Gail's Gift: Lessons in Dying

I grew up in Tokyo, during which my friend Gail served as a kind of second mother to me. And afterwards, too. As an at-times-befuddled Canadian teenager in Japan with no idea how or where to apply to college in this country, Gail (having moved back here with her family some years before my own did) expertly guided me toward a school that proved a perfect fit: Sarah Lawrence. My undergraduate years saw my frequent arrival on her Scarsdale doorstep for impromptu sleepovers, meals extending late into the night, and vibrant conversations about politics, literature, the intricacies of love. Gail attended each of my various graduations. Gave the first toast at my wedding. Cuddled my daughters in their beginning weeks of life. Remained my champion, always.

While driving her car one morning near Vancouver this past May, my friend--69 years-old and in the eyes of her longtime husband, Leigh, "in the prime of her life in many ways"--suddenly and without warning lost all feeling in the right half of her body. Within a day she was diagnosed with an advanced malignant brain tumor.

Gail is now on the cusp of death. More likely weeks away than months away. The following is an account of my visit to Vancouver a few days ago--to be with Gail, Leigh, their grown sons Will and Mark, and Will's young family.

17 August 2007 (Friday): YESTERDAY, I ASKED LEIGH IF HE AND GAIL had discussed the fact that she's dying.

Only obliquely, he answered.

"Soon after her diagnosis, she turned to me and said, 'I hoped we'd have had more time together.'"

This morning over breakfast, Leigh and I parried over the definition of the word "suburb": he thinks he can rightly call Prospect Heights a suburb of New York City, and I think he's full of baloney. I can tell Leigh enjoys our little banter--"suburb" is not the first word we've arm-wrestled over. (There've also been "agitprop" and "coda.") "I've had Gail boss me around for 40 years," he says. "Someone needs to keep me on my toes."

The back-and-forth exhausts me a bit but mainly I'm happy simply being Leigh's pal.

After an early morning walk together followed by raisin bran and fresh blackberries picked from the spectacular golf course behind their backyard, Leigh has an appointment at a hospice that he's pondering transferring Gail to--and asks me to join him. It's across the street from the Palliative Care Unit of Vancouver General Hospital where Gail is now, and convenient to her many friends who like to visit. The downside? It's far less "homey" than the other hospice across town, a place called Village by the Sea or some other such thing, with fireplaces and porches and rocking chairs and unimpeded views of the Pacific.

On the elevator ride up to see the head nurse of this place, Leigh mentions Gail's longtime battle with M.S.--which she was diagnosed with just before the family's move to Tokyo, around 1976 I think.

"You know, her response to the M.S. diagnosis says a lot about Gail's character," Leigh offers.

"Tell me," I ask.

"Well, not once did she say she didn't want to go forward with the move. Instead she took the news in stride: calmly lining up experts in Japan to be in touch with," Leigh explains. "It's just wasn't that big a deal. Another woman in her situation wouldn't have done that."


LEIGH AND I MEET WITH ANNE, the curly-haired, middle-aged CNL ("Clinical Nurse Leader") of the hospice, who I assume is probably gay. I like her. She strikes me as a kind of compassionate straight-shooter. Patient with questions and thorough with answers, even though in all likelihood she walks through this routine a gazillion times a week.

I ask what about hospice care has drawn Anne to this corner of nursing; she says it's the privilege of caring for others in their final passage of life, that here is a place--unlike the OR--where "patients can be treated as people and not as 'parts.'"

The cost to Leigh would be $29 a day, which creates an immediate note-to-self to renew my Canadian passport. Between the beauty of Vancouver and the low cost of dying, perhaps Mister C and I will want to move here in our old age.

In certain ways, our hospice conversation seems entirely matter-of-fact. With the morning sun pouring through our window and across our laps, we three could easily be settling down for benign cups of tea. Save for Anne's casual observation that when people's bodies start shutting down, they often don't want to eat (and that withholding food from loved ones is a particular problem for the hospice's Chinese population). And Leigh's now-and-again grumpiness: he interrupts Anne more than once, and stares down miserably at the notes he's brought.

As the elevator descends, I ask Leigh what he thought of the place. "Well, it's very institutional," he mutters.

"And I sure wouldn't wanna marry Anne." He looks at me sideways and smiles.


WHEN WE ARRIVE at Gail's room on the 16th floor of the hospital, she's in the final stages of being washed up by her nurses. It's quite an ordeal: there's her catheter to be navigated around, a fresh gown to be put on, a pair of knees to be propped up, her body to be rolled over and pillows placed just so under head, and at her side.

As a seemingly-young and lovely nurse (who incredibly has a 21 year old son, who even more incredibly is suffering from terminal cancer himself) briskly makes up the bed, she says with good cheer: "Life is made to be lived!"

Gail is suspended by a pulley, about to deposited into a wheelchair.

"Oh, dear," she says.

I HOLD GAIL'S HAND and tell her I'd had the good fortune of meeting Will's kids on returning from dinner with Mark the night before: the lovely Hannah, age 8, and Mara, age 4.

"They danced around me in the kitchen, both entirely naked except for paper angel wings clad to their backs," I report. I tell Gail that I slept in Mara's bed (in a room she usually keeps with Hannah) and that Hannah proved the consummate roommate--that we both read late and peaceably into the night and that Hannah didn't snore.

Gail smiles brightly and her eyes tear up.

I'VE BEEN GIVEN THE JOB OF FEEDING GAIL her breakfast: a hard-boiled egg, oatmeal, toast with honey. While delivering a second spoonful of oatmeal to her mouth, I accidentally spill a small glob on her chest.

Gail shoots me a raised eyebrow. "Slob," she says, and smiles.


SOMETIMES IT FEELS AS IF ONE CAN VIRTUALLY SEE THE CANCER eating away at her brain: Gail gets a thought, but there's no longer any good space available to carry it through.

"I....really...do," she'll say.

Or: "Tell me..."

Or: "I need..."

In the afternoon, an expression of worry crosses Gail's face. "I'm looking for my..." she starts, and stops.

"Give me a hint," Leigh urges gently.

"I don't have...a hint," Gail replies with exasperation.

"Is it something to do with clothing?" Leigh asks.

No, Gail shakes her head.

"Your makeup bag?"

Again, no.

"It'll come back to you," I suggest.

"No, it won't," Leigh replies.


LEIGH GESTURES TO SOME PHOTOS tacked to a bulletin board over on the wall. They were taken after Gail's initial stroke in late May but before her first big seizure, after which things deteriorated quickly. in the pictures, she's wearing street clothes and is sitting in a wheelchair with lipstick on.

"Do you remember what that occasion was, Gail?" Leigh prompts.

"Um, yes?'" Gail replies uncertainly. One can almost see the contours of her mind searching, with so much difficulty, for the right words.

"Oh!" she cries. "That's when Leigh became Canada!"

We all smile.

"Those pictures were taken on the morning I became a Canadian citizen," confirms Leigh.


AMONG THE MANY THINGS I'M TOUCHED BY over the course of the day is how tender Leigh is with Gail. He kisses her on the lips often. Reaches under the covers to stroke her thigh. Rubs her bald head. Smooths and tucks in her sheets expertly, reads her items from the paper he thinks might amuse her. Calls her "Spunky." There remains an undeniable wink and spark between them, and it is their many years of marriage that have brought them to this place--an utter ease with one another, mostly in the absence of language. Which is just as well.


IN THE AFTERNOON, GAIL NAPS while I hold her hand. It's a relief to see her at peace, to not have to worry after her, to take in how beautiful and smooth and rosy her skin looks, to savor her features at ease. It's a relief to be alone and it's a relief to be able to cry.

Gail coughs and her eyes flutter open. I wonder if I should make an effort to quickly be "brave."

But the jig's up. Pretending now seems rather beside the point.

"I'm so lucky to know you," I say, locking my fingers tightly though hers. "And I'm going to miss you very much."

She nods. I lean awkwardly over the railing to hug her, put my nose into her neck. Gail wraps her good left arm around my head and strokes my shoulders. And there we stay.



GAIL'S BODY IS GRADUALLY SHUTTING DOWN. She sleeps for ever-longer periods during the day, the nurses have tried twice to draw blood from her veins and can't get any, her skin is always cool to the touch. Everything is just slowly ticking to a stop.


DURING AN AFTERNOON DRIVE THROUGH THE CITY, Leigh muses: "It'll be strange to be invited to dinner parties, knowing there might be another single woman there for me to meet."

I'm both surprised and strangely heartened to hear him thinking this way, at age 75. Gail has left an indelible imprint on everyone she's touched, and naturally the deepest of these imprints lies on the skin and in the heart of her husband.

And life will go on.


I'M REMINDED OF AN EMAIL EXCHANGE between Nipun and me last week, during which I'd told him that the Margaret Mead Film Festival wants me to present KarmaTube as part of a panel discussion exploring the intersect of documentary and the internet when the fest convenes in November. We'd talked about other things too, including steps that might be taken to grow KarmaTube from here.

"Whatever the universe wants," Nipun had written.

I'd smiled at the reference then. Typical Nipun. Uttered by someone else (and were he not so incredibly effective), these words might be instantly dismissed, rendered fodder for a New Age joke. Since they weren't, and he is, I'm now called to ask myself: what might the universe want now and here, on this cloudy afternoon in Vancouver? What might it want from me? I look at Gail and her family and all that they are going though, and sometimes I imagine that I can actually ride the mystery of all this.

And sometimes I feel I just can't.


BOUQUETS IN VARYING STAGES OF DECAY line the shelf by Gail's long, hospital-room window. Sunflowers, daisies, roses picked from Gail's mother's garden.


IN THE WAITING ROOM TODAY, LEIGH AND I TALK about September 11th and about how we have each come to understand the idea of God. We talk about grace and ritual, my June trip to India and the lousy bosses Leigh has had over the years. I use the word "explicate" in a sentence and Leigh tells me I've said it wrong.


LATER IN THE DAY, I ONCE AGAIN FIND MYSELF ALONE WITH GAIL who once again has just woken from another nap and whose eyes have once again filled up. I bring my face close to hers and whisper that we will always love her and always miss her. I pause. And then I say that when the time comes, she can let go and it'll be alright. That life will be different but that we'll all be okay.

Fresh tears spill down Gail's cheeks.

She nods. "Okay," she says.

I choose not to share with Leigh this exchange. It feels almost like a secret. And I confess to harboring a shade of guilt about what I've both said (to Gail) and not (to Leigh). Who am I to tell Gail it's okay to let go?

And yet.


EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE GAIL SPEAKS A SENTENCE with the same rapid-fire fluidity as before. Given the norm now, a simple, complete thought from her feels almost like magic--like a birdsong.

"What am I going to send your mother?" she asks in a rush this afternoon, as if she's forgotten something and now must hunt for it, in haste.

"Um," I ponder. "How about your love?"

"Always," she replies with a smile.


"WHEN DO YOU LEAVE?" Gail asks.

"In two days," I answer.

"Stupid me," she says, smiling. "How many times have I asked you that already?"

"A few," I say. "And you can keep asking." A pause. "Can you stand having me around for two more days?"

Another pause.

"I can't stand....NOT having you around," she says.

From his chair across the room, Leigh cracks: "Glad you got that out right."


WHEN GAIL FALLS ASLEEP AGAIN, Leigh announces that he wants to take me on another drive--to show me some things. We head over to the University of British Columbia campus and he points out the dorm where Gail lived during her first year of nursing school there.

"She wore a gray dress and black tights everyday," Leigh says of the uniform Gail was made to wear for hospital work.

"Sounds kinda sexy," I reply.

"She didn't think so," he says.

We park at the Museum of Anthropology, where Leigh takes me around to the back and points out huge totem poles created long ago by Native Canadian "bands" (as tribes are known in Canada, Leigh instructs). He snaps my photo standing in front of a few of of them.

On our return, Leigh stops at the Botanic Garden, parks the car and signals for me to get out. It's a lovely spot for which Gail volunteered much of her time in recent years, as part of FOG--"Friends of the Garden." (Gail's fellow volunteers now appear regularly to maintain her and Leigh's own immaculate garden.) Leigh walks me over to a large covered archway with a gorgeous view of the sea.

"This is where want to hold a celebration of Gail's life," Leigh says. It's a perfect choice, I reply.

"I'm glad you think so," Leigh says.


WE NEXT HEAD TO A LINEN STORE, where Leigh returns five sets of twin sheets he purchased for Gail when she came home a few weeks before. When neither of them yet knew that she'd only be back a matter of days. When Leigh rejoins me at the car, he reports that he wasn't able to get his money back, but did make an exchange. "They convinced me I needed a summer-weight down comforter, and I realized they were right," he says. "I've never had one of those before."


WE MAKE A PIT STOP AT THE HOUSE. Leigh takes me down to the basement, now used as a playroom for Hannah and Mara, and speaks in detail about the renovations he plans to start in on, and soon--to create a separate rental unit. He'll put in a kitchen, update a bathroom, create a bedroom out of space now being used as a storage unit.

Then he casually drops what feels to me like a rather small bomb. "I need to get this place in order for when I sell it next summer," he says.

"Wow, I say. "I didn't know you were thinking that way yet."

Leigh seems almost indignant. "Listen, I'm still young!" he sputters. "I have to move on with my life!"

He'll probably look to buy a small apartment in downtown Vancouver, he muses. And maybe also think about finding a place in Whistler, since he likes to ski.


I TAKE A NAP IN MARA'S LITTLE BED, SLEEPING DEEPLY, AND WHEN I WAKE UP Leigh says: "I've laid Gail's handbags on our bed. Go in and pick one or two that you'd like to have."

I enter their bedroom and the site of her various handbags--made of eelskin, of straw, a couple of worn leather shoulder bags, one or two small bags from Japan--spread out in careful rows clutches at me. So this is what happens when someone dies. A cleaning out.

I choose a straw purse and a bag with wooden handles, somewhat beat up but evocative. Leigh expresses surprise at my choices. "I wouldn't have picked those for you," he says. Then adds: "You can look through her clothing, too, though I doubt any of it would fit you."

I pause, unsure of how to feel or how to respond. So intimate! So personal! Is Gail really not coming back? She was indeed bigger than me, though not tremendously so. And I've always adored her sense of style, which Leigh proudly informs me she pulled off without ever spending much money.

Leigh says he'll invite each of Gail's friends to come over and take what they want, and pack the rest of her stuff up for Good Will. He seems matter-of-fact about the process, practical. The good, organized banker that he is.

AND SO IT IS THAT I MAKE MY WAY THROUGH GAIL'S TIDY dressing room, and carefully open its drawers. There are belts, scarves, a few things from Eileen Fisher, some items from the Gap. Lots of taupes, creams, beiges, olives. A few blacks. A small handful of intriguing pieces--a beautiful heavy kimono-type coat I've seen her in before, a linen jacket with asymmetrical sleeves. And I'm intrigued to realize that, for having long been a deep admirer of her creativity and flair, Leigh is absolutely right: but for a very few pieces that looked like they cost something, she doesn't seem to have spent much on clothing at all.

I pick out a couple of silk scarves--specially made in Kazakstan, Leigh tells me later--and a well-worn yukata. I like the idea of wearing the scarves under a winter coat, of having a flash of Gail's brightness and whimsy close to me when it's cold out.


BACK AT THE HOSPITAL THAT NIGHT, Leigh and I silently move to opposite ends of Gail's bed, and each pick up one of her feet, which we begin to knead away at with the lavender and "Madagasgar vanilla" lotion that Maddie and Delilah, my two dear daughters at home in New York, had helped me select at the Delaware County Fair not a week before, for this purpose alone. Gail seems to enjoy herself.


"I'm not going to die," she suddenly says, with force.

I smile, unsure how to respond. Later, Leigh suggests that perhaps it had been a metaphorical thing.


HOME FOR A LATE DINNER OF FISH TACOS, prepared expertly by Ursula, Will's steady and strong wife. Ursula, Will, Leigh and I eat together at the kitchen table overlooking the garden, and drink wine poured from a box in the fridge.

Later, a good long talk alone with Will.


18 August 2007 (Saturday): WHEN LEIGH AND I ARRIVE AT THE HOSPITAL THE NEXT MORNING, Gail is being hoisted from her bed into a wheelchair via the pulley from the ceiling. For the briefest of moments, the pulley hoists Gail out of the reach of one of the nurses.

"Where are you going, Gail?" the nurse laughs.

"I'm flying," answers Gail, rather quietly and seriously.


I REALIZE I'LL MISS THE THINGS ABOUT GAIL that no one else I know shares--the quirky things, like her habit of taking small, sharp in-breaths directly before speaking. The specific shape of her body. The curve of her shoulders. Her jowls. I appreciate that she never dyed her hair. That she looked like herself at every moment of her life.


IN THE END, ONE CAN GET USED TO ALMOST ANYTHING: the sight of a mother figure now in need of a diaper change, of Leigh carefully brushing Gail's teeth amidst a tongue that refuses to behave, of idly biting into a slice of hospital chocolate cake with one hand while directing a forkful of overcooked string beans with the other.

LEIGH AND GAIL AND I TAKE A FIELD TRIP DOWN TO THE HOSPITAL lobby so we can look at some art hanging on the walls, made by a person with whom they're both acquainted.

Afterward, Leigh stands in line to buy us lattes at the lobby cafe. As Gail and I wait a few yards away from him, I squat alongside her wheelchair. To be closer to her. Gail reaches out her working arm and pulls me in toward her, then begins stroking my hair and kissing the top of my head. My calves burn within moments, a wheelchair arm digs into my ribs, the wheelchair itself inches incrementally forward due to my precarious grip on us and on it. An unexpected gust of warm wind blows through the nearby set of open glass doors and tosses my hair about.

This is our moment.

AT 2 P.M., I HEAD DOWN TO THE LOBBY FOR A SANDWICH. I haven't eaten since breakfast--Leigh seems to be okay with picking food off Gail's hospital plate--and I need to be alone for a few minutes. En route, I accidentally exit at the wrong floor and promptly get lost. I cry my way past the burn unit and signs marked "critical care," though various long corridors marked with empty stretchers, until I finally find a bank of elevators which takes me to more familiar surroundings. I order an egg salad sandwich and, while facing a window looking out to a parking lot, pick at it. A gang of raucous young men enter the hospital in wheelchairs, cigarettes in their hands. My sandwich, which cost $6, is stale. I eat only the egg off the bread and throw the rest of my lunch away.

ANOTHER PIT STOP AT HOME. Not sure if it's the accumulated time I've spent here, or the realization that this is my final day, but I feel like I'm drowning in sadness.

I make my way to Gail and Leigh's small pool house, where I know I can talk and breathe freely I call Curtis and the girls. "Mom, I have a lot of compassion for you," Delilah says soberly. I sit back in the humidity of the space and give way to tears. Wild tears, for just a minute or two. I realize that when we next head back to the hospital, in just an hour or so, I'll need to say a final farewell to Gail. And I'm dreading it.

MADELEINE, GAIL'S SPRY AND VERY ALIVE 96 YEAR-OLD MOTHER, has arrived from Penticon--a five hour drive away. When we meet, she throws her arms around me and cries out, instantly, "You were Gail's daughter."

Madeleine hasn't seen Gail in several weeks. Over drinks in Leigh and Gail's garden--which we share with Madeleine's other daughter, Lynne, and Lynne's husband, Barry--Madeleine is full of worry and warmth and questions. "Gail's been my rock," Madeleine says quietly to me, the skin beneath her mouth twitching. "At the beginning I just couldn't believe she wouldn't be getting better."

I can't imagine what it must be like right now for her.


LEIGH AND I DRIVE MADELEINE TO THE HOSPITAL. I sit in the middle of the backseat, scooted up toward the front with my knees practically at my chin--like a child. Madeleine reaches back for my hand and I'm very happy to hold it.

When we enter Gail's room, it's almost more than I can bear. Madeleine goes directly to her bedside and takes her daughter in her arms. They both break into heavy sobs.

"I'm too old to take this," Madeleine cries.

Gail lets go her embrace and looks her mother squarely in the eyes. "No, you're not," she replies, clearly and slowly.

Madeleine holds Gail. I hold Madeleine. We're like dominoes.


My heart is in knots at the prospect of saying goodbye. I lean in closely and whisper, "Gail, I have to go now." Gail nods. She understands. Her forehead wrinkles up a bit.

A quote by Edith Sitwell comes to mind: "Love is not changed by death, and nothing is lost, and all in the end is harvest."

Over the course of four days, I've had the opportunity to say everything I've needed to say. Amidst my sadness, I am grateful and empty.

"I'll see you sometime," I offer with a cocked head and a small smile, knowing full well that my words are completely inadequate to the task.

Knowing full well, as we both do, that it matters not a whit.