At Your Side

Sabrina

This is the story of Sabrina, or the last chapter of it anyway. She was all alone at the end. But, still, she left such a mark on one person—me—that she is being thought of and written about long after her death. The mystery is how she came to be alone. So alone that when I asked her executrix whether there would be a memorial service she said, “Who would go, except you?” The last thing Sabrina did in her life was laugh at me. But in a wonderful way. She was no longer opening her eyes, or eating, or interacting with anyone. I approached her bedside as subtly as possible. Quietly, I let her know it was a gorgeous fall day with the light coming in at her southern bedside window; it was perfectly still but the space was more than charged, a phenomenon I had noticed with others and could not explain. I had with me a fresh bloom. If she did wake up and open her eyes, this is what she would see. As I crouched to slip the elegant rose into the less elegant bedside mug, both of my knees backfired with a loud report in the silence. She opened her eyes briefly. Looking into mine and with a beatific smile she said, “Watch out for those knees!” And as far as I know, those were her last words.

You would think that someone with such a wry sense of humour, even in her last moments, might have been encircled by friends and family at the end, but no. She had been alienated from those around her, one by one. She had moved far away from the family in the place of her birth. She and her husband decided not to have children, but then he died early and unexpectedly following minor surgery. Finally, she experienced social alienation as the wealth that enabled her to afford the best in long-term care could not remove people’s discomfort over her hallucinations. She did not see anything frightening and she was not dangerous, but her vision was persistent. It was always the same skating rink that she saw outside the window, and she could share in great detail who was on it and what they were wearing, what they were doing. It made me wonder if maybe there had once been a rink there or might be in the future? Logical woman that she was, she was always amazed that I could not see the skating rink, in any season, but she knew I was interested, nonetheless, to hear what was going on that day and who was wearing what.

One day, when I arrived, she was quite distressed that she was due to meet with the President and First Lady, but no agenda had been set. At first, I did what we are supposed to do: I distracted and gently diverted her onto other topics—but she could not be swayed. She would miss her appointment altogether if someone did not get their act together and get busy, and that someone was, apparently, me. What a funny way to fall back on my former career of high-level event planning, security, receptions, media relations and so on. I put on my old make-it-happen helmet once more and laid out the whole evening for her as it would unfold, detailing the clearing through security, drinks in the library, reception line in the great hall and guest list. Hearing that the itinerary was in good hands, she felt reassured enough to have a nap.

Sabrina had such a practical outlook on her troubles and on her own passing. No, not interested in pharmaceutical treatment or medical intervention. “I’m like a ripe banana that has gone off,” she said, simply and finally. What I witnessed and shared with her over the last months was a declining bitterness and a growing humour over how the story was turning out. When admitted into long-term care, she was elegantly clothed, concerned to coordinate the silk scarf with the brooch, shoes and going-out jacket. Halfway along her path, she no longer had any care for what she wore. One day I arrived to see her wearing donated sweatpants and someone’s golf tournament ball cap while thoroughly enjoying the ’70s hits performed live on the front lawn.

Upon admission, she had steadily resisted participating in any of the group activities, finding them loathsome and an insult to her intelligence. As far as she was concerned, they (the other residents) were all batty and she had no idea how she had managed to land among them. She scathingly sliced and diced their characters and habits, from what they said, to how they spoke, to their manners at the dinner table. I did, however, notice that when she decided to participate in group events after all, her way of speaking about them subtly evolved from critique to comedy. The day she won a small bag of potato chips at bingo, she declined to eat it but instead kept it on her shelf like a small, crunchy trophy.

Forever in my mind and heart, I can still see us walking the hills of her new neighbourhood with her hand on my arm, strategizing how to avoid too much of an incline or decline when every road seemed to lead either straight up or straight down. En route, we plotted how to pass the best gardens, the house with the ducks in the yard, the young fellow who lived in his truck. She remarked in passing one day, “Oh my, it looks like someone lives in that truck!” Then, “Wait, someone does live in that truck and there he is! Hello!” she greeted him warmly from under the flaps of the crazy sunhat that she had borrowed on her way out the door. Far from the judgemental person she had evidently once been, she thought his living arrangement quite unique and my knees quite amusing and the bag of chips—was all that and a bag of chips.