THE DEATH-PUDDING CONTAINER
“The life-ending medication came with instructions to mix it with water or applesauce. In her diva-ness, Heather had other plans.”
One morning a few months before my partner, Heather, died, she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me and said, “Kelli Sam, what on earth are you doing?” She knew exactly what I was doing. I was using a dish towel to pull a hot pan from the oven and burning my hand in the process, never mind that a potholder was hanging not six feet away. As the youngest child of a large Midwestern farm family, I leaned into stoicism and hardship. I apologized to inanimate objects if I bumped into them and ate the leftovers even if they were spoiled.
Heather found this baffling. Heather wore sequins, a bedazzled fedora and an orange feather boa—sometimes while performing burlesque, which she did fabulously for a living, sometimes on a random Wednesday afternoon. She believed in ordering dessert and accepting compliments. She believed that if someone offered to carry something heavy for you, the correct response was not “No thanks, I’ve got it,” but “Wonderful, be my guest!”
We met in 2005, at a queer conference at the Ramada Inn at Newark Airport. She was performing burlesque, I was doing comedy. I was living on the East Coast, she was on the West, and at first we were long distance. But six months into our relationship, the ovarian cancer that had been in remission returned, and it became clear that if we ever wanted to live together, it would have to be sooner because later had no guarantee. So I moved to Portland. And just like that we were navigating chemo, side effects and the surreal intimacy of discussing mortality before we’d even decided whose turn it was to buy toilet paper.
Heather had no interest in curling up on the sofa to slip away. Instead, she chose to engage—fiercely, lovingly, bossily—with her people. She introduced me to organic bananas, taught me to try on clothes before buying them, heroically attempted teaching me to dance. I’d once mentioned that as a child, I lobbied to be called Kelli Sam instead of the unfittingly feminine Kelli Sue. From that day on, Heather addressed me as Kelli Sam whenever she needed my full attention. She had a gift for noticing the parts of people they feared were too strange, too big, too small, too much. Then she loved those parts on purpose and silently invited you to do the same.
Heather dealt with cancer for more than five years before choosing to use Oregon’s Death with Dignity process to stop her suffering. The life-ending medication came with many instructions, one of which was to mix it with water or applesauce for best absorption. In her diva-ness, Heather had other plans. “The last taste in my mouth is not going to be applesauce,” she said. She wanted Kozy Shack chocolate pudding, and Kozy Shack chocolate pudding is what she got.
The container that held that ultimately lethal pudding now sits on my desk. Well-washed, of course, it holds pens and the occasional lost cat toy. As a keepsake, it’s not without its detractors. Heather’s life was full of friends (as was her death, which required four funerals in four cities). Some of these friends think the container is too morbid. At least one doubts that, after nearly 20 years and several moves, it’s even the actual container. Once, irritated by all the commentary, I started to Brillo off the label, thinking I’d write in permanent marker: NOT THE PUDDING CONTAINER THAT KILLED MY QUEEN. I stopped mid-scrub.
What makes the container important isn’t Heather’s death, but the fact that choosing chocolate pudding over applesauce was such a quintessentially Heather decision. Heather taught me that there is no prize for choosing difficulty for difficulty’s sake. And that being a diva—at least in Heather’s definition—isn’t about demanding attention. It’s about believing you deserve comfort, pleasure, beauty and care, even when life is hard. Especially when life is hard. This faded plastic container is my reminder.
—Kelli Dunham
Kelli Dunham is a nurse, comedian, storyteller, author, creator of the Hoping Intentionally Substack and host of the PRX/Good Get podcast Cared For, whose season-one finale recounts Heather MacAllister’s last day—known as Pudding Day—through the voices of the loved ones who shared it.
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wow, that's a lovely piece. The container being what it is really moving, but also having the worlds and label half scratched off give it a true sense of something different. Thanks for sharing.
This is one of the best pieces I have read here and certainly ties in with June as pride month.