Requiem

Christine Howe was the best hugger I knew.

She would greet me with with her musical, sing song voice--"Well, hi there Kellie!", slide up to me, wrap her arms around me while kissing me (with a "mmmmm!"), bend her knees so they would touch and grip mine--and then she would wriggle, shaking and rocking me in her embrace.

She knew how to make people feel absolutely loved.

She was the rare soul who would let me know exactly where I stood with her. I never had to guess whether there was anything unsaid--her love and support came complete with clear, unabridged communication. If she wasn't happy with me, I knew it--but it never rankled. She was a straight shooter, with the rare innocence that seems to accompany those with such earnestness.

She was one of the healthiest people I knew--at 52 she put my 35 years to shame. Her toned and vibrant body was maintained with her vegetarian diet, regular cleanses, ample exercise.

Nothing makes one feel one's own mortality more strongly than finding out that someone as healthy and alive as Christine had a cancerous brain tumor.

She was diagnosed July of '05.

With the support of her husband Jon, son Tyler, and a bevy of loved ones in her community, she managed to live a pretty full life in the following year, visiting friends and loved ones in Europe and Mexico, all the while doing what she could do to not give way to the cancerous intruder. For awhile, the lack of growth in her tumor lulled us all into thinking she was beating it.

Before we left for our trip in October, we got word that the tumor had resumed growing; while we were away, Jon's emails brought heavy hearted news that Christine was rapidly declining.

When we returned we were able to spend some time with her, seeing the Christine we loved through the symptoms of the damage that the tumor growth was wreaking on her brain. As the days passed she went from being able to spend some time in a wheel chair, to not leaving her bed. All the while she was cared for at home by Jon and Tyler.

A week later, last Saturday the 18th, we all gathered at Jon and Christine's house. It was unplanned--just a gravitation of loved ones to their place, wanting to witness, support, soak in this hallowed, heart wrenching experience. It was indescribable, these hours--such a combination of love, grief, joy, fellowship that pulsed through rooms among all who were present.

We took turns holding vigil in her bedroom--three of us at a time sitting on the floor or on the bed next to her--holding her when the seizures convulsed her body every ten minutes. Murmuring to her, "Just let go, sweetheart..."

As Taryn noted, it almost felt like being a midwife...every convulsion was like a contraction. We hoped that she would use our strength, our presence to aid her transition. But that blessed woman, that strong, vibrant woman wasn't ready to go quite yet. She seemed so far out of her body, in a persistent slumber, unresponsive to all her gathered around her.

But, the next night, Sunday, when Jon leaned in and whispered to her, "Marry me..."
She replied, "Okay..."

I massaged Jon last Friday--I was so grateful to him for letting me "help". I appreciate Jon so much--both he and Tyler have been so gracious in sharing this deeply personal experience with all of us.

As I worked on him, he mused about the concept of "helping someone die"--what, really, was there to help?

"I think," I mused, thinking about Taryn's analogy of midwifery,"that both birth and death will happen regardless of whether there is help to be had, or not. But isn't it much better to have loved ones nearby to ease the way?"

Christine died last night at 8:51pm.

The email we received from Jon this morning:

just to let you know,
the city was quiet, under a few inches of snow,
tyler and i were with Christine,
so far as we could tell her last breath was as peaceful as anyone's could be.
we filled the room with candle light,
and caught what sleep we could laying next to the bed.

Christine, thank you, I love you, I miss you.