The Fruit Lady died last Saturday night. I had the honor of being there when she took her last breath and left the body temple. I had gone to be with my friend who was keeping vigil. I didn’t want her to be alone.
Joan Arensberg, aka the Fruit Lady, owner of the famed and first-of-its-kind charcuterie at 17th and Walnut, was dying. Sharp as a tack, big-hearted, funny, tough and ever tenacious; she was finally letting go.
The end had started in October, though no one knew it then. Even the doctors had no idea if it would be a couple of years or just a few weeks. Regardless, she needed help, so my friend stopped what she was doing, packed up some books and moved herself to the Fruit Lady’s condo in Somers Point. She would take care of her – cook healthy food, bathe her, massage her – do whatever it took to get her well again. “This is what we do for one another,” my friend said.
With no children, in fact, no family at all and a partner who had died ten years before; the Fruit Lady had instead a few loving friends, a few incredible people who stepped up and took care of everything she needed as she went in and out of the hospital, then into rehab and then home again.
They dealt with the bills, washed her clothes, made arrangements, smoothed her nightgown, dressed her sores, fed her like a baby, walked her dog then found him a home, changed the sheets, waited for doctors, ordered equipment and rubbed cream ever so gently into the creases of her thighs when she needed to be changed. They even put out their hands for the dentures she handed over, a sure sign that matter no longer mattered to her. They stayed present while she talked crazy, sat with her as she slept, soothed her when she was full of fear. They held her hand. Day in and day out, she was never alone.
When it became clear she was not getting better, when she began to spend more and more time in some other place, holding animated discussions with beings long since gone; my friend opted to bring the Fruit Lady home so she could die in comfort, surrounded by her memories. At home, from her hospital bed in the living room, she would have a clear view of the big blue sky over the deck.
The Fruit Lady left next to nothing in the way of money or possessions. She didn’t even own the condo. What she leaves behind besides the laughter she spread around the planet throughout her life, is a legacy of love, a new bond among a few special people who, by loving the Fruit Lady, came to love each other as well. “Have you slept? Are you all right?” one would ask the other as they checked in with daily updates to coordinate care. “I could come over,” another offered in the early morning hours after the death, grieving himself but not wanting her to be alone. “It’s okay,” she said, “my friend is here.”
And so it goes, on and on and on. Love bequeathed, love bestowed, love passed on. It is the gift we get when we do for one another.
Sixties Chick 