One of the last things she said to me was, “This is so hard.”
What is so hard?, I had wanted to ask. Is it the pain? Is it saying goodbye? Is it leaving your daughters and knowing you won’t watch your grandchildren grow up? Is it surrendering to the invisible after fighting for so long?
But I didn’t ask her any of these things because I knew that she wouldn’t be able to explain. The cancer was in her brain, and she could only manage a few whispered words before her attention faded and she looked off into the distance.
This is a story about a beautiful light of a woman, her special bear tree, and a friendship that I will never forget.
Soon after I moved to New Jersey in 2015, I met Jax (a nickname for Laurie Jackson). Her daughter was the dog sitter of my then-boyfriend/now-husband’s rescue, a loveable pittie named Sweet Pea who adored humans, but didn’t get along with other dogs. This was a problem because I was moving into Eric’s house with my arthritic rescue, a senior boxer/French bulldog mix, Yoda. As luck would have it, Jax and her daughter had a soul connection with Sweet Pea, which made Eric’s heart wrenching decision to rehome her with them a tad easier. Jax’s house is less than a mile from us (which, living rurally, practically feels like next door). Our friendship was cemented over a love of dogs, laughter, and long hikes together.
Jax spent the past six years in a fight for her life. In 2018 she was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a rare blood cancer that was complicated by an even more rare biomarker. A stem cell transplant and vigorous chemo and radiation saved her life. The same year she got sick, she also lost her job and her marriage. Although Sweet Pea is no longer alive, Jax once told me that Sweet Pea got her through her darkest days during this period of her life.
Since then, Jax had three relapses, with each one landing her in the ICU and hospital for months at a time. Her most recent relapse hit last December, and, after almost five months in the hospital, she finally returned home. This time the leukemia, being the savage beast that it was, had invaded her spinal fluid and attacked the nerve endings in her legs, leaving her unable to walk.
Throughout it all, Jax remained the most optimistic, vibrant, hopeful, sunshiny (not a commonly used word, but it’s a perfect description) person I know. Although I’m sure she had plenty of private moments of despair, she never stopped believing in miracles. Her mantra during her years of waging war against the ugly monster called leukemia was, No fear, just faith. In fact, she told me once that instead of questioning, “Why me?” she decided to ask herself, “Why not me?” because she knew that there would be opportunities to share her story and be a beacon of hope for someone else going through a tough time.
A year ago, while she was still in remission, Jax and I were hiking around the reservoir at Spruce Run, a state park near where we live. She took me to meet her special tree, one that had an unmistakable cartoonish face of a bear in the large trunk. I’ve walked past this ash tree many times, never seeing the bear. But once Jax pointed it out, I wonder how I ever missed it. The bear face is about five feet up the trunk, a perfect level for hugging.
Last spring, when Jax was discharged from the hospital in a wheelchair because she couldn’t move her legs, she wasn’t able to visit her bear tree. I sent her a text and told her I was going to take our Belgian Malinois-mix rescue, Lunabelle, to Spruce Run with the intention of visiting her bear and asking it to send healing energy to her. Magic was in the air because as soon as we got out of the car, we met a woman I will call “Cara” who was walking in the same direction. Cara’s hair shimmered from the sunlight reflecting off her fairy hair (silver tinsel strands threaded throughout her head of angelic white hair), and she had a slight limp from a recent knee injury. We started talking as we walked, and our conversation turned to the metaphysical. Cara is a sound healer, using instruments such as Tibetan singing bowls, crystal bowls, and gongs that vibrate at specific healing frequencies when struck.
Cara looked over at me with a twinkle in her eye, as if she was going to share a big secret. “Do you want to go with me to a bear tree to make an offering?”
I was gob smacked that she knew about Jax’s tree. “I know exactly where the bear tree is, and that’s actually where we are headed!”
When we arrived at the tree, Cara pulled a Ziplock bag out of her pocket that was filled with sugar cubes. She put some in my hand.
“Use these to offer sweetness to the bear, and then ask the tree for a blessing for your friend.” She backed away to give me some privacy.
After carefully placing the sugar cubes in the crevasses in the bark around the bear’s head, I positioned my hands on either side of the bear’s face, closed my eyes, and prayed for waves of powerful healing energy to Jax.
“Do you mind if I hug it?” I love to hug trees, but I wasn’t sure what Cara would think.
“Absolutely, you must. The bear loves to be hugged.” I’m not sure how she knew that, but I wasn’t about to question this fact.
Jax and I talked on the phone after I left Cara, and she was positively giddy that someone else knew about her bear tree. I told her she embodied all the traits of a great warrior goddess, and we agreed that as soon as she could walk again, we would take Lunabelle and the three of us would visit her bear tree together.
Unfortunately, a couple of months ago, Jax entered hospice. During the next six weeks, Lunabelle and I regularly hiked to leave offerings to the bear to help Jax’s transition to formlessness: acorns, pinecones, a feather, pretty seedpods, and many times dandelions, because their vibrant, yellow color is sunshiny, just like my friend.
The day of Jax’s funeral, I picked a colorful bouquet of flowers from my yard and placed them on her bear tree. Jax would have loved this. When I stepped back to take it in, I realized which cartoon bear the tree reminded me of: Winnie-the-Pooh.
It’s no surprise that Jax, a woman who always had infinite amounts of wisdom to share, had bonded with a tree that has the face of the great philosopher bear.
I miss my friend so much, but I will forever feel her presence when I visit her bear tree. In fact, yesterday I took the above photo of Lunabelle and the tree. I didn’t see the lens flare rainbow until I uploaded the photo for this post. I know it was Jax telling me she’s okay.
If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever. — Winnie-the-Pooh
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