Maggie died on a hot, thick-as-pea-soup stiflingly muggy day in July.  She made it to the front lawn, as focused as a marathon runner on the finish line, and then collapsed, gasping for air, searching me with her eyes, willing me to provide that which she needed, desperately. But I couldn’t.  I panicked.  I urged her to get up and move on toward the house.  There was A/C in the house, Cold, tiled floors that she could lay on to cool her down. Wet towels I would cover her with hoping to lower the heat of her body and return her breathing to normal. Breathing – no, gasping.  That awful sound of a swollen larynx straining to force all molecules of air inward.  Her tongue was blue and dry.  I shrieked, “FUCK!!”  I held it together.  For her.  I put ice cubes on her tongue that rolled off with no acknowledgement from her of their existence.  She gasped, with the most heart wrenching sound I will ever know.  No air was getting through, and she was in a full on panic.  Laurie directed us to call 911 and get a policeman over to help carry her out to the car so we could get her to a hospital.  I rotely dialed the phone and followed her lead.  I had always believed I was the level-headed one in emergencies, until this one.  I was a mess.  The uniformed cop came in my front door, and with Laurie’s direction, he and Michael carried Maggie out and down the steep 13 steps to Laurie’s car.  In slow motion, I panned the faces of all of my neighbors, watching in horror; hands over mouths, catching my eye to tell me their hearts were with us all. Climbing into the back seat next to her, I begged for her to hang on.  Just fucking hang on.

Eighteen hours later, Michael and I held her in our arms, tears flowing, snot running as we said goodbye and felt life leave the warmest, most loving, soulful being I had ever known. That kind of silence was deafening.  Within five minutes, I got up and left the room.