#31 Thoughts Along the Way to Dying-- "SUZIE"

The Singing Bowl is sounding via Zoom, and we are joining a worship service held in Tucson, Arizona.

We aren’t together, but, well, yes we are in a remote but real way.

The sounds of my friend Suzie’s cries have ceased; along with the sound of her heart, the sound of her Very-Loud-Sneezes, the sound of her light laughter. Suzie died yesterday morning, shortly after this hour in which I write today. The sound of the singing bowl has slipped off to move through space (because that is what sound does — simply keeps traveling). I don’t know that sound ever ceases. Does it?

Suzie is freshly “gone,” and my brain, with its system of synapses signaling her presence, now struggles to silence those connections, to build new signals promoting her absence. It’s not working at the moment.

But, presence is a part of absence. This morning I made French toast for breakfast. I reached for my homemade Whole Wheat Sourdough Flax bread, and saw behind it on a refrigerator shelf, the large container of sourdough starter. Years ago, that starter came from Suzie who got it from her father, who got it from his father, if I remember correctly. 

I added a touch of Vanilla, Madagascar Bourbon Pure Vanilla Extract. I bought it a good long time ago at T.J.Maxx for $9.99 rather than its usually $44.00. Suzie was with me that day of purchase. We each handled the bottle, we read the label, and discussed “Bourbon” being a part of the description. I looked up some information about it shortly after bringing it home.

9 Fluid Ounces The finest Pure Vanilla Extract available on the market today. Our Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla Extract with a high content of vanillin has no preservatives, no emulsifiers, no corn syrups, no added sugar, carriers or antioxidants and is certified Non-GMO and All-Natural. 

Suzie said, “Buy it. I’ll borrow it.” I did. She didn’t. But here it is in my kitchen, in my hand this morning.

I made a big batch of cookies a few days ago. I used the large, red KitchenAid mixer that was once Suzie’s. Her daughter gave it to me recently. Suzie was an amazing cook.

I have a stunningly beautiful “Weeping Buddha” carved in Bali from block of very dark wood. His head is buried in his hands, bent to his knees, ears open but eyes covered. The Buddha’s feet are tucked under. I have to lift the heavy thing, tip it, to see the well shaped leg muscles, feet, and toes. The artist didn’t have to finish it in such fine details but, the artist did. 

“What kind of wood is this?” Suzie and I asked each other in the Portland, Oregon Goodwill Boutique shop. Suar wood, likely, I would like to tell her now but can’t.

“We” bought it. We two Christian leaders of sorts, we bought the Buddha because we loved the beauty of it. We were moved by the soft pathos found in this hard carving. We quibbled over who owned it. It was with Suzie for a time but when she became utterly distracted by the demands of disability and illness, she sent it home with me. It is beside me now, weeping the tears that do not come to me. Ours was a complex, sometimes furious, engagement of friendship. The Buddha will go now to another of Suzie’s friends who is Buddhist; who with me shared the role of POA for Suzie, who, with grace and grit, served our dying friend. 

Here’s the thing, practically at every turn, from room to room in my house, I find the touch of Suzie—from the French apple knife to the velvet dress in my closet; from her notes written in black ink with an artist’s flair, to a silenced bell from India, to her voice in my head that my brain can’t quiet.

Suzie died yesterday. We who watched the inevitable were not surprised but, oh, yes we were. Just as I hate that the sound of the Singing Bowl leaves me, I hate that death sends a very real Self away from existence. My complex, creative, clever friend, Suzie, has died. One more thing of hers is coming to me — a beautiful leather bag we each saw in a Goodwill store; a bag she claimed; a bag she used and vomited in, in my car one day as I was bringing her home from a doctor’s appointment.

“MY BAG!” I cried out as I pulled my car to the shoulder of the road, and helped Suzie clean herself up. We made it to her house, emptied and salvaged my bag (in my opinion), and made it clear that if she should die before I do, that bag comes back to me—its rightful owner.

I got a call. The leather bag has been fetched from Suzie’s room and will be brought to me. The Buddha will move on from my house to a place free of Christian symbols. My respect will go with it. Suzie stuff stands out now as I move from room; stuff that has been around, some for years, but now bears a significance not required before yesterday morning at about this time when the call came. 

Suzie has died.

Suz . . . Rest In Peace? I think not. Learn, dance, explore, laugh, walk, run, and worship as Life has shifted? Yes! Go get it all!