I want to tell you about a friend of mine.
She is a tough lady. One of those gracefully tough ladies that manages to be made of bedrock and still keep her mascara straight. She works full time, helps tend to her paraplegic son, volunteers for just about anything that needs to be done. She's a woman of faith. She teaches children's Bible classes, she brings food and comfort to people who are sick or just need it. She's the one who will send that card, make that phone call, give that hug. She owns a cabin in the foothills of the Cascades, and that's where you'll find her every weekend. In the summer she goes hiking, white water rafting. She invites great hordes of people out to share her little piece of paradise with her. In the winter you'll find her splitting wood, still hiking, and puttering along the river that runs through her cabin's back yard. She's the one with a smile and a kind word. She can find a true compliment to give anyone, not just an "aren't you sweet" but something real, something specific, something that means something to the recipient. She's got the biggest laugh. Some of her biggest laughs come at her own expense. She's just one of those people that you are both proud to know and want to be.
Did I mention that she's 71? She's more active at nearly twice my age than I am, and it shames me. She would be the last person to shame me for it, though. She would be one of the first to praise my efforts and cheer me on.
This past week, she walked into the doctor's office with troublesome indigestion and walked out with pancreatic cancer. I feel like I'm the one who has been hit in the guts. It is the beginning of the end for her.
I gave her a hug today and cried. I told her how sorry I was, that if there was anything I could do to please let me know. These are not adequate words for someone who means so much to me. These are not adequate words and only the paces we go through, the things we repeat when something so large, so painful, so menacing eats the vocabulary we use with each other. So I say them and hate myself for using the same words that everyone else does. For using words that don't cover half the distance of my grief.
But she's a gracious woman. She returned my hug and shared my tears, and then she gave me these words:
"I don't want you to cry over me. I'm scared, but I am at peace. I've spent this week looking over my life and I can honestly say that I don't have any regrets. There are a couple of things that I ask myself: Could I have done more? Probably. But I did the best I could at the time and I'm all right with that. I don't know what's going to happen to my body or when, but I feel good now. I'm alive now. I will be alive until I'm not, and that's OK. I'm so blessed to have had a chance to get to know you and your family. Don't cry, honey. I really feel at peace. We'll just see what happens next."
I don't have the words. I can't paint the swelling lump of cold that rises in me. I can't describe the way she melted that lump and it has leaked out my eyes. I don't have sufficient words. But I do have this friend. This strong and graceful friend. This friend who has shown me in so many ways how to live, and now she's going to show me how to die.
She is a tough lady. One of those gracefully tough ladies that manages to be made of bedrock and still keep her mascara straight. She works full time, helps tend to her paraplegic son, volunteers for just about anything that needs to be done. She's a woman of faith. She teaches children's Bible classes, she brings food and comfort to people who are sick or just need it. She's the one who will send that card, make that phone call, give that hug. She owns a cabin in the foothills of the Cascades, and that's where you'll find her every weekend. In the summer she goes hiking, white water rafting. She invites great hordes of people out to share her little piece of paradise with her. In the winter you'll find her splitting wood, still hiking, and puttering along the river that runs through her cabin's back yard. She's the one with a smile and a kind word. She can find a true compliment to give anyone, not just an "aren't you sweet" but something real, something specific, something that means something to the recipient. She's got the biggest laugh. Some of her biggest laughs come at her own expense. She's just one of those people that you are both proud to know and want to be.
Did I mention that she's 71? She's more active at nearly twice my age than I am, and it shames me. She would be the last person to shame me for it, though. She would be one of the first to praise my efforts and cheer me on.
This past week, she walked into the doctor's office with troublesome indigestion and walked out with pancreatic cancer. I feel like I'm the one who has been hit in the guts. It is the beginning of the end for her.
I gave her a hug today and cried. I told her how sorry I was, that if there was anything I could do to please let me know. These are not adequate words for someone who means so much to me. These are not adequate words and only the paces we go through, the things we repeat when something so large, so painful, so menacing eats the vocabulary we use with each other. So I say them and hate myself for using the same words that everyone else does. For using words that don't cover half the distance of my grief.
But she's a gracious woman. She returned my hug and shared my tears, and then she gave me these words:
"I don't want you to cry over me. I'm scared, but I am at peace. I've spent this week looking over my life and I can honestly say that I don't have any regrets. There are a couple of things that I ask myself: Could I have done more? Probably. But I did the best I could at the time and I'm all right with that. I don't know what's going to happen to my body or when, but I feel good now. I'm alive now. I will be alive until I'm not, and that's OK. I'm so blessed to have had a chance to get to know you and your family. Don't cry, honey. I really feel at peace. We'll just see what happens next."
I don't have the words. I can't paint the swelling lump of cold that rises in me. I can't describe the way she melted that lump and it has leaked out my eyes. I don't have sufficient words. But I do have this friend. This strong and graceful friend. This friend who has shown me in so many ways how to live, and now she's going to show me how to die.
