She won't be with us this Christmas

I sat with her, just the two of us in her hospital room. She and cancer had reached the end game and cancer had the upper hand. She wondered what she had done in her life, what was worthwhile, what had she accomplished. I searched my mind and told her everything I could think of and it was considerable. I couldn't tell if she was convinced or not.

We had come to Alaska together 40 years earlier.  We had not lasted together, but individually Alaska and each of us had. We had careers and adventures together, we had a daughter together, one who was about to make us grandparents, but we had gone our separate ways somewhere in that timeline though we had remained respectful and cordial through it all. Now she wondered what she had accomplished and I tried to assure her she had had her effect.

She worried, too about an obligation, a task she had performed longer than most could remember and wondered what would happen in the future. In that moment as she laid in that hospital bed, ill-fitting scarf around her head which had been ravaged by chemo, I assured her I would carry on her obligation, at least until a suitable replacement could be employed. We made something of a plan to work together on the most recent part of that project so I could learn it.

As we talked I saw at moments where the mind slipped, when she almost fell asleep and when she finally excused herself, simply too tired to carry the conversation any further.

Trying to be understanding, I stood up, smiled at her, touched her hand and said goodbye, Sally.

As I passed through the doorway with my back to her on the way out, I very suddenly realized that really was goodbye.  It was the last time I ever saw her.

I held it together until I got my car out of the parking lot and onto the road home before the tears started.

A most remarkable woman