
At the Stony Island
intersection
I am stuck, gridlocked in
place.
Stalled in traffic uselessly
weeping I listen to the news.
The light turns yellow, red
again; a sudden cry of horns.
Salmon in the tide pool,
whales
beside the boat: memories
flood me.
The traffic surges forward,
each car spuming its exhaust.
Now the announcer decries
the otters' oil-soaked coats.
I speed home along the
freeway
surrounded by the names of animals.
I have fished the Sound,
watching
slow fog fall on the blue
shore.
--Someone passes me, too
fast.
I brake as I approach the
exit.
Anchored over the crab pots
I have watched the day moon
rise.
A red sun sets now over
the Halsted Street bridge.
I want this to be easier. I
want
to forget that oil fueled our
boat.
I want to hate the vivid city
as a kind of expiation.
But I've burned trees as
fuel.
I have boiled crabs alive.
My trapper friends kill for
luxury.
Gardeners rub their hands
with Vaseline.
There is no way now to be
innocent,
no way for it not to be night
and
each of us unprepared to
pilot
through these rocky narrows.
And there is no way
back. There is no
part of the world that is not
part
of the world. There is not one of us
who was not on the bridge
that night.
It may have been the first, but it was not the last time she
brought a tear to my eye.
From then on we corresponded occasionally, the old way with letters
actually written on paper, so it was not often. I recall sending her a copy of Keep the Round Side
Down when it came out and hearing back from her typically finding what she
liked "the author long-known as something of a male chauvinist pig, actually
wrote a woman character who is interesting, complex, intelligent and
strong."
Then the Internet came along and we embraced it. Our correspondence picked up, first
through email and then through social media. She had a web page, I had a blog, we were both on facebook
and we discovered the joy of instant messaging. With almost instant access we worked through our writing
sometimes together at least until we discovered that what we were really doing
was encouraging each other's attempt at the greatest of all writing obstacles
-- procrastination. Our conversations fed our procrastinations
and in realizing that, we laughed.
Some of those conversations found their way onto this blog. These are the links:
Then late last year she was diagnosed with cancer. Soon that often became the subject of
our conversations even though we tried to steer clear of it. She suffered through several unsuccessful
therapies and we discussed them. I
have never been through this with anyone before and was not sure how to act,
what to say, what to do. I had all
the sympathy in the world for her and at times her pain and her frustration were
mine as well, though I know mine could not have been nearly as severe as
hers. I thought about it quite a
bit and decided a lot of sympathetic words were not going to help, nor was phony
encouragement. In her posts on
Caringbridge and to friends she said this was going to be fatal but none of us
wanted to believe her.
I finally decided that if I could, I would do things to make
her life more bearable, perhaps even giving her some joy. I started telling her stupid
jokes. It thrilled me when she
would write back that one of them had made her laugh. But that wasn't enough. When I was laid off last February and people asked me what I
was going to do, I only half jokingly had said, "go to the Lady Gaga concert." So I asked Patricia if I could take
her. She jumped at the idea. I even sent her links to videos of my
favorite Gaga songs. I bought the
tickets. And several times over
the ensuing few months she would mention looking forward to the concert.
When she listed all the things she packed to take to her
chemotherapy sessions, I realized many of those could be replaced with an iPad. As I had just bought a new one; I sent
her the one I was replacing.
When I went fishing in September I sent her a bunch of fresh
salmon. One of the last meals she
wrote about when she still could actually eat, she had that salmon with a small
group of friends.
Since then I noticed a difference in activity. I seldom received an email. Her husband Michael McDermott, who endured every minute of the suffering with her, started writing the
Caringbridge posts. I noticed she
was seldom on facebook any more and I began to fear the worst. A couple times I saw a Caringbridge
notice in my email and was very hesitant to open the link, not wanting to read
what was becoming inevitable.
When one came Sunday morning I didn't open it right
away. Somehow I knew. I watched some pregames football show
for a while, but my mind was racing and also thinking how stupid it was to
watch unimportant events on TV when I needed to look at Caringbridge.
When I did, from her husband, this is what I read: "My
beloved Patricia passed away in her sleep last night."
Even expected, it was shocking and I spent most of the day
alternately feeling stupid about watching football and fighting back
tears. A few days have passed and
I have recovered and accepted what was after all the only outcome as she had told us. One thing we
spoke about at times was as writers we had something to leave behind for others
to remember. Patricia has left
more than most, and even more with me because from now on every time I sit down
to write I suspect she will be there and that's all right, but she has left a big empty space in my mind as well.
The makeup guerrilla who possesses enormous musical
talent, a few years ago wrote a song about a devastating trauma in her
life. In it she described
something of a Stockholm syndrome in which she became entangled in the mixed reactions
of loathing and, at times, liking
what was going on. In the song, as she related her feelings when the trauma
finally ended, she could only ask, "what am I going to do now; what am I
going to do now?"
That is exactly the feeling overwhelming me as I contemplate
the future after the loss of my friend Patricia. What am I going to do now?
