DJ for the dying

I have 45 minutes with you and you are dying.

Last week you told me everything and morphine was the third woman in the room. She made your words gentle to you and surprised us both. You showed me your ego dissolving.

I fed you tiny brownie bites and you said outrageous perfect things which I faithfully transcribed for my safekeeping.

But today you are farther toward the bottom of the sea with your mouth open and eyes closed. Looking up at me from below the glinting water where you sink slowly but still perceive me. (I believe you do.) Your anchor is light as it draws you inexorably down.

We can no longer speak so I will play you music. I know it will be the last music you hear.

I try to read your thoughts as I curate the playlist.

We start with Hildegard von Bingen. Your sharp cheekbones smooth over.

Rachmaninoff. Maybe pieces you’ve played?

Paganini showpieces. The highest notes make sparks in your closed eyes.

We move to the Elgar Cello Concerto. This is when we cry together. My tears are saltwater, yours, an enveloping presence.

The man in scrubs outside nods to me, Take your time.

Then I think, Let’s do ocean sounds! To celebrate our trips to Shelter Harbor Island. And yours to Star Island. And to Jones Beach. Spotify begins its concerto of surf sounds. I perceive a shift in you. Confusion, but I can’t be sure.

“Yes, we’re at the sea, Susan. You love it here. Can you feel the wet sand and the strong waves?”

Then I play thunder sounds on Spotify.

This playlist is chaos. What sounds would I most need to say goodbye to?

Miles Davis. Flamenco Sketches.

How will you say goodbye to a world of sound?

I try to guess what you want to hear and in my snit, my tangle of sonic fixation, I ascend, crest, flex and sigh myself into what you already know.

Emma loves the world and she gets to stay.

I get to stay, Susan.

I touch your fuzz of white hair and your ivory face. Hold the back of your head so you can remember being a baby. I see that timelines are folding and every reality presented is real for you now and then fades.

Last week I said to you: Do you need to sleep? Should I be quiet now?

And you said: I want to be asleep, but I don’t want to fall asleep.

This is precisely what a baby would say if she could. This is the fear of letting go that animates every insomniac creature.

The man in scrubs trades places with me. He gives you morphine on schedule and your gentle anchor gets heavier and in a few days you’ll leave this port and sail.

I leave you and get ice cream. You made me a child and my life is restarting because I see how we really do in fact die.

But not me and not today.

The gift is enormous.

Thank you Susan. For every hour.

And for the particular honor of these

45 minutes.

Our friend Susan holding me in the hospital just after I was born.

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