Missing Mindy

Finished on Wednesday, October 24^th, 2007

Shauna always comes bearing gifts, except this time it was not a gift (as such) but and event. She had planned everything down to the very last detail… the white church flowers, the choir, the order in which each of us would enter, her speech followed by the long anticipated solo. Shauna has always been a big giver; weeks of preparation and stress are meant to show Mindy how much she cares, how special and unique she really is. But as life would have it everything that can go wrong does. The decorations never make it and the twelve person choir begins the mass with the wrong song. In the confusion, we are caught on different sides of the church, running along rows of mahogany benches each of us attempting to tie a different loose end of a snarl of strings. I see thin lines of disappointment along Shauna’s eyes and mouth. My heart goes out to her because I know she has worn herself thin to plan this mass for Mindy, maybe hoping that if she can just do everything right God might give us a break and spare her, spare Mindy from the sharp clutches of cancer, of melanoma. It is illogical to feel that way, but I know Shauna, I know how very high she sets her expectations and the self-berating she will put herself through for not reaching them. But the show must go on; the minister speeds us through the ceremony, stopping at the sermon, at which time Shauna walks to the front of the church and talks about Mindy, how free she was in high school, how she succeeded in bringing this group of five together… I’m fixated on a Shauna’s neck; she cut herself rushing around the church. She is bleeding but doesn’t even notice. I stay put, watch in amazement as she does her solo (none of us knew she could sing) applaud and meet her as she walks off the podium. I bandage her wound and see her go off with a throng of people to sit and rest. Mindy is among them, a thin fragile skeleton surrounded by family and friends who take turns keeping her up, like a beehive of trained worker nurses that communicate through dance. She wears loose clothing; a gauze of a dress that falls of her tiny body like the too-small hospital gown she has worn in the past.

I silently walk around the church admiring the tall ceilings, brightly colored statues with gold details, inhaling the smell of polished wood. I don’t necessarily like going to mass, but I like the feel of a church, the way remnants of good intentions and prayers stay within its bounds and give newcomers hope and peace. It is the only place I know where the temperature is cold but one comes out feeling warm inside. I think of Shauna. I know she will be ok because what matters, what shines through are her engulfing intentions, the size and purity of her love for Mindy. Before we exit the premises of the church, the next group brings in the paraphernalia of their own event, a nativity scene. Keeping with the rules of this sanctuary, people fly by me in silence with boxes of red and green bows. Even the two dogs dressed like reindeers walk by their owners delicately and well-behaved as we (the last group) shuffle out quickly. The dogs make me chuckle. They look unhappy and uncomfortable in horns, hats and neck ruffles. They make me think of Mindy and how great it will be when we can sit around someone’s house and just say: “Do you remember when you had cancer? That was so weird and scary.” It would be like a memory we can acknowledge and then shrug off as we continue to interrupt each other with personal stories, beer dares and cigarette drags. As I rewind and take one last look at the church before me I realize that something is wrong. Mindy is too young and Shauna too worn out. It was like two periods in time had turned into ocean waves, had gained momentum and where now crashing into each other with great force. The cool air of the church was not helping me breathe and the hopes and prayers turned to dust that clogged by lungs. We did not save Mindy. Mindy was dead. I had forgotten Mindy was dead!

At first, I just pulled off the covers. I lay in the dark trying to grab the tail end of the dream and change its outcome or maybe stay away from reality for a bit longer. But sleep had left me, so I went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and wash away the dust that was lining my throat. When I went back to bed I saw that I was not alone, my boyfriend was rolled up under the covers by my side. I cuddled next to him for warmth, put my arm around his healthy body and broke down crying. I didn’t want to wake him but I was at a loss for air, even the deepest, strongest, longest breaths did not succeed in bringing oxygen into my lungs. “What’s wrong?” “I had a bad dream.” “Tell me about it.” As a walked him through the dream, through the event and the church I got it, I got the point, the meaning behind the story in my dream! Death does not matter. It doesn’t matter what is it, how it comes or when it comes. Life matters. Life is fleeting moments of friends, lovers... perfect happiness. Living life is about holding on to those moments and enjoying them while they last. I held unto him tighter, appreciated his breath, his skin, his temperature. I swore that I would remember this moment forever. He made me feel safe, warm and happy. With a mixed feeling of sadness and appreciation and like a buoy caught amid crashing waves, I cried silently until I fell asleep.