Elayne Clift
Demise
Among them there existed one uterus, two original husbands, assorted children, various lovers, impressive past careers, shared exotic vacations and the commitment that they would be together until their dying days. They had spent years fantasizing at beach resorts and on backpacking trips about the house they would inhabit together when they were no longer matriarchs in their individual realms, and no longer capable of the joint escapades that had filled their years together. Their Crone Cottage, as they dubbed it, would have a cook, a nurse, and a toyboy, at the very least, they agreed. Many and happy were the hours during which they laughed about their own brand of old age home when they weren’t talking politics, books, movies, relationships, kids and more. In short, theirs was a bond so deep and longstanding that nothing short of a tsunami could tear them apart.
They were six altogether. Two of them had been friends since childhood. The remaining four went back to college or the days of new marriage and young motherhood, when each felt she would go mad from “the problem that has no name” as Betty Friedan had dubbed the ennui of isolated, educated women in suburban America, until one by one, they’d found their way into autonomy and personhood. Some had done it through advanced degrees, then careers or civic work, some through surviving divorce and moving on. All stood now, in their later years, on a higher plain of living, conscious of the choices they had made and accepting of the consequences.
Central to their connection was Esther, who had brought them all together in celebration of her fiftieth birthday, now more than two decades ago. “I’m going to have a Croning Celebration!” she had told her dearest friends on the cusp of the monumental midlife event. Then she explained to them that in another time long ago older women were revered for their wisdom, judgment and healing gifts. She wanted to be part of the movement that was resurrecting Crones. She would join a sisterhood that was reclaiming its power and its place in a world too full of misogyny and patriarchal myth. And as she had predicted, her chums gleefully jumped onboard – in this case, literally, for she had hired a sailboat-cum-captain for the day of sailing and solidarity.
What not even Esther could predict was that the day would seal their Crone connection for the rest of their lives. Such was the magic of that day, as the sun reflected upon the Chesapeake Bay so that the waves seemed like a sea of tiny diamond baguettes, that by its close all six women had arranged for a reprise in a few months time. The venue would be the lakeside home of one who lived in upstate New York. And so began the tradition of “Croning” twice a year, sometimes more, in different locales, which over the years, grew farther afield and increasingly exotic as the women aged.
While the places they visited varied and their bond grew ever deeper, the simple joys of being together – talking, laughing, sharing secrets they would entrust to no one else – never diminished. Rather, it grew into a kind of intimacy that could be lifesaving when a partner was lost, a child’s actions were grievous, an illness threatened.
It was on one occasion, when they were in their fifteenth year of Croning, each of them facing the sobering fact that they were now considered, demographically, to be “elderly,” that the subject of their own deaths came under discussion.
Ellen, newly widowed, said, “Won’t it be awful when one of us dies!”
“Oh my God, awful!” replied Gina. “I can’t imagine it!”
“Terrible to be the first,” Marlene added, somewhat laconically. “Or maybe, most terrible to be the last…”
“Well, I’m telling you right now, you all know what to do when it’s my time,” said the ever practical Esther. “You each show up with three pills, and then none of you did it. You all did.” (It was understood by all that, for Esther, dignity and quality of life were everything.)
“We all agree that we don’t want to be drooling in some nursing home, a burden to our kids and pathetic to the few remaining friends we may have,” Lorraine chimed in. “And I’d rather die with hair on my head than on my chin,” she added with the levity that people inject when a subject frightens them.
“We should have a pact,” Vinnie suggested. But they let it go, assuming that when the time came, they would all know how to take care of each other.
It seemed only a heartbeat later, although it was seven years that the call came, first to Marlene and then telephone-treed to the rest of them. (Esther’s daughter had phoned the first of them who appeared alphabetically in her mother’s diary.) By the next afternoon they had each arrived and closed ranks around their desperately ill friend who lay drugged in a hospital bed.
Esther had been diagnosed with a cerebral aneurysm and was being rushed into surgery. The doctor gave her an 85 percent chance of recovery. The remaining 15 percent could mean anything from slight visual loss to partial paralysis to death.
As they waited out the surgery, each of the Crones recalled their prior conversation. “It’s one thing when it’s academic…” Vinnie began.
“She trusts us. You know she is counting on us if… if the outcome is not good,” Lorraine said, clutching her cold cup of coffee.
“And what does that mean, really?” Ellen asked. “What is a good outcome when you’ve been through something like this at our age?”
“What’s age got to do with it? You know how strongly Esther felt… feels… about dignity and quality of life. The last thing in the world she would ever want is to feel pitiful. Not to mention the fact that she cannot abide boredom! If she can’t do things, contribute in some way, think, for God’s sake… none of us would want to live that way!” Marlene began to pace the small waiting room.
“Does anyone have moral issues with this?” Gina whispered. “I mean, where do those big questions come in here, like whether anyone has a right to end a life?”
“Since when did you get religion?” Marlene scolded. “Personally, I’d be more worried about the legal side of things.”
“God, it’s all so easy, talk is so cheap, when it’s not staring you in the face,” Vinnie reprised.
“Look,” Lorraine said, “Esther was always very clear with us about her wishes. She was kind of entrusting us with her living will. And as for legality, that’s exactly why she had her three-pills-per-person plan.”
“We never told her we couldn’t or wouldn’t do it,” Ellen offered. “If we had issues we should have raised them then, with her. Not now. Not after we’ve all honored and trusted our beliefs and wishes all these years. That would be the kind of hypocrisy none of us can abide.”
The hours dragged on. Into the long night they talked, remembered good times, laughed, cried, hugged, honored silence. At daybreak, as shafts of light began to find their way between slatted blinds, Esther’s daughter appeared. She looked haggard.
“She’s not responding well. The doctor is worried. He says she should be more alert by now. I’ll be back when we know more.”
“I’ll get fresh coffee and donuts,” Vinnie said.
“Wait!” Marlene and Lorraine commanded in unison. “Let’s not drag this out! We need to know, if it comes to it, what we are going to do.” With that the two of them reached for their handbags. Each pulled out a plastic Baggie inside of which were three white pills. “I have another one of these in case anyone… forgot,” Lorraine said.
Slowly, Crone by Crone, as if it were the Poker match of their lives, they played their hands. No one folded. No one bluffed. No one exhibited bravado. Together, they simply let devotion trump doubt. With a full house of love, they stood ready to fulfill their dear friend’s wishes, no matter the collateral damage.
And, they agreed, no matter what Esther’s outcome, there would be no need to tell anyone, not even her – perhaps least of all her – what had transpired among them on that long night when they truly were a conspiracy of Crones.
Elayne Clift has written two collections of short fiction, Croning Tales and The Limits of Love. She lives in Saxtons River, Vermont.
