There is a recurring turn in my stomach that alarms me that all is not okay right now. The past few weeks have been a wild ride emotionally. School started back up, my best friend’s health dropped back down, and my parents, for the moment, are holding steady. While it is in my best interest to compartmentalize my concerns about the people I love so as not to be consumed to the point of complete distraction each day, it is not always an attainable goal. The trifecta of helping my daughter navigate school anxiety, my best friend accepting that the rest of her time will be spent managing her pain, and my parents aging is no small feat. I have been swinging between my own anxiety and feeling numb.
A week ago, my friend called me, and I said the normal, “Hi, how are you?” To which she said, “I’m okay, how are you?” I rambled for a bit about what was happening before school and how the adjustment to the new year was not smooth sailing. It wasn’t until after my rambling that she told me she was in the hospital. She has pancreatic cancer and has been battling it for over four years. In some ways, she is a walking, breathing, living miracle because no one usually lives this long with pancreatic cancer. In other ways, she is living and reliving a drawn-out nightmare. Tumors are all over her organs, pushing into her spine, and they continue to grow. Chemo was successful at holding the growth at bay for so long, but this type of cancer is sneaky. These cells, over time, seem to know how to grow again after the most powerful poison is thrown at them.
Last year, it seemed she was in the clear for a bit. Her doctor told her to take a break from chemotherapy and live her life. She took three weeks and went with her family to Greece. They had a magical time, and she felt great, but when she returned home to visit the doctor, her tumors were growing again. She started the dreaded chemo and spent every other week sick in bed for the days following her treatment. A few months ago, when it seemed the cancer was growing despite the treatments, she decided she was done — rightfully so. To have to sit for hours being poked and prodded, IV’d and infused, only to feel horribly afterward when it barely shrank the cancer, didn’t make sense.
She was faced with either joining possible medical trials or taking no action and accepting fate. She was chosen for a great trial here in Los Angeles but, sadly, was part of the fifty-percent placebo group. She flew to Utah weekly for a couple of months for another trial, but it made her sicker than the chemo did and thrashed her stomach. So now, here we are: she is in pain but getting palliative plans to keep it at bay with daily doses of strong pain meds. She is tired, groggy, at home, and waiting. We talk every day, and sometimes we laugh, but we also talk about how much this sucks — and then sometimes we cry.
My constant people are my husband and kids, my parents, and her. Here at home, I ache for my girl who is trying to navigate anxiety, college prep stress, feeling overwhelmed, and dealing with disappointment. It is interesting to observe how much pain you can feel when someone you love so much is hurting. The pain elevates even higher when you don’t know how to help them. As a mother, you want to hold your babies close and fix whatever hurts. As my children get older, I have to learn where to help and where to just hold; either choice hurts.
My dad is tired and old but thankfully okay right now. He also has a best friend that he speaks to every day. They are like brothers and have been since they were thirteen. His best friend’s heart has been working at thirty percent for the last year, and he is so frail and so tired. The last few weeks for him have been hard, as they found a tumor in his leg and treated him with radiation. His already weak system has been put to the test. He is not doing well and spends most of the day sleeping. I don’t know how much time he has left, and it will be hard to lose him, but for my dad, it will be devastating.
I called my dad a few days ago, and he asked how I was doing. I told him I was feeling a little down, and he said he was too. It is rare for him to be candid with me emotionally. He shares happiness, laughter, and joy, but if it is fear, sadness, or disappointment, he holds it tighter to his chest. I was grateful that he was able to open up to me, given that if any one person could understand how he was feeling on this particular subject, it was me. We shared the difficulty of watching a friend deal with illness and fatigue. We shared how, despite advanced medicine being capable of so much, it is not a magic cure-all. We shared how it is likely that, sooner than we would like, we will both be saying goodbye to our best friends.
I don’t know what it will feel like, as I have never lost a close friend before, but I do know the loss will be a big one. Like my father and his best friend, my friend and I talk daily. I anticipate that realization, when I go to call her, will be alarming for quite some time. I imagine that when I want to ask her a question that I know only she can answer, I will feel the finality of loss even greater. For my dad, who is already working so hard to find the strength to get up and out for even one outing a day, these blows will likely strike extra hard. His life looks so different from what it did even a few years ago, so his connection to the people he loves is what keeps him going. His calls to his best friend daily are his lifeline.
I don’t know how we will navigate the next few months. I can’t predict just how shocking losing someone is, even if you know it’s coming. No roadmap, practice, or preparation will soften the sting. Accepting loved ones dying is something our culture hasn’t done very well. Years ago, most people passed peacefully at home. Today, over sixty percent of sick people die in hospitals. We do so much to “fight” to keep people alive and so little to educate ourselves on how to let them go. As I try to quell the spinning turns in my stomach, I know this much is true: I will respect whatever my friend wants to do when she decides she is done, and I will soak her up as long as she wants to stay. I hope to be a source of comfort and understanding for my dad. He and I will only be a phone call away from each other, and I am grateful we have each other to talk to. It helps.
