That's What Friends Are For...

Last November, my friend K., was diagnosed with too many cancers to name. It was stunning news. Both shocking and terrifying. And frighteningly enough before the diagnosis, she never really felt bad. A little bit of a cold. Tired and achy. Tired and achy? How many times have we all felt that way? But sadly, the cancers, like evil, spread fast and furiously and by Thanksgiving, the operations had started.

I remember the day she was diagnosed. November 7, 2005. I was awakened by a phone call at 5:00am. It was K.'s family calling to see if K.'s daughter, KC could come over. K. needed to go to the hospital immediately and the family didn't want KC to see the ambulance take her mother away. It was bad. And they were scared. In my pajamas, I waited for them to come. It was cold and dark outside as I ushered a quiet KC into my house. And as I watched their blue car drive off, I felt something hard shift in my heart.

K.'s sister called me that afternoon. It wasn't good. Cancer. Their parents were coming in from Franklin. K. was to have brain surgery by weeks' end.

I remember the first time I saw her in the hospital. As I struggled and fumbled to say something (anything, anything at all) without breaking down and sobbing, K. seemed calm. Almost serene. She apologized for being sick. She held MY hand. She told me she would be okay. We sat in her hospital room, chatting like two old friends sharing a latte.

But after about an hour, I left K, my head pounding, my heart heavy. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to run. But instead, I stepped into the elevator, pushed the button for the Lobby and sobbed.

I thought about when I first met K. I thought about how she never said an unkind word about anyone. I thought about how she lovingly watched Natalie after school that difficult year I worked at Dan Ryan's For Men. I thought about Natalie and KC, sitting with their heads together, giggling and smiling. I thought about how she loved everything I ever cooked. I thought about her endless devotion to her daughter, KC. I thought about her family, her husband, her sister, her parents. I thought about her bright and fun clothes. I thought about her telephone voice where she would tell me the exact time of her call, 'Rose, this is K.. It's 4:57 on Monday afternoon...'. I thought about the endless times she would take Nat and Charlotte when I needed to go grocery shopping or simply needed 5 minutes to myself. I thought about Girl Scout meetings. I thought about Caesar salads. I thought about my friend, K..

And I sobbed some more.

When I walked out of the hospital the sun was bright, the day was clear, I stepped into my minivan and drove home.

And life moved on.

By the new year, K. was having monthly 6 hour long chemotherapy treatments. And i t didn't look good. But as always, K. remained in good spririts. Smiling. Kind. Patient. Always thinking of others. She amazed everyone with her courage and her thank you notes. She actually wrote thank you notes for every gift, meal and flower she received. And she received many. The community had rallied behind their friend, K. Bringing food to the family, cleaning the house, mowing the lawn. Her Baptist church kicked into high gear, providing the family with neverending support. Even our antiseptic elementary school, so often protected from evil and despair, was rocked into the reality that one of our own was down.

I did my best to do what I could for my friend, K. What I wanted to do was to make all of the cancer go away. But what I could do? I could send her cards or letters at least twice a week. Silly ones. Serious ones. Get well ones. Friendship ones. Anything. I would spend an hour in the card store thinking about how she would feel when she opened each one. Even though we live around the corner from one another, I knew that a card or a letter would be less intrusive than a visit or a phone call. I remembered when my (former or is it 'ex'?) mother-in-law was recovering from colon cancer. Nat and I spent a month in CA helping her. I remembered how one of her favorite things to do was to walk with Nat (at the time, only a year old...) to the mailbox. And then since that walk made her so tired, she would sit on her bed with us and read the mail. She told me that she loved the mail. It made her feel connected to the outside world. So I sent K. cards. Somehow I wanted K. to know that every day I was thinking about her. Every day.

And life moved on.

One cold day in February, a few short weeks after my Zen-Like Heart Break, I sat with K. during one of her chemotherapy treatments. I brought gourmet snacks and lots of water. Another dear friend of hers was there and the three of us ended up talking (laughing and crying) about my heartbreak at 42 years old. Despite being surrounded by cancer patients all getting their regular chemo drips, the three of us were like "ladies of leisure" lunching. At one point our eyes met and K. smiled at me, I held her hand and never loved her more than that moment.

Months passed. We would talk on the phone. I would send cards. Occasionally, I would see her at school, eating lunch with her daughter. She was wearing a sassy wig now and I thought she looked marvelous. She was named Volunteer of the Year at our school. I remember bursting into tears when I saw the marquee in front of the school, with her name on it. Through my tears, I pulled over so I could look at it for a very long time. No one deserved it more. No one. In May I saw her on the Jamestown field trip. But even though she looked tired, she was there. On the 4th grade field trip. Amazing. Everytime I saw K. I felt renewed. Her courage was admirable. She was living her life.

And life moved on.

I never called her when the girls were in Dallas with their father for 44 days. I must have been too busy, cleaning out my house, my heart, my head. I thought about getting together with her, even sent her a card, hoping to get together for lunch. But it never happened.

So when the girls got home this month and all of us finally got together, I was relieved. She forgave me for being a lost friend. And we picked up where we left off. It's easy talking to her. Natural. Honest. We talk about everything. And I think she is glad to talk about other things besides her cancer.

One day she was house and pet sitting for a neighbor who lives right on the water. K. invited me over to enjoy their view. As we walked along the pier, K. walked purposefully; she seemed to appreciate each step. She truly looked at the wooden planks as we walked, and she mentioned things that I would never have even noticed. And then we stood on her friends' pier looking at the Lynnhaven River. The sun was hot, the water was still. And we just stood there in silence. She seemed happy and content. Being with K. that afternoon was easy and peaceful. I never wanted to leave.


Yesterday Natalie, Charlotte, K., KC and I spent the entire day at the water park. It was marvelous. Although in the beginning, it was difficult finding some shade for K., the day was practically perfect. It was wonderful being able to spend some time with K. as we watched the girls frolic in the water, slip down the slides and giggle behind their hands. K. and I ate a million snacks, laughed, people watched and talked...and talked and talked.

And then I asked her if she was scared. I had never asked her before, but at that moment, it seemed like the right time. She looked surprised and said 'Of course.' I told her that she didn't seem scared, she seemed peaceful. She told me that she was terrified, but it was okay. She told me that from now on, she was going to be true to herself. She was going to her beloved Big Sur for a long deserved vacation. She wasn't going to get involved in any pettiness or negativity. She was going to do the things she wanted to do. She was going to appreciate each and every day. She was going to love her daughter and her family. She was going to live. Truly live. At this point in her life? She was going to live. Because life is definitely too short.

As she was talking, I grew thankful for my sunglasses and the din of the park. Because the tears were rolling down my face uncontrollably and I didn't want her to see. I was crying for so many reasons. Sadness, death, love, happiness, acceptance. And I knew as my dear friend, K. sat next to me under a blue umbrella at a noisy water park, she was teaching me about the true meaning of life.

And I know that I am willing to learn.

I love you, K.