This has never happened to me before.
I just sat down to write what I know will be the last letter to a fabulous woman who has entered the last few weeks (days?) of her life. Her breast cancer recently returned with a vengenace in her lungs, her liver. In no short order it was apparent that treatment was not helping, and now she sleeps, I'm told, more than 98% of the time. She rests without pain. She is without anxiety. She is my age, 57.
This is not about fight, or attitude, or last chances, or resilience. It is about acceptance.
I stare at the blank sheet of paper. There's the moment of crossing a river, into the unfamiliar before the first words begin.
Start with the obvious.
My dearest friend,
This morning ____ told us the news about your illness and that you made the wise, and merciful, decision to stop treatment. He tells us that you are resting without pain, and without anxiety. This is as it should be, dear lady.
The cursor continues to prompt me, egging me on, and it has no understanding that my mind has come to a complete standstill. Tears have given way to shock. Ink dries on the nib of my fountain pen. I remember reading letters like this that arrived for my father during the short three-weeks he lived after his diagnosis and before his death from lung cancer in l978. Some were typed. Some were scribbled on notebook paper or cards. We loved them. We -- my brothers, sister, mother and I - passed them around and read them; folded them up and read them again. So in remembering, I'm reminded that I'm not just speaking to my friend but to those who are there with her now.
Continue to talk about your day as it happened. Think. Think. Think.
So I took thoughts of you with me while Katie and I went for our morning walk. It's one of those stellar days when a hint of smoke in the air brings in happy memories of fall. The dog sensed it, and ran off like a bat from hell. You would laugh yourself silly -- like we do - just watching her. Her nickname? Hot Rod. She's another chapter in our mutual story of "dogs we've loved."
Just trust and still your mind. Trust that the words will lead the way.
I can't presume to know what you've been through and the byways you've had to navigate these past few months. I am sure you've done this with your usual grace and honesty. What I know with certainty is that the love you've brought to everyone you've touched lasts forever. I know it will for me.
Stay on course. Return everything she so generously gave without thought, as easily as breathing.
It stunned me to realize that we were only together twice, yet, like all who have met you, I can feel the light you radiate to this day. Mutual friends have said the same. I still laugh out loud when I remember walking through an Army Surplus store with you, and the stunned look on your face as you tried to imagine winters where you'd actually need eight layers of long underwear? And hip-length boots? What? Who knew! At the time you didn't - though you'd come to encounter them-- but on that afternoon it was all just another great adventure. Another great adventure. You brought equal amounts of love and adventure to every moment. Later that day you laughed and waved a powder blue bra in the air, amazed that you'd finally become an adult with bras and underpants that MATCHED. It was all WOW for you. That's because you are the wow.
You brought everything into every moment, an abundance of love, of light, of adventure. You showed me that is impossible to live well without all of them.
You need to go, now. And release her.
You are surrounded by love, you are returning to the light. It dawns on me you've known this your entire life. You knew so in a natural way. You showed us by the way you lived. I am forever grateful for all that you are and the love you brought to all of us.
Love never fails.
I Corinthians 13:8
Yours. Always.
I just sat down to write what I know will be the last letter to a fabulous woman who has entered the last few weeks (days?) of her life. Her breast cancer recently returned with a vengenace in her lungs, her liver. In no short order it was apparent that treatment was not helping, and now she sleeps, I'm told, more than 98% of the time. She rests without pain. She is without anxiety. She is my age, 57.
This is not about fight, or attitude, or last chances, or resilience. It is about acceptance.
I stare at the blank sheet of paper. There's the moment of crossing a river, into the unfamiliar before the first words begin.
Start with the obvious.
My dearest friend,
The cursor continues to prompt me, egging me on, and it has no understanding that my mind has come to a complete standstill. Tears have given way to shock. Ink dries on the nib of my fountain pen. I remember reading letters like this that arrived for my father during the short three-weeks he lived after his diagnosis and before his death from lung cancer in l978. Some were typed. Some were scribbled on notebook paper or cards. We loved them. We -- my brothers, sister, mother and I - passed them around and read them; folded them up and read them again. So in remembering, I'm reminded that I'm not just speaking to my friend but to those who are there with her now.
Continue to talk about your day as it happened. Think. Think. Think.
So I took thoughts of you with me while Katie and I went for our morning walk. It's one of those stellar days when a hint of smoke in the air brings in happy memories of fall. The dog sensed it, and ran off like a bat from hell. You would laugh yourself silly -- like we do - just watching her. Her nickname? Hot Rod. She's another chapter in our mutual story of "dogs we've loved."
Just trust and still your mind. Trust that the words will lead the way.
I can't presume to know what you've been through and the byways you've had to navigate these past few months. I am sure you've done this with your usual grace and honesty. What I know with certainty is that the love you've brought to everyone you've touched lasts forever. I know it will for me.
Stay on course. Return everything she so generously gave without thought, as easily as breathing.
It stunned me to realize that we were only together twice, yet, like all who have met you, I can feel the light you radiate to this day. Mutual friends have said the same. I still laugh out loud when I remember walking through an Army Surplus store with you, and the stunned look on your face as you tried to imagine winters where you'd actually need eight layers of long underwear? And hip-length boots? What? Who knew! At the time you didn't - though you'd come to encounter them-- but on that afternoon it was all just another great adventure. Another great adventure. You brought equal amounts of love and adventure to every moment. Later that day you laughed and waved a powder blue bra in the air, amazed that you'd finally become an adult with bras and underpants that MATCHED. It was all WOW for you. That's because you are the wow.
You brought everything into every moment, an abundance of love, of light, of adventure. You showed me that is impossible to live well without all of them.
You need to go, now. And release her.
You are surrounded by love, you are returning to the light. It dawns on me you've known this your entire life. You knew so in a natural way. You showed us by the way you lived. I am forever grateful for all that you are and the love you brought to all of us.
Love never fails.
I Corinthians 13:8
Yours. Always.
* * *
In honor of EM, and the 150,000 plus women with metastatic breast cancer, I will host a blog "rounds" on metastatic breast cancer in October and weekly discussions on "pink" during breast cancer awareness month on #BCSM. More details to come. I thank Katherine O'Brian (@ihatebreastcancer) for suggesting this, and Gayle Sulik (@pinkribbonblues), Rachel Cheetam (@ccchronicles), Dr. Susan Niebur (@whymommy), and Debbie Thomas, (@debmthomas) who are scheduled guests for some of October's chats.
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