I’ve pretty much forgotten not only the experiences described but also the text of Lessons in Taxidermy. One of the only bits I remember clearly is the fact that, in real life and the book, nearly all of our vast network of friends and family abandoned us in the midst of my medical problems.
People are prone to grief fatigue; it happens. Particularly when you are confronted with someone like me, who remains dismally sick for years and decades, the attrition rate of support is predictable.
Last month I heard that someone back home had entered hospice, and I sat in the market square crying as I wrote a letter thanking her for being a nice person and good friend.
This woman was singular in remaining a stalwart friend through the crisis, to the extent that she donated her annual leave so my mother could spend at least a few precious days in the hospital with me. She conscientiously, persistently showed up, sent flowers, invited us for dinner, took my mother to lunch and tried to make her laugh. She even responded to my teen pregnancy with a gentle, sweet benevolence and interest rather than the much more common horror and scorn.
This was a byproduct of her religious faith but she did not proselytize – she just acted in a decent, plain way to take care of people who needed tending.
Yesterday I received a reply to my letter in her careful penmanship, and could not bring myself to open the envelope. Hours later my mother sent email reporting that our old friend passed away.
I’m thinking about her husband and son, and wish that I could somehow do more.