Song for Christa
Sunday September 20 is especially wonderful. The morning train is quiet and reaches Ulm early. Outside the station, a bus waits to carry me on. Even the hospital is quiet. C’s room is bathed in sunshine when I enter. She is asleep.
I kiss her and she wakens with a smile. She looks radiant in midday light despite the yellowing eyes. A strong energy of love is immediately present. I tell her of my journey and T’s sense that she has come into a loving space where she can feel softly held. I hold her and she falls asleep again.
She wakes up twenty minutes later and asks ‘What time is it?’ ‘1.15.’ ‘Good, you don’t have to go yet.’ She closes her eyes and rests again. I feel absolute, impossible love in that moment, so touched am I. I know how much she has cleared and pray she can return with this peace that she has found.
She wakes again and listens to music on her Walkman. A nurse asks if it’s anything interesting. ‘Mozart’, C says proudly and introduces me as her partner. Now it is my turn to feel proud. An energy of pure love abounds. She sleeps through Laudate Dominum, the Divine Child music from our Goddess Rising play.
Her mother telephones later as arranged. Their exchange is soft and healing. I offer to read a poem I think she will like. It too is by cummings but not one I have read for her before. She says she would like that. I fix her pillows so she can sit up. Closing her eyes as I begin, she smiles at lines she particularly likes. A look of joy beams out as I come to the end.
‘Would you like me to read it again?’
‘Yes please.’
This time she smiles through the whole reading, savouring phrases in their anticipated flow. I watch with love as the smile spreads through her body.
‘Again?’
‘Yes please.’
I read again, more precisely, so she can better catch nuances of expression.
‘One more time?’
She smiles, nodding. I start over, deeply moved by the revelation of these words and the significance they clearly hold for C.
‘We’ve heard it four times now, once for each of the directions. Do you think I should read once more so we can get the essence?’
Yes: I compose myself to read a last time, slowly, my Heart bursting with love, reshaping cummings’ lines as I speak so their essence might arrive intact:
i thank You God for this most amazing day
for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky
and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today
and this is the sun’s birthday
this is the birth day of life and of love and wings
and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
any – lifted from the no of all nothing –
human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
My Beloved’s spirit flies over these words and we are full of hope and joy.
The next day C is at the centre of a medical emergency. Potassium levels in her blood have soared and need to be stabilised. For four of the six hours that I am present, I can do little more than offer support through her engulfment by this process. At last, it becomes clear that balance will be restored and that she will be comfortable through the coming night. She wakes up shortly after to find me by her bed. She smiles. I kiss her cheek and take her hand.
We are joined then by two earnest-looking doctors. The older one addresses Christa in a rapid, complex German that I can’t follow. I ask for a summary in English: ‘I am not satisfied with the situation. Here is a young woman and we have means to fight this disease. If she does not accept our treatment now, she will die in two days.’ He looks at me, then C. She looks at me, almost apologetically, then turns to him and slowly shakes her head.
She is resolute and calm. There will be no more fighting. The great surrender long called for is to hand. I am awed by her courage and dismayed. I could ask for reconsideration, say I would respect her none the less but that would be undermining, no different than her parents’ attempts. I thank the doctors, saying I must support C’s choice. They go for a blood transfusion ‘to give her more time’ for inner changes to complete and, we have hoped, a particular miracle to unfold.
‘I’m sorry we never made it to Trieste.’
‘I still have faith in miracles.’
This is true but something radical has changed. I have never known C to be so definite. Her expression seems totally aligned with her soul, creating an aura of great strength. I ask if she would like me to read for her. She shakes her head and says she is too tired.
A nurse comes with bags of blood warmed to a specific temperature and wrapped in foil to prevent heat loss. I take them and hold them to my Heart, standing over C so I can channel love through a direct flow into her veins. Feeling great waves surging for her, I dare to hope that our miracle may yet transpire. She sleeps while the bags slowly drain.
She wakes then and knows from darkness outside that it is late. ‘Don’t you need to go?’ ‘It’s okay, I can stay a little longer.’ I hold and stroke her face. She looks tired. Her arms are bruised from all the injections she has had. She hates injections. This is not her leaping greenly world.
‘Go now darling, quickly, or you’ll miss your train.’
She’s right. I kiss her and turn to leave, saying that I still require her company on the Danube. She smiles weakly as I go. There is more love and therefore truth in her last sentence than in all the words of all the teachers we have met over these last years.
The train is cold, empty and bright, clattering at high speed through outer darkness. Alone in the carriage I weep, Heart-broken that my beautiful love may not return from her ordeal: so many ordeals, so much suffering and tireless, never-ending work.
I am back again by noon. C is physically tired but spiritually calm. Her breathing is regular and comes from deep within. All her energy is needed to sustain it. She looks as if she is exploring other worlds. I take her feet and channel love through them. This gets easier by the day, a direct expression now of my first nature. Her breathing continues unperturbed and she looks radiant, as if to mark her perfect soul-alignment. I hope once more that she might yet return.
That evening she can’t eat. The doctors invite me to stay and I agree. C spends most of the time sleeping. Each time she wakes, I reassure her that I will be staying. She smiles, happy that she won’t be left alone. A strong light burns weakly in her eyes. I build two paths and settle by her side, knowing again what it means to truly love. One path leads back to Earth and another through the stars. Her soul will choose.
The atmosphere changes as night-shift begins. With reduced staffing, hospital emphasis passes from care to containment. Medicine is administered to aid sleep and dull pain. Catheters are offered to patients who, like C, are unable to meet toilet needs alone. From the depths of her altered state, she accepts morphine and refuses a catheter. I will help with the commode.
The hours pass calmly until midnight. I mop her brow, telling her repeatedly that I love her, synchronising with the rhythm of her breath so she can hear me clearly after each exhale. I am not sure why I am doing this until, suddenly, she gets agitated. She pulls herself up, clinging tenaciously to an overhead triangle. Her fingers lock death-like around the bar. Her eyes dart anxiously, betraying fear.
She speaks a clipped, staccato dialect that I mostly cannot grasp. ‘Mama, schnell bitte. Papa, schnell, schnell, schnell!’ Her anxiety is focused on soiling the bed, or a fear of doing so but when I offer help she pushes me away with fierce strength, the fingers of one hand clinging tenaciously to the bar. She seems not to understand my words.
I realise that I am meeting a part of her that knows no English, never dared open to the world and has pushed away the love it craves for years. Locked fingers assert this fundamental holding and a terror of existence that no psychology could ever hope to shift. Instinctively, I modulate my tone, stroking her gently and saying repeatedly ‘Ich liebe dich, ich libe dich, ich liebe dich…’ Gradually, she calms and lets me ease her fingers from the bar. I take them gently in my hand.
Her breathing quietens and becomes regular again. She lets me settle her back on the pillows. I continue to hold her hands, repeating over and over ‘Ich libe dich’ in gaps between her breaths. She sleeps a little then but startles soon after, flapping anxiously as she again calls ‘Mama, Papa, schnell, schnell, schnell …’ I sense that she really does need the commode and manage to get her to it in time.
She is exhausted from the effort and hangs limply as I clean her with one hand before lifting her back into the bed. Her body is faint and birdlike, receding, but her essence shines brightly still. I see my Christa in light of a familiar beauty and kiss her face. She knows me as I rearrange the covers, kissing her more, telling her I love her, repeating this until she relaxes into sleep.
A few minutes later she stirs again. The same agitated consciousness erupts: ‘Mama, Papa, schnell, schnell schnell…’ This time there is no actual emergency. I calm her with gentle strokes and reassurance: Ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich…’ She holds my right hand in both of hers. I caress her cheek lightly with my left.
By 4 am the panic has passed. C is now happy to be held but agitation has cost the last of her physical strength. She looks totally worn-out. Without realising, I find myself saying ‘Go home my love. It’s time now to be free.’ It’s clear that she has nothing more to give. My consciousness expresses knowledge of this in words I could never have imagined saying.
Nevertheless, I find myself repeating them over and over, letting C know I am aware of what has happened and that she must no longer feel bound by my hope or any sense that she might be letting it down. In this moment I too am wholly clear and fully resolved. I know now what her soul has chosen. Lying beside her on the bed, I continue to reassure her of my love.
C’s work is done. Nothing remains but a farewell to her parents. At 7.00 I advise them to come as early as they can. They arrive by bus and train around eleven. Her mother sits on C’s left, placing hands on her daughter’s wrist and shoulder. I make way so her father can do likewise on the right. He sits and looks, not knowing how to behave.
I hold C’s feet at the end of the bed, channelling love to her with all my might. Her mother speaks endearments in her ear. Her father sits helplessly before getting up and shuffling off. He wanders aimlessly in the room, like a fly in a jar. Numbed by overwhelm, he inspects the tiniest elements of décor.
I take the chair he has vacated and hold C’s hand. Kissing it, I lean towards her, and say ‘I love you/Ich liebe dich’ over and over, as I have been doing through the night. Then, without knowing why, I burst into tears. Seeing this has some impact on her father and, when a nurse brings food for me, he takes my place.
This time he puts his hands on his daughter’s arm and wrist, just like her mother on the other side. He leans forward and speaks into C’s ear. For the first time ever, I believe, she is held in unanimously loving embrace by both her parents.
I sit at a table away from the bed and start to eat. C’s parents continue their loving ministrations. All is well. After some time, her mother calls sharply ‘John!’ I look and see that my Beloved is no longer breathing. I rush over. C’s eyes, still beautiful, are empty. The spirit that once shone through them has left. I was not present. I did not see her go or say goodbye.
I might have felt cheated by this, or guilty, but I don’t. I know from the nurse’s timing that my job has been to prepare C for those minutes with her parents and withdraw, surrendering as she did to Divine Will. Now she has passed without the slightest hint of stress or agitation.
The feeling is one of grace and wonder. The whole room throbs with love. So inspiring is the moment that we forget to be sad. I know something wonderful has taken place: that C received at the end of her life all that seemed lacking from its start, providing great healing for her parents also. Eventually, her mother calls a nurse. I step out to walk a little.
Passing through familiar corridors, my consciousness is elevated still. The sublime transition I have witnessed dwarfs in majesty and scale all the gleaming banks of technology and buzzing expertise around me. Moving out to fresh air and bright sky, my sense of context is restored. Christa is no longer in this world! I can’t begin to think what that might mean.
I send messages to persuade myself, asking friends to relay the news. I remember words from my first message: ‘C passed beautifully c 12.30 in perfect unison with both her parents.’ Soon after, T replies ‘With tears streaming down my face, I see a huge space like a doorway of light opened for the world. You, standing in Gold, place the Crown of Glory on her head. C’s journey is perfectly completed.’
Wandering in university grounds, I know nothing of this but it mirrors my feeling. I walk through a little forest to the campus edge, arriving at a hillside that offers a view back over Ulm. Seeing the cathedral spire I imagine a little girl in the square beneath. A Wonder Child, forgetful of identity, she converses with doves who flock to her acquaintance. I linger there a while; then, carrying her in my Heart, turn back to face another life.
The atmosphere is still sublime. C’s parents are sad but relieved. The manner of her passing and their role has erased fears of a difficult, unresolved parting. They know she was prepared: reconciled and unafraid. This inspires them as it does me. I pay respect to the temple of her body one last time, marvelling at the wonder of dis/incarnation, crying shamelessly at the glory and abysmal sorrow of it all. I find myself clinging to her legs as Magdalene clings to Jesus’ in the sculpted tableau at La Baume.
We are left alone then for three hours. I pack C’s things. There is too much to carry so a neighbour comes to drive me ‘home.’ I can’t imagine ‘home’ without C. Mundane sensibility is starting to return. As we step out from the clinic into light, my world hurtles out of phase. Nothing coheres. All that once seemed ‘here’ is now elsewhere, accessible no longer.
I knew this world through the vibration of C’s presence. This land for me was her land. Now she has withdrawn and I am lost. I can’t find a way out of muted consciousness and sit quietly through the drive. Finally, I say this to my friend. He understands. I don’t. Nothing seems understandable anymore.
A vast, shapeless challenge looms before me, to assimilate all that now impends and give it form. I have no idea how to go on.
C’s flat is rented. This means the world we shared there must soon vanish. The next day I start to gather memories, absorbing reflections of her presence that surround me: now this photo, then that, a picture, book or plant, the exquisitely harmonious appointment of her living space, where every detail is a signature, a memento of her having been. No more.
Her presence was a delicate one: sublime and expansive when unthreatened; fragile and vulnerable in harder times. She was a flower whose nature was to bloom for every sun but whose spontaneity had been curbed by harsh experience. My part was to soften her way. Sometimes I managed.
She was never just the troubled girl who grew to be a troubled woman. Her wound was not an effect of damaged psychology but its absolute underpinning, the base recoil of one who was put aside at birth, suffered constant inhibition and lived almost without notice towards an end of pure service.
She was not, as she sometimes thought, one who failed to clear this wound but a great soul who bore its extremity for all, resolving in the hour of her death patterns laid down at her beginning, given again into her parents’ care. The beauty of this resolution chills me.
I walk in a nearby forest where we used to walk, feeling the pressure of her hand in mine, wondering how she could ever have doubted my love and knowing, too late. I cry aloud, whispering over and over ‘I love you and I love you and I love you, forever and forever and forever.’ Again I feel like Magdalene beneath the cross: shattered, desolate, bereft.
T says I look sad and bewildered; that I am being dismantled.
On the fourth day my intolerable ache reduces slightly, becoming noticeable for this. Fleetingly, I intuit a possibility of Beyond. A friend drives me then to Langenargen on Lake Constance. Its familiar world endures strangely, despite C’s absence. We walk by the shore towards a marina.
Open book stalls are still there and droves of people, seemingly assured. An elderly couple passes on bikes. I would have liked to grow old with C, happily wise. Now I am torn and unmet; everywhere unmet. Awareness tells that every disaster brings new opening and every opening greater life. I hope C is enjoying hers now. I miss it so much.
Next day I ride her bicycle to another favoured place, a country track just outside the city. I imagine her walking by my side, a welcome ghost. It’s hard but I try projecting my sense of her presence all around, extending it as far as I can see. My Heart opens with renewed intent. I sense a nascent spaciousness within. A new way seems to beckon, new love.
How could C have doubted ours? How could I have failed to express it? Or succeeded? I know now but the question lingers. That last unexpected clearing showed her wound to be foundational, and a power of Spirit in her to keep pressing for release. My joy is that she found love absolutely in those hours and that this brought her gently Home, the tyrannies of a deep past overcome.
I too must let go of a deep past, dissolving old forms into new orders of relationship with my Beloved. I recall words from an English folksong: ‘My true love has flown into every flower grown/ and I will be Keeper of the Garden’. C’s expansion is vaster, trans-dimensional, but still the pattern fits. When one is here and another there, mutually yearning, yearning brings estranged worlds together.
Renewed questing for my Love has brought me this awareness. My passion was once focused through her. Now it must open to see everything revealed as Beloved. Sun shines on the valley where her city nestles still. The Alps reflect gloriously from afar. Corn in the next field stands waiting to be cut.
2010
