Release

By Kandi Maxwell

A few months back, when I traveled to my former home in California’s north-eastern corner, I knew the fall colors would be vibrant. The bright yellows of the Quaking Aspen leaves shimmered at the slightest breeze. The tall cottonwoods hadn’t turned completely yellow. Instead, brilliant green and yellow leaves blended together against a sharp blue sky. In the early morning sunlight, the golden, flat-topped clusters of rabbitbrush reflected in the ponds so clearly that I could hardly tell the actual shrub from its reflection. Clouds, too, reflected in the ponds, their soft gray wisps dancing across the surface of the cobalt water. In the 28-degree weather, I hiked a small trail near golden fields and geothermic pools. To the west, the Warner Mountains came to life with snow dusted peaks and warm shades of tan. I would need these moments to sustain me over the next few days.

I spent those days in Cedarville. I had made the six-hour drive the day after my husband Lloyd and I had the veterinarian put down our 14-year-old lab/pit bull mix, Jackson. I didn’t know I would have to leave so quickly after such sorrowful circumstances, but my hot springs hotel reservations could not be cancelled. I was sad, but time was running out for my dear friend, Ray. He had recently moved into a small, 12-room nursing home in the isolated town. Cancer and aging had left him unable to stand or push himself up to get into his wheelchair. His wife, Barbara, could no longer lift Ray. Such a hard decision to move Ray away from his home, where books and art filled the walls and large windows looked out to the playa and the Hayes Mountain Range to the east. Fortunately, the nursing home was just one mile from their house. 

On the night of my arrival, Barbara had cooked spaghetti for Ray. She packed it up picnic-style so Ray could enjoy a homemade meal in his tiny room. She also made peach pie using peaches from her trees. Ray’s entire face lit up after he finished that dessert.  

Ray was thin and fragile. His memory sometimes failed; his words came slowly and with effort. He was tired, so instead of conversing, I read him one of my stories. He asked me to read it a second time, and like so many times before, Ray, a former journalist, offered a perfect critique, then praised the improvements in my writing. Soon, exhaustion overwhelmed him, and I let Ray sleep, content to sit at his bedside.

I spent my evenings with Barbara. She, too, was a journalist. Barbara and Ray had traveled the world as editors writing about sports and food. Now, she continued that work as an editor for two agriculture magazines. Her life had been busy the past six years as a full-time caregiver with magazines to manage. Ray’s move had suddenly given Barbara more alone time.

“The house feels so big and empty without Ray,” she said. I agreed. 

Barbara built a fire in the fireplace, and we ate dinner together at the table near the fire. We talked about the books Ray had read over the summer. His difficulty with swallowing, his inability to remember what he ate the day before, his struggle to feel life’s worth in a hospital bed. And yet—friends visited Ray, brought him sweet treats, told him stories. Barbara was just beginning to have enough time to ride her horse, George. She told me how George could feel her emotions when riding. He’d get antsy when she was tense, slowed to a stop for her to inhale and take deep breaths to relax. 

On the last morning of my stay, I helped Barbara feed the horses. She mixed buckets of grain pellets with salt and supplements for each horse. We carried the buckets out to the pastures. Barbara filled hay nets with flakes of hay for George. Her older horse could no longer chew the coarse-stemmed hay, but he seemed content with his pellets. 

After feeding, Barbara hooked up her truck to the horse trailer. She was making time to go riding with a friend. Too soon, it was time to say goodbye. I knew this would be my last visit with Ray and understood how much life would change for Barbara. I hugged her tightly, giving into the grief of our shared loss.

As I drove out of the valley and up the mountain, I thought about our dog Jackson’s last days. How hard it was to watch him lose his once-was boundless energy. Like Ray, Jackson had lost the use of his legs, and we had known then that the end was near. How much longer would Ray linger in a place where he questioned his purpose? I remembered his words after he had learned that the residential care facility was now his permanent home. “Am I just going to stay here to die?” I couldn’t answer, too emotionally shattered knowing the answer was most likely, yes. 

Ray passed away one month later as Barbara rested her head on his chest. The news brought tears and snot-dripping sobs. Still, there was gratitude for our long-lasting friendship and Ray’s influence on my life. 

It’s Barbara I often think of now. I had witnessed her tender love for Ray, watched how she gave so much of herself during Ray’s last years. Mourning will leave a hollow ache, but Barbara will continue forward.

I imagine her now, saddling up George, then riding on the playa or a mountain trail, taking deep breaths in the cold mountain air. Her body releasing pent up tensions as she slowly untangles the grip of grief.

Kandi Maxwell writes creative nonfiction and lives in Northern California. She is a retired English teacher and former backcountry guide. Her stories have been published in Hippocampus Magazine, The Door is A Jar, The Raven’s Perch, The Meadow, Wordrunner eChapbooks, and other literary journals and anthologies. Her memoir, Snow After Fire, was published by Legacy Book Press in 2023. Learn about Kandi at kandimaxwell.com.