Mary Ann Quilantan

She wasn’t famous, nor did she seek recognition. But she lived in the spaces that matter most, the quiet corridors of care and tending of others, where the body falters and the spirit remains.

I met her in Lubbock, Texas, in the mid-90’s, when she was a bright and steady presence, a young physician assistant, mercurial and composed. She had the bearing of a Castilian noble woman and an air that spoke to something deep and rare. She was in her twenties then, living with Type 1 diabetes and hypertension, but even then, I sensed the gravity of her path.

I didn’t know yet how long our story would stretch, or how deeply it would root itself in me. As the years passed, kidney failure crept in. Dialysis followed, three times a week, four hours at a time, with thick needles and thinner chances. Most people cannot fathom the brutality of that ritual. But Mary Ann never let it rob her of her dignity and even when her eyesight dimmed, even when her body fought back with complications, she remained steeped in the work of healing others. She gave of herself, and in the penumbra of her care there was a special sentience and grace.

Steadfast and kind, Mary Ann was Catholic, deeply so, and there was a kind of cloistered sanctity about her. She never spoke of romantic entanglements, but always she poured herself into service. She saw the holy in others. And in that, I believe, she loved profoundly.

Her sister Janie entered my care too, another luminous soul; and so I came to know their family, their faith, their profound, deep quiet strength. And when I left Lubbock in 2004 I carried their stories with me.

You must understand that in 40 years of medicine I offered care to thousands and thousands of people. Each of those humans helped shape a container of solace that was the essence of what I did. I shared that liminal space and was healed as I helped others to heal. Yet, there were a few that made the vessel we shared a chalice and, in that way, we knew something numinous and divine. Mary Ann was one of those.

The sentience which was holy does not fade in that sort of blessed relationship, but presence amplifies or muffles the feeling of connection. So I moved my practice a hundred miles away and over the next few years we texted occasionally on holidays, birthdays and those thresholds when love finds its way through.

At some point, after I retired, I told her I was transitioning, that I was a feminine being. She responded with spiritual warmth, even if she didn’t quite understand. And then there was silence. For years, I heard nothing.

I assumed the worst. Her body had carried so much, and I thought she had passed, and I hoped quietly, privately, as so many of my patients lost limbs and dignity as their disease advanced. I grieved her without certainty, but there was the intuition of loss.

Then, last Christmas, I had an astonishing surprise, a single text, and I knew she was alive. There were no details, only the warm ember of reconnection. I felt her soul again, steady, quiet, undiminished.

Then just days ago, her brother reached out to tell me: Mary Ann was in hospice. She had stopped dialysis, refusing further intervention. She was near death.

And here’s the part that made the world tilt: she had been moved to Room 777 at Methodist Hospital in Lubbock. The same room where my mother spent her last three months. The exact same room.

These are not just coincidences, they are invitations, symbols, portals through the veil. This was an over lay of vital memories for two women whom I loved and who would both leave this realm in the same location.

In ancient myth, Mnemosyne, the Titan goddess of Memory, is more than the mother of the Muses. She is the keeper of all that matters. She holds not only recollection but meaning, not only names but the souls and legacy behind them. She remembers you when the world forgets.

The gods, you see, do not remember, they live in an eternal present.

They tend to live through us for the experience of creating memories as we humans can remember. That is our offering, our art, our grief and our grace, and the gods and goddesses are thankful.

So I offer this requiem to Mnemosyne, in her house of memory,

where Mary Ann is about to depart and is preparing for the long journey over River Styx.

Knowing this soul and much about her precious journey on earth, I feel connected, by memory to something good and clean and sacred. The life of a human lived with such stature and grace leaves a residue of sanctity that is immortal. It is a process of alchemy where love, durable and fierce, becomes the parting gift come now in a flutter of wings.

She is headed home and will be welcomed in the realms of light and peace. We live her memory forward draped in the warmth that something angelic and pure has passed our way and will not be seen again.

Thank you, dear Mary Ann.

By Sheila Grace Newsom, MD

“What has been loved is never lost.”

— St. Basil the Great