第8章
These Precious Days
Sooki exuded such self-sufficiency that I rarely worried about her. Perhaps it came from her job-working for Tom Hanks for nearly twenty years, arranging accommodations in Morocco, finding drivers, organizing meals, listing local attractions. Navigating Nashville was simple for someone who had prepared Thanksgiving dinner for a film crew in Berlin.
After flying to New York for more events, I found myself in Connecticut at what would become "the last book event on earth"-four hundred people packed side by side despite growing coronavirus concerns. By dinner's end, my next event was canceled. Back in Nashville that night, Sooki's phone kept dinging with messages-Tom and Rita had contracted coronavirus in Australia, where he was about to film a movie playing Elvis's manager.
Chemotherapy hit Sooki hardest on Fridays. Her voice would quiet, her gaze would drop. "I need to go home," she'd say, as if home were somewhere she could walk to. "You've been so nice, but you didn't sign on for this." I insisted we wanted her to stay. Direct flights to Los Angeles were suspended, her compromised immune system made commercial travel dangerous, and UCLA had postponed her clinical trial as hospitals redirected resources to COVID patients. "You can't kill yourself because you're afraid of being an inconvenience," I told her. We'd agree to revisit the conversation Sunday, by which time the urgency would pass.
Though we spent our days together, I still knew little about Sooki. Our interactions stayed present-focused: walks, painting progress, dinner preparations. She rarely discussed family beyond mentioning her ninety-four-year-old mother in New York and reading to grandchildren in San Diego over Zoom. Tom Hanks remained completely absent from our conversations-when I asked if he knew where she was, she looked startled and said, "I mentioned it to him." She maintained a pleasant warmth while keeping her distance, setting up life on our bottom floor where we rarely went. After dinner she would disappear so quietly it seemed like a magic trick.
Walking Sparky one evening, I asked whether she was private by nature or because of her job. She revealed her varied career-working at the Bronx Zoo, being "Batgirl" for NYC's Bureau of Animal Affairs, making a documentary about her father who taught disabled children to ride bikes, appearing as a zombie in "Dawn of the Dead," location scouting, baking wedding cakes, running a children's clothing company, teaching ceramics. Despite this impressive list, she felt she "should have done more" with her life.
What Sooki truly wanted was to paint. Though naturally talented, she had studied animal behavior in college instead because it was more challenging. "I studied what did not come naturally," she explained. Painting became something she would "get back to in time," but life intervened with work, marriage, children-and then pancreatic cancer.
Ann reflects on her psychedelic experience with Sooki, who was battling pancreatic cancer. After taking mushroom powder with intentions to help Sooki face her mortality, Ann ironically has a terrifying encounter with death while Sooki has a beautiful spiritual experience. Ann describes her journey as "eight hours of hard labor" where she felt she was "dying" and experienced herself as "a horse's skull, dry and white and empty," while Sooki gained clarity about her loved ones and found meaning in her cancer journey.
As Sooki prepares to leave Nashville, Ann realizes she'd been afraid to ask personal questions to protect herself from the pain of their inevitable separation. On Sooki's final day, she wears her beautiful black velvet coat with peonies that Ann had admired months earlier. Their goodbye at the airport is tearful but hopeful, with Sooki's cancer markers dramatically improved from 2100 to 170.
After Sooki returns to California, they exchange emails where Sooki describes a profound dream about Ann's soul being "complete" with "no empty spiritual space." Ann reflects on their extraordinary friendship: "Astonishing to come across such a friendship at this point in life. At any point in life." The essay ends with Sooki's improving health markers and the poignant exchange: "Tell me how the story ends. It doesn't. It will. It hasn't yet."
Ann and friends Patty and Georgienne repeatedly plan to take their sick friend Sooki to the beach, but complications from her pancreatic cancer treatment make it difficult. They wait for the right moment between IV fluids, nausea, and pain. When Sooki suddenly says "Okay, let's go," they quickly gather medications, blankets, and supplies.
At the beach, they wrap Sooki in blankets on a lounge chair "like a tiny movie star making her transatlantic crossing incognito." Friends gather around her, talking and laughing-which Sooki enjoys even when not participating. Patty's husband John sings "All My Loving" on his guitar, a moment that pierces Ann with sorrow while they all join the chorus.
Two days later, despite everyone's doubts, Sooki finds one last reserve of strength to attend her own art show at ROSEGALLERY. She applies makeup and wears her velvet coat embroidered with peonies-the same coat she painted herself wearing in a self-portrait displayed in the gallery. Her mother and sisters join her as she receives embraces from admirers. Ann quiets the crowded room so Rose and she can speak, followed by Sooki herself thanking everyone. The gallery erupts in sustained applause "for her alone," as Sooki, "who has spent so much of her life weathering applause for other people," puts her hand to her heart and accepts it "with radiance."
After the show, Ann says goodbye to Sooki, as planned-a handoff to her mother and sisters. But unexpectedly, Ann's travel plans change, giving them "precious days that no one expected." When Ann returns, Sooki has grown measurably weaker. They make one final trip to the beach with friends, wrapping Sooki up again, singing "Harper Valley P.T.A.," writing important letters, and savoring "the joy of being together." In the driveway, they say goodbye one last time. "We keep doing this," Ann says, trying not to cry. "Let's keep doing this," Sooki replies. "Let's do this forever." Sooki Raphael died April 25, 2021.
