The Honest Courtesan

Early Sunday morning, Chekhov’s lady friend Yellowbird passed away in a Seattle hospital; she was 84 and had been suffering from a variety of health problems for the past several years.  Then last year, the problems began to multiply, and by the beginning of this summer they grew beyond the typical problems of age; early last week she was diagnosed with a terminal neurological disorder, and by Saturday morning decided to let nature take its course.  So the hospital increased her pain medication enough to let her sleep more deeply than she’d been able to do in months, and she passed away quietly in her sleep about 3:30 AM Sunday.  Chekhov is taking it as well as can be expected; he had been her primary caregiver for the last few years, so nobody knew better how much pain she had been in, and how much it galled her to be unable to live the active lifestyle, including gardening and creating art, which she had maintained up until quite recently.  So like me with Grace, he is deeply sad at the loss of someone he dearly loved, but also relieved that her suffering is at an end.  He’s already told me plans to move back into his cottage soon; he’s never officially changed his residence, but for several years now has stayed with her.  And I’m glad he’s coming back, because I don’t think he should be alone, and it will be good for both of us to have someone who understands nearby to talk to.