i am thinking now of saying goodbye. how to say goodbye. to my mother. trapped in her body. mouth open, eyes glazed and fixed. staring. and her odd ungated voice, robbed of consonants.
her dry uncooperative tongue.
i tell her i love her.
and then i tell her, under my breath, what a good mother she has been.
because now, this moment, is the moment to say. when i can know. that our time together is over. and the final assessment can be made with utter confidence. she has been such a fantastic mother. because i have loved her. in that deepest most vulnerable place. it is irrefutable. she is the mama. the brown paper lunch bag she handed me before i left the house became a sacred thing. even though i couldn’t eat it. even though i had to go to von’s cafe with the other middle school kids and get french fries. i saved her lunches in my locker. until the janitor tracked me down and made me throw them out. i let her bananas rot and i am barely able to forgive myself even now.
mostly, and maybe this is the oddest measure, but mostly i know she was a good mother because she was old and tired by the time she had me. she was 44, the age i am now. and when i was 6 and she was 50 she got out a muffin tin and filled it with change so we could pretend to play store.
because i wanted so badly to be a merchant.
and she was tired and working on a thousand projects that day and had so much to do. but she dug down in the cupboard and pulled out a muffin tin.
that is what i think of.
what kindness and love i have been shown in this life.
when i hug her body goodbye, i say, i love you so much mama.
she says, i love you too sweetie.
i don’t know if she knows who i am then.
and i am sobbing. holding her hand.
and my dad comes and puts his hand on my shoulder and he says, she’ll be waiting for you in heaven.
and i say i know.
and i get up and lurch around the house finding my things.
and hugging my father and my sisters.
and all of us crying.
and i look back at her and she is still staring. she is still looking at the compelling thing.
and deborah gets us in the car and drives me away.
there is no way to do this right.
and now it has been 2 weeks. and i have said goodbye to two other loves. a friend who has moved away. who helps me believe in the secret world of words. who helped me accept and explore my shadows. to mine them for wealth. and a dear old friend. who has been such a good friend. better than i deserve. kind and generous. she once held me while i wailed in grief. while i lost my senses. she held my body up like she’d been taking care of my kind all her life. but she is younger than me. i never told her what that meant to me. until this week. after she has flown from south america to see me. i never told her what it meant to be so visible and so well taken care of.
that is what i want you to know. to be seen and to be loved is so rare and awful. to allow this feast of kindness.
to let my body be washed. because i am too weak to wash myself. i keep imagining that i can just do it if i wanted to. that if i really truly wanted, i could. but i can’t. there is not enough room in my lungs anymore.
what they have told me is true.
i am needing to tell you things. and i am feeling panicked at the limited time. i have procrastinated all my life! i have been needing to tell you things and i feel such a sense of waste.
and at the same time i have to forgive myself those hours staring. those hours watching soothing tv programs. those hours i sat with friends and smiled.
i have to forgive myself those hours.
after all, maybe there is nothing else in me to tell.
let me start over. it’s so hard to be clear. let me try again, okay?
you are not going to understand what i am trying to tell you. and i am despairing at the effort. because you cannot possibly know. because there is only one way to know it.
but i’m going to say it anyway. i am going to try because it is breaking my heart to know it alone so desperately and absolutely.
i want you to know how important it is to let people take care of you.
but more, how important those people are now. before they ever have to hold your skinny naked arm up and wash your armpit. before they come to your house every monday morning at 7:30 am to help you get dressed.
i’m saying know it now, when you hug them at parties and talk about work. know the potential in their hands when they are putting firewood on the camp fire you share. when you both can imagine 5 years from now. know that their bodies are the ones to help you up and out of your bed someday. to make it possible for your to eat and to walk to the bathroom.
you and i and they are not ideas. we are people. we are animals. we are bodies living in a real place. this life has its own procedures. i have come to believe that some are undeniable.
also, forgive me for the didactic rant here, but i just don’t know any other way at this right now: there is no magical group of perfect friends who will never disappoint you.
embrace the imperfect family.
the woman who looks into my eyes when i am gasping for breath and says, it’s okay. you’re going to be okay.
even though she doesn’t know it herself.
she saves me every day.
she may have disappointed me once. we may have even had a bunch of fights.
but she is here. now. and that time and those hard years have tempered our love into the most indestructible treasure i can imagine. because she knows me. she has seen me scared before. she knows where to find me when i am lost.
i cannot imagine the price of staying so close. people being willing to walk me all the way to the end is astonishing to me. i am in awe of their bravery. i feel so lucky.
and because i’m on my high horse already let me say that to you who shudder at the “indignity” of reliance; of letting another person bathe you; of losing such utter control, let me tell you that i have had more authentic and beautiful moments with people in the last several months than any other time in my life.
bathing and feeding my mother just under two months ago and now here, where i am surrounded by friends bathing and clothing me. bringing me food. i am struck by the tenderness of it. the amazing intimacy. and all i have to do is let go.
Yes, Val. You make sense. Thank you for speaking up. I especially love “there is no magical group of perfect friends who will never disappoint you” – that it is not so much the particular person, but the connection of compassion and care that matters. Love, Kristen
Thank you for that, Val.
Cowgal Val,
Your thoughts, expressions, and words have taken care of me in ways I am eternally grateful for. Your thoughts always reach the farthest corner of my soul. You have helped me immeasurably. I cherish my life more because you have shared your thoughts & journey. I cannot imagine my life without knowing you through your Cowgal Val blog. One of my greatest challenges (like most) in life has been to let myself be loved & cared for, even though I do it for other people, every single day. I have taken care of many people during their dying days, and you have nailed it. I hate to even say “dying days” because the ‘life’ in it all is profound. I hear people say (all the time) “If you want to be close to God, hold a baby” or “Babies are the closest thing to God”. And I disagree. The closest we are is when we are letting go ~ ’tis the greatest intimacy imaginable, humbling, and the highest privilege.
So, thank-you Val for having the kindness and strength to share (again), the truest words ever. Thank you (and Deb) for maintaing this Cowgal Val site, and sharing your remarkable journey. Very few things have influenced my life as remarkably as your efforts of sharing, and your amazing ability to articulate the finest details of life that go unnoticed by many. You have changed my life for the better and I will forever hug your spirit.
I will miss you. I will miss your words, your thoughts, your observations, your humor, your attention to the finest details, your stories.
Thank you for sharing your life in a way that made me feel like I knew you, and in a way that afforded me the opportunity to know life more authentically.
You cared for me by sharing who you are, so thank-you for helping me to learn how to be cared for.
You will be missed & never forgotten, Cowgal.
~ Kate
I love you so much, Val. And all the truisms you’ve shared with me over the years have made me a better person. I hope you know that. So many of the good things I’ve managed, so many of the times I’ve walked away clean when I’ve been forced to walk away, so many of the things I’ve forgiven even when others refused to forgive me, so many of the moments I look back on where I took a deep breath and let my best intentions guide my actions — are rooted in conversations we’ve had. I so much want you to know that. And that when I need to be my best self, when I want to be the most relaxed, the most uninhibited, when I want to quiet the judgmental voices in my head and write something truly, authentically me — I write it like I’m writing to you. Because of all the folks I’ve known, you were one of the first who never judged me. You took me on as imperfect family. You talked to me about forgiving yourself and you helped me do the same. You still help me do it all the time.
We can never know who will show up and who won’t when we need them. All we can do is be the kind of person who shows up. And all we can do is humble ourselves to accept the kindness when it’s our turn to receive it. I’ve watched from afar. I’ve watched you struggle to accept help and I’ve watched you close your eyes and tip back into the grace of it, into the awkward intimacy, into the love. There’s so much about what you’re going through that I can’t imagine. And it’s been terrible to be far away. It’s been terrible to not be able to give in all the ways I’d like. And that terribleness is selfish. Because helping helps. It masks helplessness. So mostly I’ve just watched. And listened. And loved you. And in all the struggle, you’re still giving. You’re still mending our broken and breaking hearts. You are a unicorn, Val Garrison. A rare and healing beastie. And you are so dearly loved.
That piece about the imperfect family, Val, I’ve shared it with so many of my imperfect family. So good and so true and so fucking necessary. I appreciate, we appreciate, the truths you are speaking.
Honoring the indestructible treasure. It will outlive us all.
Thank you Val. I read your blog religiously and am grateful for you. I wish you peace.
Sara
Thank you so much for telling the stories, even the hardest ones. I love you, Val.
in case you are not reading your gmail:
val, now it is my turn to say that i am so late in replying. i have thought of you often & fondly, if not 3200 times, then close to it. i hope you have, on some level, felt my thinking of you though we never managed to have that whiskey date all those months ago.
i have read your words here from time to time over the last few years, and have just read your post from last week. your narrative is a gift and a revelation. your thoughts on saying goodbye, on letting people take care of you, on embracing the imperfect family of friends, on disappointment and bravery, on the authenticity that is borne out of reliance & the dignity that it affords.
thank your for tipping your heart, val. for revealing yourself. for sharing your process. for your intimacy & bravery.
i hope you will know that your spirit is invoked out here in the wild, among the burrowing owls and grasshopper sparrows, the ferruginous hawks and coyotes.
you will be remembered well.
You were one of the first people in my life to teach me to let go and laugh. I will love you and think of you the rest of my life. So blessed to know you.
what a blessing what an undeniable gift to have you as a teacher oh beautiful woman…i am glad you were so held in love..as you loved, lived and felt so deeply!