Story Frame 27 – Drinking Jack Daniels in Hospice

Recently separated from his wife, Martin had the idea that perhaps we should marry. As we were together so much for our work, it seemed to make sense to him. Already divorced myself, I agreed, envisioning if not a lucrative life, at least a very interesting one spent working on interesting films all over the world together.

I don’t recall a moment when Martin actually said, “Will you marry me?” There was that moment when he spontaneously carved our initials on a yucca plant in Italy, “KF loves MD,” but I don’t recall any declarations of love, any confessions that he couldn’t envision his life without me. I don’t recall any getting down on one knee moment. And there was no ring, just something of a loose understanding. More than anything else, it seemed a very pragmatic and practical idea, a logical next step.

On a flight down to Florida, he began planning the details. Our wedding would take place at Washington National Cathedral, he said, because we both loved it there and were there so often for shoots. And he would ask Greg, our sweet Franciscan monk to officiate.

We told Zoë and Leif of our plans and they seemed to approve. Over the years, they’d spent a lot of time with Martin and got on well with him. And so began the search for a new-to-us house we all could live in together.

Ironically, we found one tucked away in Hollin Hills, the same wooded wonderland of mid-century modern marvels where The Money Pit was located. I loved the neighborhood and still knew some of the neighbors. It seemed perfect. We put in an offer on Valentine’s Day and it was accepted.

Excited, the first call I’d made, naturally, was to Karen. Now that she was living in hospice, we spoke every day. I knew she’d like the house. During the call she mostly listened. She wasn’t feeling well, she told me, but she wanted to have a vision in her head of where I would be living.

“Send me a video of it,” she whispered. I promised to do that.

Martin and I had flown down to see her the week before. We stayed at Mom’s house and went back and forth to see Karen a few times a day for short visits so as not to wear her out.

At one point, as we pulled into the hospice parking lot for our evening visit, I broke down in tears.

“I can’t take this,” I sobbed to Martin. “I never know what we’ll face each time we go back. Will she even still be alive?”

Martin stopped the car and looked at me. Then he put his arms around me and held me. He told me he’d be with me, we’d be together, it would be alright, and it would make my sister happy.

”Besides,” he said, trying to cheer me up. “We have the bottle of Jack Daniels she asked us to bring her. We can’t not go in.”

You can have alcohol in hospice – they don’t mind because you’re dying anyway, they rationalize, so what’s the harm? Their entire mission is to have you as comfortable and happy, pain- and worry- free as they can possibly make your remaining days. The staff at my sister’s hospice in Sarasota was made up of the most lovely, supportive and empathetic people I could ever have wished for her.

I gradually pulled myself together enough to mop up my face. Martin got out and came around to my side of the car, offered me his hand and helped me out. As we walked through the front doors together, I could hear what sounded like a party going on somewhere inside.

Well, that’s a bit disrespectful, my sad self thought. Martin stopped, a listening expression on his face, as he tried to figure out the source of the revelry.

“Is that coming from your sister’s room?” he asked.

Astonished, I looked around and realized the party noises were indeed coming out of Karen’s room. We crossed the lobby and stepped inside to find her room aglow from the light of her soft Japanese lamps as well as from the spirits of those gathered around her. My sister was having a party!

It turned out she’d asked everyone to bring her a bottle of Jack Daniels – me, Martin, my mother, and two of her artist friends. As at my mother’s house, she was dressed in her favorite Blue Fish outfit and holding court from atop her bed. She was delighted with each new bottle and each bouquet of flowers she was presented with. There were jokes, stories and laughter. My sister was in the finest of high spirits, thanks to the combination of family, friendships, JD & morphine and the party lasted until nearly 10 pm.

Two days later, it was a quieter scene. My mother never wanted Karen to be alone at night and usually stayed with her. On our last night in Sarasota, I asked her if we could spend the night with Karen instead. Of course, she said.

Martin settled his long frame onto the sofa while I put together an arrangement of cushions on the floor. All night, I listened for the sound of her breathing, keeping watch over her for what seemed like hours, before gradually dozing off to the sound of her gentle intermittent breaths.

In the soft shades of early morning, a change in Karen’s breathing pattern seeped into my consciousness, awakening me. Startled, I raised my head quickly to look at her, worried she had left us while I was sleeping and not paying attention.

But she hadn’t.

She was lying still, but awake, on her bed, and she was watching me. How long she had been watching me, her little sister, curled up like a puppy, asleep on the floor at the foot of her bed, I don’t know.

Wordlessly, we gazed at one another. A long, lingering moment passed. And then she raised her right arm slightly, her fingers held in the three-letter sign language arrangement Martin had taught her –

I love you, she signed.

Without speaking, I held my own fingers up.

I love you, I signed back to her.

Crossing her index and middle fingers over one another, frowning slightly with concentration, Karen signed back silently, I really love you.

In tears, I mirrored her gesture with my own hand. I really love you!

She looked at me silently for another moment, then she rearranged her fingers again, this time flying them gently through the air to say, I will always love you.

It was the last time I saw her.

Kristin Fellows is a published writer, world traveler, and a well-seasoned documentary film consultant. When not writing, Kristin can often be found listening to someone’s story or behind the lens of one of her cameras.

More about Kristin @ kristinfellowswriter.com