Anne R. Dick, with whom I spoke briefly and in whose home (a B&B called the Seven Grey Foxes) I stayed in June 2015, has passed away. She died at her computer on Friday, still working on her latest manuscript.
I did not disclose at the time that I had stayed at the house or what I had seen there, for her privacy and because the reasons for my trip made that a sensitive matter. I did see briefly, through a window, that she was on some sort of ventilator or oxygen machine and I knew she was unwell.
I cried a little as I drove away the day I went back to Oregon. I felt like Odysseus, come again to my Ithaca in disguise, and nobody recognized me. Nor could I tell her who I was; she wouldn’t have believed me in a billion years, if she’s anything like the person I think I remember. I knew that the faint glimpse of those oxygen bubbles filtering through that machine in my rearview mirror were going to be the last I ever saw of her.
My husband (then my fiance) said that he had seen his grandmother on an oxygen machine like that a very short time before she died. I think the fact that she held on for as long as she did speaks to the pugnacious sort of person she was, full of life and plans for the future even in her last years.
In a weird coincidence, or synchronicity, or something, I read this news just as I was listening to a recording of Bach’s Cantata 140. I suppose it bodes well for wherever she’s found herself beyond this life.
For me, I’m feeling odd… not sure how I should feel or if I should let myself be as upset as I actually am. I still struggle with whether or not to take full ownership of these memories or feelings.
I need a day or two to sort this out I think. I thought I was more or less over this baggage.