Good To Go

Last year I was at a birthday party for a friend of my son's. He was turning twelve, and I was talking to another parent whose daughter was a guest. Both of our youngest were still attending birthday parties for friends, where we parents were still dropping them off. She and I both had daughters the same age in high school as well. I asked her how she was managing her junior year, since for my daughter, it was extremely challenging. She was under so much academic pressure and took a full year of challenging classes because of how much junior year is looked at for college. This friend said that it had been challenging for her daughter, too, but nothing like the stress that comes with senior year. She had an older son in his first year of college and explained to me the intensity that comes with having a high school senior. We did, in fact, survive junior year, but it was no small feat. Test-taking anxiety reared its head for the first time, and despite all the prep work done for AP classes, she got so sick with nerves that she threw up outside school while in line to take an exam with all the other kids. She ended up scoring fours on everything but felt that she could have done better if she wasn’t so nervous. She felt the pressure to make sure she had all her extracurriculars lined up before summer. She planned on getting a head start with her college application essays, and she applied for a grant to do a project 

Senior year began, and the course load was in fact a bit lighter; she had completed all her math and language requirements, so she had an elective period and even a free last period. She explained that the extra time would come in handy for all of the essays and applications she had to do. Everything was due between November and the first week of January. She had a list of seventeen schools she wanted to apply to, some of which she had no plans to attend, but just in case she didn’t get into her top choices. She has always been a driven, self-motivated kid, but the hours she put into working on her applications were impressive. Her commitment and focus caused me to examine my work ethic and how much I get done in an average day. If I put in a quarter of the time she did, I imagine I would have another whole book written by now. 

All applications were done in every waking hour she had. Thanksgiving and winter break, she worked diligently in a room wherever we were with family. She only came out for meals, desserts, and presents, of course. As soon as everything was in, there was a short break before rehearsals for the school play began. I missed her and took this new limited visitation schedule as preparation for what was to come when she goes off to college next year. The rehearsals went on until March when the play opened, and she had two weekends of shows. The timing was helpful since college news was slowly coming in, but her top choices wouldn’t be out until the end of March, while she was on break. The waiting, the stress, the late nights, and long rehearsals all caught up with her. She was able to open the play but then woke up the next morning with the flu. Other cast mates had it as well, and a few of them had to miss the first weekend of shows. Thankfully, she was better in time for the final weekend.

When school let out for spring break, we all welcomed having nothing on the schedule, but that lasted only about a day. It felt like college news was scattered all throughout the break. UC schools came out one at a time. There were only four that she applied to, and the first she got waitlisted for. The second one was UCLA, and that was her first rejection. She was disappointed but not a lot since it wasn’t one of her top choices. I was proud of her for how she was handling it and that she had a positive attitude about it, but when she went out to a party with friends that night, her mood changed. Everyone was talking about college news. A bunch of them were devastated because they got waitlisted, one or two got in, but some of the waitlisted kids were too upset to even talk to the admitted kids. My daughter went out that night for a distraction from college news, but instead, everyone there couldn't stop talking about how hard it was to get waitlisted. 

I knew that finding out about schools was going to be a roller coaster ride filled with the excitement of good news and the sadness that came with rejection. What I didn’t plan on was the phone tree that went out between friends to see who else got in or didn’t, or that the pain caused by their own peers could be worse than not getting into a school. I wished they could have kept their news to themselves for a bit, but that isn’t how it goes. This is what that mother at that birthday party had warned me about. The application process was challenging; the supplemental writing, or specific projects that each school sent its own prompts for, made for a lot of work. Submitting every part of the applications on time was stressful, and the waiting once everything was in was grueling. All this on top of the regular high school workload and any other after-school activities taking place. It was a lot, and the pressure on these kids is intense. What I didn’t think about, though, was how once the college news started coming in, all of them would let each other know. The news spread fast, and if a kid was already disappointed about their news, they felt worse when they heard about a friend who was celebrating. Then you add in phones and videos, which many kids use to record and share their acceptances. It strikes a nerve just thinking about it, and I already went to college. 

The upside of friends sharing this experience together is that on the two days that my daughter was expected to hear about her top three choices, she and her two close friends, who were also waiting on news, decided to plan two full days of activities to distract themselves from the news. They planned for fun outings all day before and after the news came in. They wanted to have things to look forward to and be together, no matter what news they got. My daughter did come home to open her emails on her own for her top two choices, but knew no matter what, she would go out with them afterwards and have more fun. Her second choice came in, and she was waitlisted, and then an hour and a half later, she opened the email from her first choice, and she got in. There were tears of joy, excitement, and relief. She worked so hard for this, and it paid off.

The next day, she was with her friends again, waiting on one last school that they all applied for. They were at the beach and got the emails at the same time. They decided to open them all together. Two of them got in, and one didn’t. It wasn’t a school on the top of his list, so he wasn’t devastated, but they all three supported each other. It is remarkable how random some of this process is. All three of these kids have great grades, similar activities and accomplishments, so it didn’t make sense that one of them didn’t get in. It made me think of that mom once again and how she had warned me how hard senior year would be. She was not wrong. These kids' fates are decided by what they submitted to someone who never even met them. I wish every single rejection letter that came in came with a gift card and a thank you for all you put into trying. I’m glad we survived this process, and I’m sure saying goodbye to her at college will be its own challenge.

 

Letting Go

 When I hug my kids, I tell them they are going to have to let go first, because I will hold on as long as they want me to. “I won’t let go first,” I say. Yesterday, I said it to my best friend. For four years she has bravely endured pancreatic cancer. So many people say she is lucky because pancreatic cancer usually takes people so quickly. Selfishly, I can say I am lucky to have had her for four years, but looking at what she has had to deal with doesn’t make me think of the word “lucky.” She is now truly at the end, and it is so hard to say goodbye.

No matter how weak or tired she is, when I lie next to her in her bed she reaches out her hand for me to hold. She has moments of talking, opening her eyes, laughing, crying, listening, nodding, but she is fading. Her hand stays in mine. She lives on the other side of town from me, and for years when we have visited each other, we are careful to leave before traffic. Yesterday I went to say goodbye, but I couldn’t let go first. I told her I wasn’t going to and she had to, but she squeezed my hand tighter. I told myself I could wait another few minutes. I kissed her on her forehead and told her I should really go, and that I would be back tomorrow. She didn’t squeeze my hand, but she didn’t exactly let go either. She just opened her hand with my hand resting on top, as if to say, “I’m not going to let go first either, but if you have to go, you can slide your hand away.” I paused and told her she was tricky. She looked up with whatever brightness is left in her blue eyes and smiled at me.

Two weeks ago, I had to go and say goodbye to her two days before Christmas. I was heading to New York to see family for the holiday, and it looked doubtful that she would still be alive when I came back. I witnessed her saying goodbye to other friends and family in the days before me, and somehow didn’t think I would have to be in that position—until I did. It didn’t feel right, like saying goodbye to a boyfriend when we were still in love, but broke up because of a geography issue. Walking away from someone whom you still want to be with hurts, and that feeling was painful and familiar. Walking away from someone you might never see again was worse.

Witnessing my close friend deteriorate has been uncharted territory that I didn’t expect to venture into. I have learned lessons I didn’t want to have to learn. I have cried more tears than I thought my body was capable of crying. I have navigated personalities that I would have otherwise avoided, but patiently tolerated because I love my friend. I spoke with doctors, called in hospice, sent her children to camp for kids touched by cancer, met with a death doula, read books about dying, and learned to give her advice only when she asks for it.

When I went home to New York, I didn’t realize how much of my life was consumed with her dying. It had such a huge hold on me that I didn’t notice the pain in my gut until it went away for a few days. When I flew back here to LA, I exhaled in relief because she was still here. I had hoped for two things while I was gone: that she wait until I came back or that she pass peacefully in her sleep.

On my first visit to see her once I was home, it was clear that even in the week I had been gone, she had gotten weaker. She has lost so much weight that you can see her bones even under a baggy sweater. She goes between opening and closing her eyes. She has windows of time when she is alert and can engage in conversation. In those windows we somehow manage to laugh about old memories, stupid jokes, or reminisce about the good and bad advice we gave each other over the years. We have had a long, wonderful, close friendship for over twenty-six years, and I am so grateful. I just thought there would be more.

She has always been a good friend, the kind I didn’t know I needed until I met her. We went on adventures. We became adults together. We met our spouses. She made my wedding cake. I threw her a shower. She had her hand on my belly when I was pregnant the first time and felt crazy kicks when we listened to live music. I listened when she needed me. She was the only person I let watch my baby when I was a new mom. I was there when she gave birth for the first time. She was there when I struggled with anxiety. I was there when she got down.

She had lost her very attentive, loving mother when she was young. My mother was alive, but I wished she could have been the attentive, motherly type. She was many other things, but not that. My friend’s mom lived on in her. She was nurturing, so generous with her heart, and loved me unconditionally—an acceptance I hadn’t felt before becoming her friend.

When she was diagnosed, her prognosis was promising. The doctors had caught it early and opted to do the Whipple procedure, a surgery to remove a part of the pancreas, a part of the small intestine, the gallbladder, and the bile duct. It is a difficult surgery, but often saves lives. She tolerated the surgery well, and her scans showed it prevented the spread of cancer. Unfortunately, her cancer came back. She did chemotherapy, and that worked for a while, even though in the days following the treatments she was miserable. When chemo results started slowing down, she signed up for drug trials. She tried three different trials, and either they made her sick or they didn’t work. The cancer grew and started to take over. She got sick, she couldn’t eat, she lost weight, she was frail. It hasn’t been easy to witness and must be so much harder for her to manage day after day.

Every visit, I sit beside her and she reaches her hand out to hold mine. We do a lot of crying together, but thankfully we still do a lot of laughing together. I tell her I am proud of her and that she has been so very brave. We talk about dying, and she says she is ready to be done. I tell her we will take care of her babies. She smiles and squeezes my hand. I stroke my thumb over her fingers. She tells me she loves me, and I tell her I love her right back. We stay hand in hand, and for as long as I can, I will hold her hand. I tell her it is okay to let go whenever she is ready. I just won’t do it first.