miss Mayme

on the morning of July 6th, i saw the hospice's number illuminate my phone screen. considering that our primary form of communication had always been through email, i knew a call signaled unsavory news. i wasn't yet ready to hear what i had been anticipating for weeks, so i let it go to voicemail and mindlessly tended to work tasks for an hour instead. finally, inevitability's insistence compelled me to pick up my phone and tap the number at the top of my Recents folder.

indeed, i learned that the Black elder who i had been seeing for nearly a year crossed the threshold into the Hereafter. the volunteer coordinator said she didn't seem to suffer in her final moments. the nurses reported that she struggled to breathe momentarily before they administered pain medication. after some time, her spirit slipped away. her chest no longer to rise and fall. in a daze, i thanked the volunteer coordinator for letting me know and hung up the phone. then i shut my laptop instead of forging ahead into the remainder of my workday to give the myself the space to process.

this is technically not the first transition i've experienced within my capacity as a death doula. there is the woman who i sat bedside with once to give her exhausted husband a break. his brow furrowed, he stood by her feet, worried about the gurgling at the back of her throat. he'd never heard her make those sounds before, so he asked me if it was normal. i reassured him that it is typical in the dying process while still validating his fear of the unfamiliar. once my time was up, i left as quiet as i came. she died a few days after my visit.

but this elder was the first death of someone with whom i had a sustained relationship. on a quasi-biweekly basis, we shared an hour in relative silence; Castle, Family Feud, or Sanford & Son usually provided our backing track. most visits she drifted in and out of sleep. other times, she would be lucid, looking at me every now and then to call me cute (though she scoffed anytime i returned the compliment).

when i first started seeing her, she always sported a beauty supply turban. one black, the other pale pink and dotted with faux pearls. they often slipped out of position, rising higher or slumping sideways, so she kept her hands busy, constantly fidgeting to pull them back down. towards the end of her life, the smooth brown crown of her head remained exposed, and i couldn't help but wonder who made that choice for her.

one of my favorite visits we had is the one where i fed her dinner. i've never been a caregiver, so this was the first time i got to experience the sweetly vulnerable act of nourishing someone. as i would want done for me, i let her dictate which parts of the plate she wanted to eat most, slightly defying the nurse’s insistence that she finish it all. though the volunteer coordinator later corrected me for feeding her due to liability reasons and my lack of medical credentials, i don't regret doing it. forgiveness over permission, as the saying goes.

i am still so curious about the fabric of her being, whether she was well-loved and if she loved well. she remembered little of her life besides the major details and what sat in front of her: where she was from, who her child and grandchild were, that she didn't like the forest green nail polish i brought to share with her after i noticed the coat she wore started to chip. i laughed and slipped it right back into my bag when she immediately shot it down. (just because you’re dying doesn't mean you have to abandon your tastes!)

that said, i am also satisfied with never knowing. through the months during which our conversations were sparse, i learned that it is not my place to expect legibility from the dying. i am only meant to be a supportive presence in the room and nothing more. what a gift it was for us to be kind mysteries to each other.

at the end of July, i made a semi-impulsive trip to Savannah; my plans came together quickly once my lover and I realized it wasn't feasible for us to reunite for our third anniversary. instead, we had a dinner date on FaceTime and wrote sweet missives to each other inspired by these prompts from Arcana Poetry Press.

aside from the time i spent traipsing around the sand and surf on Tybee Island, i was either ducking the heat in the AirBnB or sensing the specters of enslavement's atrocities that shape the region. on the other side of the full moon in Aquarius, i started watching Dying for Sex, a show that i'd personally assigned myself as a required text in my death doula journey. i chose astonishingly well: i finished all eight episodes within a day's time, taking a break only to visit my friend who'd moved to Savannah last year. directly pulling from Molly Kochan's experience with terminal cancer and the podcast released after her death, this show follows her fictionalized namesake's quest to experience an orgasm with another person before she succumbs to her battle with cancer.

the deeply moving performances from Michelle Williams (Molly) and Jenny Slate (Nikki, Molly’s best friend and caregiver) tenderly excavated childhood trauma*, sexual desire, kink, anticipatory grief, and ultimately exercising bodily autonomy to live and die on one's own terms. each tear i cried watching Dying for Sex pulled from the well of grief i'd been carrying over the recent death i'd experienced; the show permitted me to move those emotions through my body in ways i had unconsciously convinced myself i didn’t need.

upon my return to the Atlanta area, i lit a small white candle for this elder to send her peace and prosperity on her journey. i propped my battered copy of Power of Psalms open near the flame with the Grandma Baby’s 52 Blues’ 3 of Hearts — aptly named The Slumbering Blue — on its pages. of this card, the guidebook says:

THIS BLUE IS IN FLIGHT. SOMETIMES A DREAM IS A PLACE WE HIDE WHEN IT’S TOO HARD TO BE IN A BODY. BUT THE LONGER WE’RE GONE, THE HARDER IT IS TO COME HOME TO OURSELVES. THERE ARE WAYS TO MAKE A BODY HOME AGAIN. THEY START WITH GRIEF AND TURN TO SELF COMPASSION.

a small ritual to thank someone who allowed me into her world before flying from the home of her body. i pray(ed) she was welcomed into something like a warm embrace, into some form that is weightless and unbent by pain. and i — still among the land of the living — expand my capacity to feel through grief in favor of shutting it away, therefore expanding the compassion i have for myself as i commit to honoring the d/Dead and dying.

until next time, dear reader.

Dkéama

*serious trigger warning for repeated discussions and descriptions of childhood sexual abuse (CSA).

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