Foreshadowing

Philadelphia

A man is wandering the markeplace at noon with a candle in his hand. The shopkeeper asks him what he's looking for.

"Someone breathing the divine breath," he answers.

The shopkeeper suggests that he might be looking in the wrong place.

"I want a true human being", explains the man.

The shopkeeper replies:" But maybe you're searching among the branches for what appears only in the roots.
Human will is an illusion. Those who are proud of deciding and carrying out decisions are the rawest of the raw!"

He continues, trying to lead the man to someone breathing the divine breath.

"You will not find it on the beach where there's desire-singing and rage-ranting; the elaborate language-dance of personality."

The shopkeeper continues: " You will find it in the waves and underneath---
where there's no volition, no hypocrisy.

Just love forming and unfolding."

################

I went diving for the first time in 25 years last month. I was accompanied by a young Dutch man who hovered over me in that underworld of abundance, silence, beauty. I was vulnerable, afraid, but felt utterly protected by his presence.

That same presence was true after my surgery last Friday. I had asked my old friend and colleague, Andrea, to help me find someone who could do private duty the night of my surgery. I told her about my strange premonition of not waking up post op. Andrea, the dean of a local college of nursing, left me a voicemail soon after ward.
"Mary, I think I've got just the person for you. She's got excellent skills, can also do massage therapy, and has a good soul." Sounded pretty good to me.

Little did I know. I woke up to Andrea's voice. "It's about 8 pm, you're in your room, and this is Liz, your nurse, my grad student." I opened my eyes to a squint against the bright light in the room to see a thin young woman with dark hair and deep set, dark eyes.

My body felt like lead, my low back was throbbing like I was in labor, and the IV in my hand was pricking me every time I tried to touch my face to get rid of the oxygen cannula. I felt totally defenseless. Me, the woman who micromanaged this surgery including suggesting to the anesthesiologist which vein I thought would be best for the IV!

Andi left. It was just the two of us.

"Is it all right if I sleep when you sleep," she asked.
I licked my lips, trying to talk through cotton mouth and a jaw that seemed numb. " Yes. As long as you're right next to me." I pointed to the space directly next to the hospital bed.

Liz slid the stiff cot over so close I could hear the cot clink on my bed as it touched. She made a pillow out of her coat, put a leopard designed velour cover over her legs, and laid down, her hand stretched up to touch mine.

I was in and out of awareness. I roused, " Are you there?" She would sit up, do reflexology on my feet, put a lavender-scented mask on my eyes, spray lavender and vanilla aromatherapy over my bed. She turned me, rubbed my back.

"So much pain," I said at one point. "But I don't want to take too much Dilaudid. I can't tell how much is in this PCA system."
In a previous hospitalization, I had reacted to Dilaudid ( which is about as close to pure heroin as you can get--an excellent narcotic ) and my blood pressure had bottomed out.

"You can't OD on this, Mary. The system's calibrated. Go ahead, push the button. It will help the pain. You don't have to be stoic." I did. And went back to a deep, dreamless, dark sleep.

I woke about 4 am and was agitated ( narcotics ). Liz listened to my talk about what I thought was lucid descriptions of my family: my sons, how proud I was of them; my grandsons; my siblings; nieces; my career; New York. I told her about the diving. I told her about my premonition. She stood up and took my hand.

"Well, you're here now, and it's all over. You did wake up. That must have been terrifying."

Lest this sound like a soap opera, I was doing my very best to micromanage her, too. But, soon, when I found out how good she was at seeing me, just me in that room ( always a struggle in a hospital ) I gave it up, let my body relax and let her minister to me.

This woman was saying and doing all of the things that I had tried to teach every student I ever taught nursing to do. And more. She was absolutely clear that we were somewhere on the thin bridge between life and death. I've seen it so many times. In the middle of the night in hospitals, I swear there is another element that exists if you're paying attention.

We talked a bit more about our souls as if we had known each other an entire lifetime. Cynics might say it was the drugs. Or that she was just doing her job. Trust me, I know her job. This was an anointing of some kind, a willingness on her part to be ineffibly present to me.

The Dutchman divemaster was my foreshadowing to last Friday. He took me down to the divine and guided me through that abundance, taking perfect care of me.

Elizabeth and I were beneath the waves last Friday night, too. In that underworld between life and death, suffering and joy, utter vulnerability, she hovered over me, witnessing ( the job of angels according to the Jewish tradition ) my passage .

Divine breath?

M.C.