This plan and that plan and what she wanted to do and how she never missed a chance once she got her life back.”
Marie pauses, remembering. She pauses and her mind flies back to a soft moment when Annie had laughed so hard and for such a long period of time Marie was worried that she may have crossed over some invisible physical line that would make her die sooner. Annie turned to her in the middle of the coughing and the laughing and the serious question about whether or not she would be okay and said, “This is where the term ‘die laughing’ comes from,” and then of course, yes, they both laughed some more and then that was the first and only time she ever gave Annie extra medicine, unprescribed, but she did it. She did it so Annie would not die laughing.
“So,” Marie finally asks Katherine, taking a deep breath. “How is this plan going to work?”
The details are simple. The plan is simple. Marie’s involvement in the traveling funeral is essential for its success and survival.
“I don’t know if I can go,” Marie says, standing up in her bedroom so that she can now see over the top of the tree. “She knew it would be close to impossible.”
Katherine thinks maybe she should have hopped in her car to travel to Sonoma County to tell Marie how this would work. She thinks that maybe she should have pulled an all-nighter since the red shoes arrived, should have driven to Marie’s backyard, climbed her favorite tree and talked to her through an open window.
“Well, here’s the deal. Annie knew you, above all others, might struggle with the idea because of your patients. Can you try? Can you think of a way? And if you can’t come, if you can only come for part of the funeral, Annie thought of that also. She told me to buy you a cell phone.”
The plan is simple and Katherine tells her that Annie has suggested a cell phone purchase with unlimited hours for a very long period of time so that Marie can attend the traveling funeral virtually if she cannot attend all of it in person.
“What?”
“You will call us and we will call you. She wants you to be a part of this, and this phone thing was a way for her to make it happen if you cannot leave, a way for you to help us with this funeral, for us to maybe help you and for you to keep on doing what you need to do for all those other people that you take care of every day. But it would be best if you could come along.”
“It sounds easy so far,” Marie says, whispering again as she sits back down, putting her hands back on the arms of her chair, settling in, thinking. “Maybe I need this too. Maybe I can figure this out. Annie would like that. Annie
deserves
it.”
“Maybe, Marie. Maybe it will be some kind of interesting break that really isn’t a break. Don’t you get tired?”
“Are you trying to make me laugh again?”
“No. I’m serious. How do you keep doing this?”
Marie wants to tell Katherine about the day the first man died in her arms. She wants to reach her entire body through the invisible phone line that magically connects her world to Katherine’s world and rest her head in Katherine’s lap while she talks and while she cries.
Ron Smith. His name was Ron Smith. A simple name for a man who had been born in a time when men do not cry or ask for help. A time when a man who is sixty-six years old and dying of inoperable lung cancer from smoking three packs of Camels a day is brought to the hospital because his sons can’t help and his wife is also ill and no one else can handle it. There was no one else.
Marie wants to tell Katherine how everyone was afraid to touch him because he was big and swore and because they had never seen anyone from his family touch him. Marie touched him. That’s what she would say and she will say if she makes it on the virtual funeral. She will say how one day she just reached over and put her hands on his head not to see if he was feverish or to move his face for some medicine but just so she
Marie pauses, remembering. She pauses and her mind flies back to a soft moment when Annie had laughed so hard and for such a long period of time Marie was worried that she may have crossed over some invisible physical line that would make her die sooner. Annie turned to her in the middle of the coughing and the laughing and the serious question about whether or not she would be okay and said, “This is where the term ‘die laughing’ comes from,” and then of course, yes, they both laughed some more and then that was the first and only time she ever gave Annie extra medicine, unprescribed, but she did it. She did it so Annie would not die laughing.
“So,” Marie finally asks Katherine, taking a deep breath. “How is this plan going to work?”
The details are simple. The plan is simple. Marie’s involvement in the traveling funeral is essential for its success and survival.
“I don’t know if I can go,” Marie says, standing up in her bedroom so that she can now see over the top of the tree. “She knew it would be close to impossible.”
Katherine thinks maybe she should have hopped in her car to travel to Sonoma County to tell Marie how this would work. She thinks that maybe she should have pulled an all-nighter since the red shoes arrived, should have driven to Marie’s backyard, climbed her favorite tree and talked to her through an open window.
“Well, here’s the deal. Annie knew you, above all others, might struggle with the idea because of your patients. Can you try? Can you think of a way? And if you can’t come, if you can only come for part of the funeral, Annie thought of that also. She told me to buy you a cell phone.”
The plan is simple and Katherine tells her that Annie has suggested a cell phone purchase with unlimited hours for a very long period of time so that Marie can attend the traveling funeral virtually if she cannot attend all of it in person.
“What?”
“You will call us and we will call you. She wants you to be a part of this, and this phone thing was a way for her to make it happen if you cannot leave, a way for you to help us with this funeral, for us to maybe help you and for you to keep on doing what you need to do for all those other people that you take care of every day. But it would be best if you could come along.”
“It sounds easy so far,” Marie says, whispering again as she sits back down, putting her hands back on the arms of her chair, settling in, thinking. “Maybe I need this too. Maybe I can figure this out. Annie would like that. Annie
deserves
it.”
“Maybe, Marie. Maybe it will be some kind of interesting break that really isn’t a break. Don’t you get tired?”
“Are you trying to make me laugh again?”
“No. I’m serious. How do you keep doing this?”
Marie wants to tell Katherine about the day the first man died in her arms. She wants to reach her entire body through the invisible phone line that magically connects her world to Katherine’s world and rest her head in Katherine’s lap while she talks and while she cries.
Ron Smith. His name was Ron Smith. A simple name for a man who had been born in a time when men do not cry or ask for help. A time when a man who is sixty-six years old and dying of inoperable lung cancer from smoking three packs of Camels a day is brought to the hospital because his sons can’t help and his wife is also ill and no one else can handle it. There was no one else.
Marie wants to tell Katherine how everyone was afraid to touch him because he was big and swore and because they had never seen anyone from his family touch him. Marie touched him. That’s what she would say and she will say if she makes it on the virtual funeral. She will say how one day she just reached over and put her hands on his head not to see if he was feverish or to move his face for some medicine but just so she
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