is a phalanx
What a beautiful story about a terrible situation. We don’t have to be remembered to be loved. Thank you for being Joan’s haven that day.
What an incredibly moving story, Chloe, my god... It's like you formed an impromptu hospice for her. I'm having this vision of beings walking among us, shining from within, all slow compassion, and you are one of them. ⭐💛✨
Gosh your work just keeps getting more profound and wonderful. It’s beautiful and engaging and always makes me think, keep up the most excellent work 💕
This is such a moving story. I'm so grateful that we get a Chloe in the world.
You did a wonderful thing. And I'm sure Joan remembered you, even if the conscious part of her didn't.
Awful that the ambulance took so long to come.
This was really vividly told, I could see everything. Although it is totally unrelated, I couldn't help but be reminded and see in my mind the scene from the video to Radiohead's Just. (I've always wanted to know whether they had any idea what the man on the ground said to make them all then assume the same position...)
Be still my heart, a world where love can be offered with grace and tenderness. May we all have moments where we are held by others as you held Joan, or where we offer the same to some creature or person. And may we all have the ability to be with our mortality in this same non-judgmental way as well.
Beautiful my darling. Light work for the ages.
I remember reading in The Body Keeps the Score that sincere, present human interaction, held hands, eye-contact, a gentle embrace, can help a nervous system process and integrate a traumatic event. You were Joan’s angel that day, clearly holding and allowing your own fragility as much as hers. ❤️
And ps. I too, run away from the detergent aisle.
The last three paragraphs of this sublime essay grabbed and stumbled me backwards into a poem that has bothered and confounded me for almost as long as I have been reading poetry. Readers of this substack will not need an introduction. So: why not go gentle into that good night? Why rage? Thomas loved his father, and the experience of his father's frailty at the end distressed him and evoked.... what? Not "embrace". Not "panic", not really. "Irritation"? That seems closest, but saturated to a darker hue. Why insist that we fight back against our demise? "wise men at their end know dark is right" (!). I really have nothing conclusive to say about this, except that this tension has gnawed at me for decades, and I would rather like to have it more sorted out by the time it becomes quite literally personal. Thank you for your essay. Thank you for taking care of Joan. And though is is unpleasant, thank you for pointing me back at frailty, and the basic questions it demands of us all.
Hey, you could be mistaken for a tiny bird.. but you are in fact an Angel, and (at the risk of overusing bird/ winged creature metaphors) ... the wind beneath so many wings.
🪶✨ thank you
Umbrellas: another Jesuit invention.