A Loving Spirit

A LOVING SPIRIT

By Madeleine Holden

It's late August, always such a busy time, not a moment to think about anything. Today’s the first day of ninth grade for my daughter, Evelyn, and I have a few uninterrupted hours to deal with the heaviness in my heart. As I head out in my electric wheelchair, I wave to my husband, Jean-Pierre, on his tractor. He’s working in the upper field and waves back. I point down the dirt road towards the lower field to show where I’m going. He nods, gives me the thumbs up, and blows me a kiss. He knows if I don't come back after a while, where to look for me.

I'm going to the pond. It's one of my favorite places on our land. It wasn't always a pond, more like a depression in the lower field where farm equipment would get stuck in the mud. We brought in an excavator and a bulldozer to solve the problem. We dug it out and made a dam. Now it's filled with water and all the vegetation has grown back. I love it here. It's where I contemplate the infinitely large and the infinitely small. I watch the dragonflies land on the bulrushes swaying in the wind. I watch a family of ducks hide under the reeds. I look down and see the bees drink from the water in the pond. And I let myself feel the sadness of losing my friend, Nancy, to breast cancer at the beginning of this month.

I met Nancy in French class when I was twelve years old. I was drawn to her from the very first moment. Nancy had dark brown eyes and long brown hair with bangs cut short. She was a little gangly in her movements, dressed in jeans and moccasins with a patterned peasant blouse with purple beads hanging down. She looked like my kind of girl. From opposite sides of the class, she looked at me, laughing so hard with the French girls she had tears in her eyes, and I knew she wanted me to be part of her inside joke and inner circle. It was her smile that drew me into her sphere.

 We grew up with a shared obsession for Chris de Burgh’s album, Spanish Train and Other Stories. When we would get together, we would sing and dance like our lives depended on it. The lyrics of the song Old Friend became the soundtrack of our lives. We saw him in concert at the Forum in Montreal and sang it together. We went for walks in the dark around town or up on the mountain, and sang, feeling safe because we had each other. "Old friend, so you’re in trouble again," a lyric from our favorite song, was our mantra of unconditional support.

Life could be so messy. No matter what was happening in our lives, whether it was tragic or filled with joy, our deep love for each other committed us for life. Accidents and breakups, weddings, and baptisms: Nancy was present for them all as an integral part of my family—a sister, a friend, the fun-filled aunty. Even though we were separated by distance and the business of busy lives, when we were together, it was as if no time had passed. With that much love, picking up where we left off was as natural as the sun rising and setting daily, and as reliable as the changing of the seasons.

Nancy was the embodiment of a loving spirit. Always at the center of a social gathering as organizer or event planner, always giving of herself to make others feel special. But it was the private moments with her I loved the most. I watched her as she sat in her rocking chair in the sunny corner of her living room, with a twin daughter in each arm sleeping. This silence felt sacred. We talked quietly about motherhood and the pressure women feel to have it all, to do it all, to be it all. Even back then she said wisely, “I wish there was more time.”

One day in late September, my old friend confided that she was in trouble again. We were having lunch on an outdoor patio at a restaurant at the base of our mountain. Soaking up the fall sunshine, we reminisced about our youthful shenanigans and boundless energy. Then she looked at me, her blond streaks and wild feathered hair blowing in the breeze and said, “I have cancer, but they caught it early and I am going to fight this and win.” And I believed her because the alternative was unfathomable.

I saw her at the funeral for the mother of a mutual friend in late July. I can still feel the weight of her hand on my shoulder. In a room full of people, she squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, “I have to go. I'm so tired.” Those were the last words she ever said to me and the last time I saw her. Just six days later, she was gone. My prayers were full of sadness and loss until I tried to focus on the happy times. She had lived a life worth celebrating.

I recalled how we had a Saint-Jean-Baptiste bonfire just up the hill at the beginning of summer with a group of friends. She was so funny, just vibrating with life. She had been swimming at the civic center all winter and looked strong. She called out “Aubergiste!” when her glass was empty, but instead of waiting to be served by the imaginary innkeeper, she jumped up and happily filled everyone’s glass. That image of Nancy filling my glass that was already half-full with the last drops of red wine, the glow from the fire making her skin and smile shine brightly, filled me with joy. She had finished a year of treatments, her hair was just starting to grow back, and we thought she had beaten the cancer. She would want me to remember her like this.

I looked at my watch and realized hours have passed. It’s time to get back to the house and see my daughter, who will arrive home soon. I didn’t want to miss the stories of her first day, her teachers, her classes, and hear what everybody did all summer. I turned to head back up the field and I heard a muffled thud as my front wheel fell into a hole and I was suddenly, violently ejected out of my chair and I somersaulted to the ground. I was now lying flat on my back in the hay field beside the pond, with a brand-new perspective, feeling tiny, looking up into the heavens above. It is hard to fall lower than the ground.

My heart was pounding so fast. What if I broke something? What if I'm injured? What if I landed on a wasp nest? Or an anthill? What if I slip into the pond and drown?

I panicked. I had to stop those crazy thoughts. I glanced over and saw the edge of the pond several feet away. I knew I would not drown. I looked at my feet and saw no awkward angles; nothing was broken. I was okay. I just needed to control my emotions. Think Zen thoughts. I can do this.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I felt the warm sun on my body, the breeze on my face. Far above, two hawks circled in the bright blue sky. And that is when I heard Nancy's laugh; she would think this is funny. On a long blade of grass, a grasshopper watched me. I felt Nancy was there. I felt her presence. I closed my eyes to enjoy her closeness.          

So, what’s the story here, Madeleine? Having a little pity party?

“I just wanted to spend some time with you,” I whispered into the wind.

You are going to have to be more careful. We’re not invincible, just human. This chair has a seatbelt, and it’s not just for holding babies on your lap while you bomb around town. And you don’t even own a cellphone! What are you thinking? You need to be smart here when you take off cross-country alone.

“I know. I will,” I replied.

And find someone to tell your stories to. Don’t leave secrets to fester inside. That can make you sick. Tell your stories, even the dark ones, especially the dark ones. You will feel so much better. Now, wake up! Your Zen thoughts have put you to sleep!

As I resurfaced from my dream, I heard my voice say out loud, “I miss you. I love you.”

And I heard Nancy’s response, Be brave, I’ll be with you. I’ll always be with you.

I heard rustling in the grass. My saviors had come down on their bikes. Jean-Pierre and Evelyn picked me up and put me back in my chair. I headed back home between them while Evelyn chatted about her day. My heart was no longer heavy. It was filled with the light, loving spirit of my friend, Nancy, and a plan to tell our stories to anyone who will listen.