Breathing in, breathing out

Something happy is happening in my life right now. And something sad is happening too.

I am waiting for this baby to arrive, and I have a friend who is waiting to die.

She is 70, has been wheelchair-bound for years, and has battled dozens and dozens of serious health issues for the bulk of her life. This time, it is cancer (not her first fight with it).

She has been somewhat ill for as long as we've known her (8 years), but really ill for several months--breathing issues, loss of vision, fatigue, pain, pain, pain. The other day it turned critical, and she is now in the ICU, finally refusing what little intervention is possible at this point.

Mike and I have been helping her out while enjoying her friendship for some years now--we drove her to church every week before J was born, then Mike did it alone. Until she was unable to go anymore. At that point, he simply brought her the sacrament.

We visited with her often, befriending her friends, bringing J along to meet her. And she loved him, sometimes letting him ride along on her wheelchair. We have received many thoughtful gifts from her, brought her meals, checked in, shared life changes. She is a big part of our lives.

Mike and I went to see her two nights ago. She looked simply awful. I asked her what she wanted us to pray for (did she want to recover?), and she said, Bravery, to face death head on. We left thinking (and in some ways, hoping) she wouldn't make it through the night. She's just been through too much.

I went back tonight. She told me she's "getting there."

Here's what I'm learning: Death is a process. Birth is a process. The scattered contractions I feel, the loss of breath she experiences, they are different ends of the same cycle. We are both inching closer to something we cannot control. She's getting there, and so am I.

I read a memoir once about a woman dying of breast cancer. The end was long, drawn out, and she told her daughter she didn't know how to die. I believe this is where my friend is sitting--in a place that is comfortable only because of the morphine drip, and uncomfortable because she knows she doesn't belong here anymore. But she doesn't know how to die. Her mind is drifting, her breath is short. I asked her about her house and she told me where she will be buried.

The lines aren't connecting anymore.

I walked out with her daughter and we hugged and sobbed. It is hard to see this kind of dying up close. I've never seen it before. You want them to be able to go, but that wanting doesn't make it happen. She will still be alone in her room all night, counting her breaths, trying to catch them and trying not to catch them.

Soon I will be at the other end of that precipice, giving birth.

I hope I can be patient, not fight it. Face it head on. Remember to breath in and out.

I cannot will it to happen. But when it does, I will be thinking of her.
And when our time comes, I hope we can both be brave.