Cancer takes a dear friend

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:

Conversations with Patricia: Day before the (2010) election

Why are we writers again?

Conversations with Patricia: Part deux

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?