Jan 23
My buddy
When an accountability partner becomes a friend
by Francine Brevetti
Back in the Pleistocene Age, when I was reporting for the Oakland Tribune, I got a much-coveted commission to write the history of the Fior d’Italia restaurant in San Francisco’s North Beach.
It was a prize for me because it concerned my family history. Furthermore, I had been away from San Francisco for 30 years I had recently returned to my hometown. I saw this project would reconnect me with precious memories and loving people whom I had relinquished in my search for adventure so many years before.
When the restaurant gave me this opportunity, I wondered how I would manage my time since now I also had a full-time job with the Tribune.
(Fortunately, the restaurant owner, Bob Larive, gave me no deadline. He had engaged other writers before and none had produced a manuscript. I think he was just grateful to find somebody to take this on with the enthusiasm that I showed him. Maybe he wondered if I would ever produce anything.)
I reasoned I needed a way of keeping on track. It occurred to me that I should find somebody with whom I could check weekly about my progress with the Fior book. A kind of buddy or accountability partner.
So I went to Craigslist and logged into the ‘community’ link. I asked for an accountability partner and said I would be happy to reciprocate with my services as a writer or editor.
Two people got back to me. One wanted me to edit his book on Vietnam. I am very well disposed to Vietnam since I had been there twice but editing a whole book in exchange for a weekly phone call didn’t seem a fair distribution of labor.
The other one was a woman who wanted nothing in return but to be there for me when I needed her. Elizabeth Cutler turned out to be bedbound and suffering from multiple sclerosis.
She had been a successful advertising copywriter but was trapped in her apartment since the onset of her disease.
She merely wanted to be connected to the world in new ways and I was one of them. She wanted nothing in return. Her wit, big heart, and lively imagination were the glue I needed.
We agreed that I should call her every Saturday morning outlining my goals for the coming week and reporting what I had accomplished in the week just passed. She became my conspirator in this project. Always cheering me on, never scolding me when I didn’t reach the mark. Looking back on her, I assume she was grateful for the contact with me and this project.
I finished the book in three years, and one could say I didn’t need her services as an accountability partner after that but, by that time, we had formed such a bond of friendship that we kept in contact every Saturday morning for almost 15 years until she died.
My only regret was that she could not attend the book’s launch party.
Elizabeth was a sharp, literary, and literate personality. We exchanged our experiences and views about movies and books and other cultural expressions. About our sweethearts and our families. But mostly we came to know each other’s hearts. She told me of a past lover and she had had and a little dog that she had to relinquish when she moved from New York City to San Francisco. How she loved that animal.
She eventually vacated her little apartment in a three-story building on Park Street. She could no longer traverse the stairs. Elizabeth moved into the Menorah House, an assisted living facility on Sacramento St.
This gave her access to the services of an institution and more people for her life.
She inexorably deteriorated over these years. It was hard to watch. Eventually, she had to move to Laguna Honda Hospital, a government facility for the indigent.
From my first contact with her, and Lord knows how many years before, Elizabeth had been obese. She explained she had no other outlet for pleasure in her life besides reading, watching movies, and eating. Laguna Honda served her meals three times a day. But she found ways of sneaking pastries and chips into her room. I was occasionally a conduit for this contraband.
She said she loved the little pastry called Madeleines. “They are chaste,” she said because they were low on sugar and icing. But still yummy.
I visited Elizabeth every at Laguna Honda every few weeks and kept up with her on the phone frequently. My dog Lola accompanied me and after Lola passed away, my little mutt Dante would perch on her bed. At one point Elizabeth begged me to remove Dante from her legs; the contact was too painful.
Elizabeth became friends with her caregivers, especially with one of her physicians, Dr. Victoria Sweet, who eventually authored a book on Laguna Honda called God’s Hotel. Dr. Sweet was as literate as Elizabeth, and I assume this formed one basis for their friendship. The sharpness of wit combined with a profound heart.
I met Dr. Sweet later at a memorable event.
Elizabeth became weaker and less flexible. Hard to watch. The last time I saw her, she could not see me. I am not sure she knew I was there.
The inevitable happened.
Her sister from Belgium and her brother from down the peninsula arranged to have her ashes disbursed from a launch in the bay. I was invited along with several to participate. I took my new dog Rosa who clambered down the ladder to the deck with vivacity.
There I met her sister, Malinda, brother Reese, and Dr. Sweet whom I thanked her for writing God’s Hotel. I brought on board a package of Madeleines, As we sailed near the Golden Gate Bridge, I unwrapped them and tossed them over the side.
I remember hoping the dear beings in the deep enjoyed them. I thought of Elizabeth.
