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135 I was in my office after teaching an evening class at my new job at a university in Portland, three hours south of Seattle. I had just started. My plan was to commute, spending four days a week in Portland, and the rest in Seattle working on Bahia Street. I set down my pen and stared at the wall. I sat immobile for a long time. What am I doing here? I thought. Why do I think this job is so important I had to come anyway? I should be in Seattle. I had already canceled my first two classes of the term. Jill was going in for yet another operation. I went to the hospital, and her husband let me sit with her for a while. Jill opened her eyes and smiled at me. “Oh, Margaret,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here.”Then she closed her eyes again. And that was the moment I realized that she was dying. Somehow I never expected this to happen. All the way, I kept expecting she would come through. I knew few people as strong as Jill, with such spirit, such strength and courage. Somehow I never faced the fact that she could actually die. I got up from her bedside, wiping from my chin tears I could not control. Her husband took my place. He wasn’t crying. How could he not? I realized it was because he had already known for some time. His pain was beyond tears. He knew he had limited time in which to give his love to her. He could cry later. We stood in the hospital hallway as they rolled Jill to her operation. She opened her eyes again and took my hand. “Thank you for being here, Margaret,” she said. “I love you.” How could a person be so selfless? So strong? She was expending her last energy giving to others. Then I told Jill’s other friends and her husband I couldn’t stay, that I had already missed the first classes, that I couldn’t miss the third as well, that I had to leave and go to work. How important is work? I thought afterward. Would these students have really cared if I canceled class again? I had a small buzzing in my head, a background noise that continued fifteen letting the outer skin be social 136 dance lest we all fall down all day. And then, in the evening, just before class, it stopped. I knew Jill was dead. I rang the hospital. A nurse answered. Her hesitation confirmed what I already knew. “Let me get one for her friends for you,” she said. One of Jill’s closest friends, Debbie, came to the phone. “She just died,” she said. Debbie sounded peaceful. Twenty of Jill’s friends had sat in the hospital room with her, holding hands, touching Jill with their thoughts. Jill had come out of her quasi-coma once. “Am I dying?” she asked her husband. “Yes,” he said. Jill had closed her eyes for a minute. “Then,” she said, “when you’re finished being sad, have a party.” I arrived at the first Bahia Street fundraiser a few days later, feeling depressed. I kept thinking of how I could have done more for Jill. A green-colored Depression, 214M, sidled up to me as I entered the door. I called him “This Project Was Stupid And Who Am I To Think I Could Do It?” He was accompanied by his red-eyed close companion “I Don’t Really Like These People Anyway.” When I saw all the enthused, expectant faces, I felt even worse. How was I going to make animated conversation or even be civil? I had worn a short white dress, and brushed my hair long. I had debated wearing the dress: a cute, sexy outfit could make me feel good about myself, give me confidence. But if I were already feeling low and inadequate, I sometimes couldn’t live up to the outfit and would stand, feeling like a dork, acutely aware of every imperfection. These times, it was much better to wear slacks and a neutral shirt. Then my self and my appearance were at least in balance. I had worn the dress and now regretted it. I shook my head, trying to shake myself free. “Look,” Kyra, one of the volunteers, said, “we’ve begun a presentation table, put up some of your photos. What do you think...

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