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.