Ever since lung cancer forced Denise to become bed bound, Chili, my cocker spaniel, and I had been visiting on Friday afternoons. Chili jumped right up on the bed — first sniffing for bits of food lost in the tangle of blankets and sheets and then curling up next to Denise for a nap. Over the months I came to follow his example. At first I sat poised on the farthest corner, not wanting to upset Denise’s arrangement of books, uneaten plates of food, and medications. Near the end, Chili nestled on one side of her and I lay down next to her on the other side. We both stared at the ceiling as we exchanged stories about horses and mothers and doctors and dreams. Once, in a quiet moment, Denise turned towards the daylight entering through a gap in the curtains. I admired her still pure skin and the way her chestnut hair cascaded around her angular face. She closed her eyes and arched her head back as if drinking in a stream of sunlight.

The last day I saw Denise was another Friday. A sizzling hot day in July that caused beads of sweat to appear on the walls of the house, the bed linens, and the leftover food that was starting to liquefy on the nightstand near her bed. Denise had transitioned. That was what the book the hospice worker left called it. Denise was gone. What was left was a collection of bones barely held together by featherweight, translucent skin. There was nothing about her that was Denise anymore. I patted her hand and hastily told her that I loved her and would look after her husband and that it was time for her to leave her pain and go. I felt awkward giving my friend permission to die, but I could think of nothing else I could give her. She died the next day.
On the day of Denise’s funeral the sky was a low hanging tent of grey clouds that threatened to rip apart at the seams at any moment. The air had that wet dog smell, a combination of mildew and old newspapers. When the rabbi read the words of the kaddish, the prayer for the dead, his voice became as dry and crackled as a late autumn leaf. In his hoarseness, we heard the rumble of our own grief. When he finished the prayers, the rabbi offered the shovel to her husband to cast the first weight of earth onto her coffin. There was not enough soil for all the strong hands that wanted to help ease her way.
Article written by: Barbara Kivowitz, © 2007 butyoudontlooksick.com