For my 70th birthday, I flew from Cambodia to Bar Harbor, Maine, to see my dear friend Gail Gutrudt for what I knew would be the last time. She was dying of cancer, and the hospital had called to say she didn’t have long. So I was surprised when I arrived at her home to find her standing in the doorway, waiting to greet me. She had checked herself out of the hospital to organize my birthday party.
She struggled climbing the stairs to her bedroom that first night, and I wasn’t sure how the next five days would unfold. But the following morning, I woke to the smell of bacon and coffee. She looked much better and said she felt well enough to show me around town. Over the next few days, we ran into her friends at restaurants and the local supermarket. We even encountered her doctor, who was astonished to see her not only walking but driving me around.
On my fourth and final day in Maine, Gail drove me through Acadia National Park and showed me where she wanted her ashes scattered. She parked the car and sat quietly, clearly tired and lost in thought. I stepped out and walked alone for a few minutes, giving her space—and perhaps giving myself the same.
Back at the house, she fixed me a sandwich and then lay down on the couch. I sat across from her, searching for something meaningful to say, but no words came.
Gail put on one of her favorite songs, Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love.” I think if she’d had the strength, she would have asked me to dance. Instead, she fell asleep before the song ended.
As the room filled with silence, the words of Who Am I came to me—and they have remained with me ever since, a reminder of our last night together.
