I lost a friend last year.
Well, in a way I found her.
I found her in her room, but she had died, by her own hand.
It was a bittersweet thing.
She was at home, not out on a lonely stretch of road or lost at sea.
She was home, where she knew she was safe, yet she wasn’t safe from her own thoughts and fears. She was at risk to those.
It was bitter for me in that I was upstairs. I was that near, yet she didn’t call for me to be in the dilemma with her, to try to work together to find a solution.
It was her dilemma. She didn’t include me in it, or in the solution.
There very likely was no solution. She probably realized that.
Thus her choice.
Her choice.
Not my choice or that of the others who loved her.
She would not have expected over 50 people to show up to remember her, to tell stories and shed tears. To laugh and ache and wish it could have all been different.
All of it . . . different . . . the situations and circumstances that contributed to her fear and anxiety.
I sit here looking out over the sea. She loved the water; felt at home there, accepted, enveloped, safe. Even in a cyclone, she reckoned she was safer in the water than amongst people. People had hurt her. The water didn’t.
I don’t remember the exact day I first met Carol.
It was at the university and the meeting was facilitated by our then Disability Services Coordinator. Carol desperately needed routine. The university was to close for a couple of weeks over the Christmas/New Year break. Carol was rather frantic as to how to cope during that season. In trying to find a place where she could go to study each afternoon, we’d finally realized my home office was the best bet.
I cleared off a painting table and arranged my schedule so as not to need my office after 2PM each day. Carol came and went, often without my even knowing. I ventured an invitation to join me and our other housemates for a Christmas evening gathering in the lounge. I didn’t expect Carol to stretch that far, but she did. I set a chair near the door so she could come and go as needed. At different times she’d pick up a bit of wrapping paper and go in search of a bin. I thoroughly expected her to return to the safety of her study room, but she came back. She didn’t eat with us, but brought goodies to contribute for others. We exchanged a few small gifts and had a few laughs. I can’t remember if she was there for the reading of Jesus’ birth that year, but she was the next.
Carol moved in a few months later. She fit in well with our housemate downstairs and they developed their habits and timetable for coming and going. I know there were many late night conversations in the kitchen. We all have our struggles and it’s good to have someone safe to touch base with.
Carol got where she needed to go by bicycle, combining exercise and transportation. She could often be seen in various parts of the North Shore of Auckland, powering up hills and zooming down long stretches, backpack and goggles in place.
She left me a note one day. As I tried to decipher it, it seemed she’d been hit by a boat. Thinking I’d surely gotten it wrong as it seemed to involve her cycling, not swimming, I went in search of clarification. While it really was not funny, Carol’s version included humour as she described this boat on a trailer that was wider than the car pulling it. The car missed her, but the boat bumped her off the road. Skin and bones that she was, she recovered from such incidents with more guts than anyone else I know. She drew funny little pictures of herself on her bike, sun often shining and various other elements enhancing the message. Wish I’d saved them all.
to be continued . . .
Well, in a way I found her.
I found her in her room, but she had died, by her own hand.
It was a bittersweet thing.
She was at home, not out on a lonely stretch of road or lost at sea.
She was home, where she knew she was safe, yet she wasn’t safe from her own thoughts and fears. She was at risk to those.
It was bitter for me in that I was upstairs. I was that near, yet she didn’t call for me to be in the dilemma with her, to try to work together to find a solution.
It was her dilemma. She didn’t include me in it, or in the solution.
There very likely was no solution. She probably realized that.
Thus her choice.
Her choice.
Not my choice or that of the others who loved her.
She would not have expected over 50 people to show up to remember her, to tell stories and shed tears. To laugh and ache and wish it could have all been different.
All of it . . . different . . . the situations and circumstances that contributed to her fear and anxiety.
I sit here looking out over the sea. She loved the water; felt at home there, accepted, enveloped, safe. Even in a cyclone, she reckoned she was safer in the water than amongst people. People had hurt her. The water didn’t.
I don’t remember the exact day I first met Carol.
It was at the university and the meeting was facilitated by our then Disability Services Coordinator. Carol desperately needed routine. The university was to close for a couple of weeks over the Christmas/New Year break. Carol was rather frantic as to how to cope during that season. In trying to find a place where she could go to study each afternoon, we’d finally realized my home office was the best bet.
I cleared off a painting table and arranged my schedule so as not to need my office after 2PM each day. Carol came and went, often without my even knowing. I ventured an invitation to join me and our other housemates for a Christmas evening gathering in the lounge. I didn’t expect Carol to stretch that far, but she did. I set a chair near the door so she could come and go as needed. At different times she’d pick up a bit of wrapping paper and go in search of a bin. I thoroughly expected her to return to the safety of her study room, but she came back. She didn’t eat with us, but brought goodies to contribute for others. We exchanged a few small gifts and had a few laughs. I can’t remember if she was there for the reading of Jesus’ birth that year, but she was the next.
Carol moved in a few months later. She fit in well with our housemate downstairs and they developed their habits and timetable for coming and going. I know there were many late night conversations in the kitchen. We all have our struggles and it’s good to have someone safe to touch base with.
Carol got where she needed to go by bicycle, combining exercise and transportation. She could often be seen in various parts of the North Shore of Auckland, powering up hills and zooming down long stretches, backpack and goggles in place.
She left me a note one day. As I tried to decipher it, it seemed she’d been hit by a boat. Thinking I’d surely gotten it wrong as it seemed to involve her cycling, not swimming, I went in search of clarification. While it really was not funny, Carol’s version included humour as she described this boat on a trailer that was wider than the car pulling it. The car missed her, but the boat bumped her off the road. Skin and bones that she was, she recovered from such incidents with more guts than anyone else I know. She drew funny little pictures of herself on her bike, sun often shining and various other elements enhancing the message. Wish I’d saved them all.
to be continued . . .
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