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Maggie So here I go, rushing to sew sequins on the shroud my friend is making in the little time left to her. We are a-palling, I say but she doesn't get it. Death of pancreatic cancer is rapid so we work quickly. At this rate, the shroud will be large enough for both of us. I feel as if I'm dying, too. Daily chemo and radiation: an aggressive recipe. She won't discuss time and I ask a medical friend who says six months max. One hundred and eighty days, give or take an hour or two. We sew like Penelope while the odyssey to oncology ensues or like Madame LaFarge: the best of times, the worst of times. She laughs and jokes, thrusts and parries, our old shtick. She phones too often or not at all, wants me with her all the time or not at all. She has lost her sense of balance and I teeter, too. When she irritates me, I feel guilty. How can I be sardonic when she's dying? Healthy, she annoyed me because sometimes mere breathing irritates me and soon, she won't annoy me. Ever. I think, Don't leave me but don't say a word and assume my usual supercilious air. Hubris has always seen me through but she has seen me through sickness, problems and doubts about eternity. So I will rush to place the sequined shroud over her and walk away, steps heavy, mind numb, but braver and better for having known. And sewn. |
Additional Notes:
Maggie died May 2001, having lived eight months longer than
predicted.
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