The Fall

I find myself in the room, the bedroom upstairs in the SW corner of the house, above the rec room. I find myself there immediately if I go and look for Stella Blue. If I want to feel her, pull a rush of emotion back in. I do this when I start to float away and want to ground myself…I go find her. And when I do find her, and it happens almost instantly, I usually find her in this room.

Her warm round cheek is the first thing I touch, with my right hand as I did so many times during the last weeks. It’s for me as much as it’s an attempt to soothe her, I knew that then and I know it now. Just the softest, lightest touch, as soft as my breathing lets me. Her cheek somewhat rough from the radiation still burning her from within. Downy hair hovers my hand above the skin if I move slowly enough; then I press in and feel the warmth of her skin, and the fire still simmering inside.

Sitting on the chair by the top of her bed, shins pressed against the frame, I’m close enough to fold my body over and weep on her, cover her chest with my heavy body and sob. Wrap her up and soak her with love and tears. I don’t though: I hold that feeling in while I gaze down at her and stroke her cheek.

Her breathing is so slow at this point in her turning off. A perfect meditation size breathing; very slow, somewhat shallow requiring the slightest effort. 5 breaths a minute, I breathe with her…I breathe slowly too. Her hands crossed atop each other on her chest, long thin fingers slightly blue, painted nails, always clutching a tissue to wipe away the gore coming from her eyes.

The room is very dark, with only some string lights and a few candles to light the girl of my heart. I know her so well, she and I were one when we were both living.

The house is quiet.

We’re alone.

Then I hear something she said:

While sitting up one day a week before she went quiet, resting after the effort of changing her shirt: ‘I’m dying and there’s nothing you can do about it’.

I don’t remember responding. I feel my hand on her back, I was surely moving it gently up and down her spine…so thin she was, prominent vertibra. There was nothing to say. I let it sink in…let it land as intended. One, you can’t fix this father, Mr fix-everything, like your mother, you CAN NOT SAVE ME. True, I can’t fix this Stella…you’re dying at 14, blind, in pain, too young, too fast, not fair. Two, I’m angry, I’m furious, I can’t believe how unlucky I am…I’m 14 and I’m fucking dying of cancer; you feel that, Dad? Feel it. Feel how fucking stupid and painful and insane this is. I’m sure I don’t feel it as you do, Stella, but, I’m sitting here and I’m accepting as best I can. Three, just sit here, don’t do anything, Dad, be here with me, be here while I die and let me die, and don’t fight it. Ok.

I tried, as I often do now, to see everything all at once this morning. I drive through the streets of Seattle at 4:45am on my way to sit and with no one on the road I get to slow down my senses and be a bit more aware; I’m on my way to zen anyway, might as well start now. I’ve only been awake 15 minutes, the coffee is pulling my eyes open.

Today, I caught a singular, maple leaf leaning against the curb. Dying leaf in fall.

That’s all of us someday. That was Stella. Stella in the room I think I’ll never leave.