Drinking in the Garden

Just under two years ago, I had accepted a job at Lawrence Berkeley National Lab and discovered that the commute from San Francisco was easily 1.25 hours each way. Matt and I set off on a rapid apartment search, exploring areas in the East Bay close to BART. One day we went to check-out an in-law unit in Rockridge. The walk-out basement opened to a beautifully maintained, gorgeous garden and patio. We were in love. We chatted with the lovely landlady who lived upstairs and hit it off immediately. We were a little worried that she might be a crazy landlady with a lot of rules, but we decided it was worth it. She claimed that we got the apartment because she liked us best, but my guess is that no one else had committed yet.

Well, we were right. She was a little crazy and had a lot of rules, but she was also fascinating, generous, and welcoming. She frequently brought us delightful food - extras from lunch or dinner, or part of the fancy dessert she had picked up for an occasion. I had worried about living with a landlady in such close proximity, but it turned out to be kind of like having a delightful grandmother upstairs. She told hilarious stories, brought down bottles of wine to share when we were out on the patio - which is how I learned one day that working from home was not so viable.

One day in late October she came downstairs and asked us to take her to the Emergency Room. Matt took her and I planned to meet them there, but she told him to just drop her off. When Matt picked her up later, we learned she had been diagnosed with lung cancer. I can't imagine going to the ER by myself and receiving a cancer diagnosis. The next day she came down for pumpkin carving, plying us with wine and chips. She remained extremely positive and cheerful, going to endless doctor's appointments and having numerous tests done. She ended up with pneumonia at one point; I ran into her in the driveway as she came home from the doctor, and it was the only time I ever saw her look exhausted and a bit downtrodden.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, she was downstairs telling us hilarious stories about how she had gotten her oncologist's notes and was trying to decipher them. She thought he had written that she was "a lonely old woman" and could not understand why he thought she was lonely. She then later figured out he had actually written that she was "a lovely old woman." She didn't seem to be sure that that was a better assessment.

On December 4th she learned she would be having lung surgery the following week. She wrote us an email saying, "I may be gone (but not dead ) and will be at the hospital...Then, I may start chemo, will be a little weak but look forward to be on the road to recovery. Thank you for being generous, patient and understanding." Always thinking of her burden on us and focusing on the good.

On December 12th she underwent successful lung surgery. On December 14th, when a housemate called the hospital to see about us going to visit, we learned that the night before she had suffered a massive stroke. She had been moved to the ICU and we were not to visit yet. She was at first minimally responsive, but then stopped opening her eyes. I went to visit this week with another housemate. We told her stories and chatted to each other; read her mail and gossip magazines.

Today, her daughter is bringing her home for hospice care, to be surrounded by her beautiful flowers and music. She is just 66 years old. 

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I wrote this post a week ago, the day she came home, in an attempt at catharsis. Yesterday, our lovely landlady passed away. It is so strange to be in the house she loved without her, looking at the garden she loved even more. It has been just two months since her diagnosis, less than a month since she was putting winky faces in emails related to an outcome that if she suspected or feared, she certainly never let on.