My Friend

The sun shone and the wind was pleasant for the better part of the day yesterday. I ventured out in the yard to hang my laundry and gather kindling before the forecasted rains.  The striking contrast to our winter weather was so invigorating that my entire being swelled with the tease of spring.  The garden came to mind with my first slow gulp of warm air.  Ordinarily, I'd be leaving a layer of outer wear in the house and rolling up my sleeves to get into the dirt on a day like that.  But I was distracted...troubled even.  As I populated the line with clothespins I thought about people, community, and friendship. Two years ago Weldon introduced me to the mother of two of his high school friends.  She lived alone not far from us on a beautiful secluded farm and kept herself busy with livestock and gardening.  She heard Weldon had taken the plunge into alternative agriculture and looked him up in search of a few resources.  The three of us met at her home for homemade pizza and talked until late in the evening about all things homesteading and farming.  We all could tell there was an enjoyable acquaintanceship brewing.  A few short months later she called and preemptively asked for some assistance in the coming months -- she had just been diagnosed with late stage cancer.  There are many reasons why I've chosen not to clock-in at a conventional career or to structure my life in a "normal" fashion.  I just never realized that something like this would be one of them.


My friend is a quirky lady -- opinionated, a bit jaded, worldly wise, idealistic and somewhat of a loner.  From the beginning, our conversations were lively and usually danced between homesteading how-to and philosophical motivation.  I'm still not sure how it all came to be so, but I was her companion at the subsequent doctor's appointment when her diagnosis was confirmed.  The doctor stepped out for several minutes.  The two of us sat alone in that tiny sterile room.  I could only assume an ocean of sentiments were welling behind her stalwart composure.  I stayed silent, jotted notes of what the doctor had said (at her request), and tried desperately to read what this woman I barely knew really needed in this petrifying moment.  A friend.  That's all I could come up with.

For over a year we called each other nearly every week for an "update". How about a potato quiche this week?  One would think that it would be difficult for a meat-eating foodie to cook for a picky vegetarian.  It is.  But that withered in pertinence because what transferred between my kitchen and hers was some of what helped her keep up her weight through chemo when only a handful of foods were remotely palatable.  How about super particular groceries from the health food store?  Mildly nerve-wracking at times, but I really didn't mind...I knew the store like the back of my hand and would be there twice a month anyhow.  A stop off at her place to unload groceries (and occasionally put them away) wouldn't be any big deal.  Could you spare some time to clean out the herb garden, vacuum before my out-of-town guests arrive, or help me can applesauce while my taste for apples remains?  It is my sincere hope that the accomplished tasks were as beneficial as the company.  We never struggled for a topic of discussion while I did whatever it was she needed help with on that particular occasion.  Just for fun, we often returned to our shared passion for New York-style pizza (and the lack of it in rural Kentucky).  She even joined my family for Thanksgiving a year ago because her kin are sprinkled around the country at difficult distances for holiday travel.  She made a mean cranberry sauce and looked great in a bright-colored headkerchief!  One week during our first summer together she requested one of my carrot cakes.  I thought she simply liked the taste of the homegrown ingredients in the recipe, but later learned that she'd slyly celebrated her birthday, one solitary piece at a time. This year I knew better and made her a cake in July without waiting for a request.  Though she wouldn't hear of it from me, I hope she celebrated with someone this time...whether she shared her cake or not.    

There were stretches of time when she felt rather well, despite her reports. The time between our calls would slip farther apart. We'd both get busy with other things, restocking with news to share.  Undoubtedly one of us would call as the other had begun to dial the opposite direction. We'd wag our heads at the uncanny timing.

Interestingly, we rarely talked about the details of her progress.  I'd ask in earnest about how things were, but she'd give a ten-cent account of her health, tire of the repetitive train of thought, and move on to something more interesting.  I was never certain if she thought it too much of a burden for me, none of my business, or simply preferred for me to remain a companion with whom she could talk about the vastness of life outside of her illness.  On Black Friday this year, she made a date for Weldon and I to visit at her house.  As usual, the dialogue kept a bounding pace, but her physical capabilities and even the sound of her voice were noticeably diminished. It was then that she asked if I could once again be a bit more "on call".  After Christmas she would begin navigating her way through a clinical trial.  With my full-time tutoring behind me, I volunteered to be as flexible as I could.

Three weeks ago I went with her for the day to a treatment in Nashville.  She remained in good spirits, but she was in a state of constant pain.  I followed her buzzing shopping cart around the health food store while we tandem shopped for items she could bestow on her daughter, son-in-law, and toddling granddaughter when they came to visit in a few days.  We had our usual good talk on the drive (between the spontaneous naps that her pain medication induced).  She spoke candidly about some of her uncertainties and I listened, unable to respond in any other way to the breadth and depth of her situation.

The three weeks since have passed in a blur.  I spoke with her only once to confirm that she had had a splendid family visit, her rides were covered for the coming week, and that she would talk to me after my wisdom teeth surgery next week.  But two nights ago an email came from a mutual friend that reported she had taken a turn for the worse late this week.  Hospice was now with her at home.  Her two grown children would be making their way thousands of miles to her bedside.  I was once again left desperately trying to read what this woman (that I still felt I'd barely begun to know) really needed in yet another petrifying moment.  A Friend.  Is still all I could come up with.

Though I am only one of a motley crew of friends and neighbors that have been on her "list" (as she liked to call it) for the past many months, I feel a deep kinship for the experiences she allowed me to have alongside her.  Looking back, they were far more intimate than I ever took stock of.  She may not need a potato quiche or her dogs fed this time, but she and her family deserve every support and affection that I can reasonably offer.  That may translate as a hug or smile, a meatloaf for her caretakers, or the grace to step aside and allow those nearest her to walk the heavy steps ahead of them.

While I squinted my eyes in the sunshine yesterday and dodged each towel as it whipped in the wind, I thought of my friend.  She would often say to me, "Enjoy the sunshine."  So I did.  For the both of us.  Before light this morning I received a teary phone call from her son...the rain had come.