This Christmas, I was reminded of one autumn season several years ago. My friend Kathy had tried to contact me via email. By accident — or perhaps, fate — I discovered her month-old note as I was cleaning out an old account and realized I’d failed to send her my new email address. Had I not found Kathy’s note, I would have missed the opportunity to be part of her story.
It had been more than a year since we’d spoken. In fact, I hadn’t seen Kathy since she’d talked me into ballroom dance classes. I still laugh about that experience. As I read her note, my heart sank. I read it again. Kathy was announcing to her friends, all and any she could connect with, that she was most probably dying. She was saying her last goodbyes.
I immediately called her and fumbled through an entirely inadequate apology for not being there for her. But it didn’t matter. Kathy was just as bubbly as ever … simply happy to hear my voice and reconnect with an old pal she thought she’d never see again. She shared the hell of the past year after being diagnosed with rectal cancer. After all she’d been through, I was relieved to learn she had built an extensive support network through an amazing website called www.lotsahelpinghands.com. Through this wonderful organization, Kathy was able to schedule volunteers to help with rides to and from treatments, grocery shopping, housework, and any other needs that came up.
Time can be an ugly beast. A year doesn’t seem so long, until it’s all you have. For Kathy, it was her lifetime.
it’s all about perspective
This lovely spirit who never failed to make me smile and appreciate the beauty in life virtually had no family. Her father had died many years before and her mother lived in a nursing home in Connecticut, a prisoner of advanced multiple sclerosis. She had a brother, but it was a distant and broken relationship, at best. Kathy had never married, so no husband or children to rely upon. She couldn’t work and, therefore, had no income or health insurance. I wasn’t sure how she paid rent or for basic living expenses.
From my perspective, she had nothing and no one. But I was wrong.
no safety in numbers
I offered to pick Kathy up after a chemo session and drive her home. As I approached the entrance to the Sarah Cannon Cancer Center, I saw all the other victims who’d been robbed by the same heartless, evil bandit as I waited in line to valet park. At the cancer center. Did you get that? Business is so good that they offer free valet parking, and even advise you ahead of time that tips will not be accepted, and they mean it. As tears floated to the surface, I realized I was angry that so many were fighting this battle, not to mention those who’d already lost their fight, including my father. Wheelchairs were lined up along the drive as patients waited for their rides, most of them obviously gravely ill, some still managing to smile. I wondered how many were being picked up by family members or loved ones, and how many were like Kathy, relying on the kindness of others.
It was just so wrong, and I wondered, are we eating it, breathing it, touching it? Had it been passed down through the generations from an ancestor we never knew existed? Or were some unfortunate souls simply dealt a bad card in the hand of life? The sad truth is that, most likely, all of the above are true. Which means no one is safe.
a smile is worth a million words
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I entered the facility and was surprised to learn I could sit with Kathy while she received her treatment. I entered the small but cozy room that was just big enough to allow a recliner for her, a sink, an extra chair for a guest, and the intrusive IV pole that held her healing medicine. It’s a good thing I knew her room number, because I wouldn’t have recognized her in a room with other patients. Her long dark beautiful curly hair was gone, leaving a perfectly formed shiny, bald head; her face swollen from all the treatments and jumble of meds that had invaded her body to scare out the cancer. But her smile was there. And it was just as sweet as ever.
Kathy giggled when she saw me, like nothing at all was wrong. I leaned over to hug her and she squeezed me hard and said, “I’m so glad you’re here.” I felt my bottom lip begin to quiver. I bit it hard to stifle my tears. We chatted and shared photos of our puppies and kitties, and I showed her the latest pictures of my sons. She was the first to crack a joke about her illness and we laughed about how cancer was a real pain in the ass … quite literally for her. She had to laugh, she said. Some days it was all she had to remind her she was still alive.
a few more than 10 can feel like 100
When her treatment was over that day, we stopped by the grocery store on the way home. She wanted to keep doing as many normal things as possible, she explained. She wouldn’t give in. As we entered the market, she made no attempt to cover her head or hide the fact she’d just come from chemo, her port for meds visible through the top of her blouse. She simply didn’t have the energy to care what others thought. She was saving it to make a new recipe for homemade guacamole and focused her strength on making sure she had everything she needed, even though most likely she would be too sick to eat it. As we squeezed and prodded our way through the avocados and tomatoes, Kathy checked off the last item on her grocery list, and we headed for the 10-items-or-less fast lane to check out.
I wondered why the woman in front of us was apologizing and babbling something about “too many items to qualify for the quick check out,” until I realized she was feeling guilty for having made my bald, sick and frail friend wait. I was instantly protective and bit my tongue to keep from giving her an earful. Kathy just smiled as we waited for the woman to unload her mound of 10-plus groceries onto the counter. When it was our turn, the clerk quickly scanned the few items and smiled at Kathy. I offered to pay for her groceries, but she refused, and proudly paid with food stamps. A young bagger with kind eyes looked at me and lingered for a moment as he handed me the bags. As we left the grocery store, I could tell Kathy’s energy was just about gone. Damn that woman and what-seemed-like 100 junk food items, I scowled as we walked outside into the softening sunlight.
when hope is your only anchor
On the drive to her apartment, Kathy talked about how she wanted to see one more Christmas … with snow. Nashville hadn’t had a white Christmas in a very long time, so I was doubtful, but said nothing. I just prayed this year would be different. For my friend.
Earlier that day, Kathy shared that her most recent CT scan indicated her tumor was almost gone. She was shocked, but relieved, and clung to the hope that rested in that miraculous image. Her doctors were amazed, too. Surely, she had more time than “one more Christmas,” I thought. She would beat this. I was sure of it.
I dropped her off at her apartment, staying long enough to unload her groceries, help with a few minor household chores, and meet her three kitties … her angels with fur, as she called them. She was so worried about her babies and worked diligently to find each of them a loving home, just in case. Even though she was a fighter and wouldn’t give in to her disease, I realized Kathy knew. We squeezed each other tight as we hugged goodbye and exchanged I love you’s. I told her I would see her soon.
I did. Much sooner than expected.
the year it snowed on Christmas day
For a brief time, Kathy moved into an exclusive neighborhood in the universe of cancer … for survivors only. I was so excited for her and hoped that many more would join her. She had so much to give and so much more she wanted to do.
But, on a dreary day in December I received a call from one of Kathy’s closest friends, a former employer who had found homes for every one of Kathy’s babies and had cared for her as the cancer progressed. She told me that Kathy had been moved to hospice care and didn’t have long. My heart broke. Regretfully, I hadn’t spent any more time with Kathy since our last visit.
I was blessed to hold my father’s hand in his last moments of life, so I was familiar with — and grateful for — the solemnity of hospice care. I quietly made my way to Kathy’s room at Alive Hospice, the lights dim, soft music playing, and sat by her bedside. She had already fallen into the deep slumber that often comes just before the last breath. I held her hand, read to her, and talked about the forecast. Snow was coming, I told her. I kissed her goodbye, wished her a peaceful rest and thanked her for letting me be part of her story.
That year, Nashville had its first white Christmas in years.
On December 28, 2010, Kathy quietly slipped away. Outside, the snow softly fell to welcome her.
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