My Journey with Farrah - Alana Stewart [82]
June 10, 2009
I just lay down to meditate. I wasn’t feeling well at all. I’d been going through some of the entries in my diary of when Farrah and I were at the clinic and suddenly got incredibly sad. I realized that we’d never be back there again. Even if by some miracle Farrah should get better, Dr. Jacob is moving her clinic to a completely different area, outside of Stuttgart. It’ll be in one of the least attractive parts of Germany, if Stuttgart is any indication. So I’ll never see Bad Wiessee again, or Tegernsee, or any of the beautiful countryside of Bavaria. If Mimmo and I had continued our romance, perhaps I would have gone to visit him there, but that’s finito, and I can’t imagine that I would have any reason to return. As difficult as many of the trips were, and as ill as Farrah often was, we had some good times. The walks along the lake, the wonderful dinners at Mimmo’s, our snowball fight in the mountains, Farrah’s birthday party, watching movies and drinking hot chocolate in her room, piled on the bed together. Just waking up in the mornings and opening the curtains, seeing the beautiful snow-capped mountains and the sparkling lake, or the bright green of the grass in the springtime and the flowers blooming everywhere.
But most of all, I miss the closeness I shared with Farrah. We bonded in a way I’ve never experienced before. I’ve kept so much bottled up inside me for so long, but as I lay there trying to meditate, the tears finally came. I miss the way things were. At times, when I’m trying to remember something we did or how something transpired, I’ll want to call Farrah and ask her because I know she would remember. But then I realize that she’s not in a condition to have that conversation. She wouldn’t be able to remember, and that makes me incredibly sad. I can’t call my friend anymore when I need advice or an opinion or a laugh. The other day in the hospital, she looked at me and asked, “Where am I?” I know it’s all the medication, and when they are able to decrease it, she’s much more herself. But I understand what Ryan means when he says, “I want her back.” So do I.
June 11, 2009
I picked up Mexican food again and went to the hospital. I got there a little late because of bumper-to-bumper traffic, and Ryan had already left. Again I had enough food for an army and it was only Farrah, me, and Jennifer, the nurse. Farrah was having trouble breathing because of the fluid in her lungs. They’re going to put her out and drain them tomorrow, but for tonight she’s pretty much out of it on the pain medication. She couldn’t really get her words out, and I didn’t want her to struggle trying to talk to me. I could see by her eyes that she wanted to communicate, but she couldn’t. I kissed her gently on the forehead and told her to sleep and I left. Honestly, I couldn’t have stayed any longer. I’ve been refusing to give up on that possible miracle, but tonight the chances seemed very remote. I felt sad, discouraged, and even a little hopeless. Where is my dogged determination that she can get well?
I was speaking to a friend today and he said, “Sometimes you have to give them permission to go. Maybe they want to, but they’re trying to hang on because they know their loved ones want them to. They have to know it’s okay to let go.” That took me by surprise. I’d never thought about it that way. I just assumed that we all had to keep cheerleading and encouraging her and telling her she’s going to make it. Then I happened