Eva and The Milky Way
I was driving back from Point Reyes with my friend when I got the news from Don, the son of the lady I had been taking care of for the last 13 years. “Jen, my mom passed away last night around 7:30. She went peacefully and without any pain,” he nervously uttered. I could discern the heartbreak in his voice, but the shock was much more palpable. I couldn’t find any words until he asked if I was still there. Of course, I was, but nowhere at the same time.
Eva was 94. Sure, she lived a full, long life. Still, I can’t help but wish I was beside her, holding her hand during her big move to the afterlife. I can’t help but think about what I was doing and where I was exactly while she transitioned. It was my day off and I was taking photos of my friend fishing during sunset. The ocean was calm, and the wind was brisk. We were standing for the longest time on wet sand that seemed like a block of ice. It was the most comfortable sense of discomfort - there was rapture freezing in our bones. I found myself in the present moment, which is rare for me these days. I guess there’s my answer. In the present moment, I was.
Eva had her eyes open while Marissa, another caregiver, held her hand. Still blue, but dimming. I’d like to think she was waiting for me. “She had her eyes open, never closing them from 11 am until 7:37 pm, took one last deep breath, and that was it. She was gone,” Marissa told me the play by play this morning. Poor thing. She had asked Eva not to die during her shift multiple times, but Eva had other plans. Yet here I wish I were in Marissa’s shoes - to have been with Eva one last time. Somehow, it makes it easier for me to think that she was indeed waiting for me. Strange how grief works. But then again, I was away with no cell reception, freezing and laughing with good company, exactly where she probably wanted me to be.
Trace and I walked back to camp during the golden hour, and slowly the stars started to light up the sky. It was a new moon, a new lunar year. The incessant fear of the unknown and hope waltzing in my chest. Around 7:37 pm, when she passed, I was most likely setting up my camera to take photos of the milky way. I have tried astrophotography on multiple occasions, but it was never the right time. The night when Eva passed, I finally captured it. There was also a moment when I saw the longest shooting star. It was falling for so long that I was able to make a wish for the first time. I’d like to think that that was Eva, falling into Ken’s arms. They were married for 65 years, apart for almost ten, and now reunited.
Eva was caring and beautiful. I used to take her to get her hair and nails done every week to make sure she felt glamorous. She told me stories about “the ladies of the Nile” and her obsession of fashion and penchant for socializing. She was a butterfly. She always had been. Sassy and stubborn in the cutest kind of way. Funny in a hilarious kind of way. She was my audience of one every time I read her a new poem I wrote. She used to say, “I’ll tell them I knew her when,” as she gave me a round of applause while she sat on the couch. She called my dog “kitty cat,” confusing him with the stray cat she had been feeding in her backyard. Roskoe, my little pomeranian chihuahua mix, happily accepted the label.
Eva had dementia. Her husband Ken had Alzheimer’s, and what a privilege to have cared for them both. It had been an honor to listen to their stories, mostly coming from crystallized memories, sharing with me how they met on a blind date and married just after two dates before the war– what a generation. Things were both simple and complex back then. Those simple days are gone. Eva is the last one of the golden “lunch bunch” crew I took care of until their final days. And how I miss them all.
I dedicate this photo to the lunch bunch crew of Eva, Louise, Flo, Ross, Ken, and Dale. You are now part of the sky, endlessly providing light in the dark. May you all rest in paradise together. Enjoy your reunion and send a toast my way. May hope outweighs the fear of the unknown.
