Susan’s room is dark; the machines and lights turned off; the only sound is her deep breathing. It has become a moving spiritual space.

Her eyes are open; she no longer speaks and cannot stay awake.

I asked the doctors if I should come back to her room this evening and sat with her, and they nodded and said yes.

What is not said is often more meaningful than what is said.

Sometimes she mouths a word or

She has a smile on her face, interrupted by an occasional grimace or start. I have never seen her look so peaceful and at ease.

I am grateful to Susan for asking me to record the final days of her life. In a sense, it is one of the most creative tasks.

I am surprised sometimes to learn that people at the edge of life wish to be written about, photographed,  noticed, their death recorded in the hope that other people might glean something from their own experience.

I admire the selflessness of this: a final gift, the gift of leaving the earth with some meaning. “Tell the truth,” she said. “It’s about time I learned to tell the truth..”

It is draining for me to do this, but not hard – I’ve written about a score of different deaths in my hospice and therapy work. It does help people; I hear from so many that they took something from it.

It is wonderful to bring Zinnia, a therapy dog from birth, right in the heart.

She is adept now at cheering up nurses and doctors, who need her as much as the patients. In just a few visits, she has a  huge following in the hospital. We are signing up to do therapy work there.

She already grasps the atmosphere of a hospital room, the ethos of dying, of finding a quiet space to lie down and be still unless asked.

She only comforts, never intrudes. I tell her to lie down and drop the leash and focus on the people.

That is a  remarkable gift for a young, active, and very social dog. I am thankful for her, especially on a day like today

I believe in openness, and openness at this time is a statement of strength and love.

Maria and I came to see Susan this morning, a co-worker from the Bennington Hospital lab, where Susan worked, was sitting with her. Her friends from work have been visiting her over the last week.

We brought two special pillows, her laptop, one of her photographs, and the picture I gave her two years ago; she asked that I bring it to her room. It is from a happier time; it is signed, “Love, Jon Katz,” and hung just inside the front door.

Susan loved Bedlam Farm, the sheep, the donkeys, the dogs, the feeling.

I don’t know if she could see the photograph.

I left Maria alone for a while so she could say her private goodbye to Susan, which she did. I’ll be back around dinner time myself; I have a feeling Susan ought to have some company this evening.

“Do you feel you have to go,” Maria asked in the car on the way home. “No,” I said,”I want to go.”

Susan’s friendship, illness, and death have been hard on Maria, and meaningful. She is writing about it herself today on her blog, as I write about it on mine.

Saratoga Hospital is wonderful, given the opportunity, I would be grateful for the chance to die there if I can’t die at home. The staff is caring, attentive, loving and sensitive.

Susan is at peace, hallelujah. I can see it in her face; she is letting go.

The hospital has seen to it that her final days are comfortable and dignified.

And so very quiet, even gentle in that room.

Susan has not had a peaceful life; she has a wickedly self-destructive and painful streak, which she never quite beat, even in sickness and death. In just a few weeks after she moved upstate, she was pulled over by the police a half dozen times for speeding.

Why?, I asked. “I like to speed,” she said.

She took lovely photographs, but once or twice posted the photographs of other people as hers, she just didn’t think she was good enough.

“Why?,” I asked. “I wanted people to like me,” she said.

She is one of those people who has no idea how bright and loving they are. Nobody ever told her.

I asked her why she allowed her self to get so sick all alone, and why not even her closest friends knew how ill she was or how much she was suffering alone in her house.

She shrugged and said, “you know me.”

In a sense,  did, in a sense, I didn’t.

I’m not sure Susan ever got to know me either, beyond her notion of me as a celebrity. But in the past days, there was a real closeness, a real connection a real sense of friendship.

Friendship is like that, I think, sometimes it just has to find itself. We sure are close right now.

Death pushes the bullshit of people away.

Death is powerful in that way; we have no choice but to get real, or to run. And I am glad I didn’t run from her, as some others did.

Death always reminds me of the good and compassion in people, of the humanity that binds us together, despite all of our differences.

People who sit with the dying almost invariably say their friend or loved one hears them, knows they are there. Some people hold the hand of the dying; others rub lotion on the back of their hands. I usually read to them.

I honestly don’t know if Susan can hear me or understand me. I’m sure she can hear sounds and sense feelings. That’s good enough. She has better things to think about than me.

Her best friend Donna is hoping to get to the hospital by Tuesday, we both hope she makes it in time. Susan told me her friendship with Donna was as honest as anything in her life.

Today, I’m the point person, the doctors and nurses contact me if there is any change. I have a strong relationship with Susan’s brother Steve, who lives in California. He texted me as I was writing this.

The two have had difficulties, as Susan often had relating to people. “When she wakes up,” he asked, “please tell her that I love her, always have, always will.” He also asked if it was possible for me to play some music.

I can do that.

In a sense, this is the most meaningful part, being with someone you care about as they leave the world. We could not make Susan happy or help her heal from the wounds of life, but we could help her die in peace and comfort.

That will do. When it gets dark, I’ll head back to this sacred room, this spiritual space. If I can, I’ll write about it later when I get home.