I can’t honestly remember the moment
it happened. And it's not just because that moment happened more than 20 years
ago. Nor because I’m almost 40. I’m unsure of it, because I’m not sure it was a
single moment at all…but a series of moments. But suddenly we were there.
Melody and I were friends.
This is what I do remember… I
was worried about moving from Wyoming after my sophomore year. We were
traveling 1600 miles away from everything I had ever known. As a teenager I was
especially worried about finding the right type of people to hang out with. And
I remember what my dad told me; be the person you want to be and you will
attract people who want to be that way too.
It was what I hoped for. It was
what I prayed for. And it came from the most unexpected source. A Baptist
minister’s daughter. I didn’t really see that one coming at all.
C.S. Lewis once said that friendship
was born when one person said to another “What? You too? I thought I was the
only one!”
That kind of sums our friendship
creating moments up I think. We were peculiar for kids our age. Although our backgrounds
were different, we both came from strict and religious families. We had similar
restrictions, and similar goals. We liked similar things. We were both in
choir, and we both played piano. But our closeness just kind of evolved. And we
did it by building on similarities and agreeing to disagree on the things we
didn’t have in common. And somehow it was always okay. Melody is central to
most of the clearest “brain snapshots” I keep from those last 2 years of high
school… driving in her orange Pinto, too many cups of coffee and Frisbee in the
choir room, pancakes with peanut butter and chocolate syrup and chocolate
chips, Homecoming cookies, Friendly’s after football games. It’s all there in
my brain. And so is she.
After graduation our lives took
divergent paths. Often far away from one another. But somehow, that didn’t
matter. And God somehow saw fit to bring us closer in proximity to one another
when we most needed it.
There have been so many good
things; marriages, babies, educational milestones, and hundreds of tiny celebrations
(“The bathroom is finished!” “I finally figured out how to make that cake.”).
And there have been moments of
sorrow; She was there when I got married the first time. And she was there when
my marriage disintegrated and I was left broken and lost. I cried with her when
she was feeling a little friendless and forgotten in her new surroundings. She
flew me to Chattanooga to see her a few months after my husband died so we
could spend some time together. And there were many things that mattered in the
moment but matter little now; boyfriends, breakups, car accidents and little frustrations
about everything from potty training to stain removal.
We talked once about the benefit
of old friends. You don’t have explain the water under the bridge. Chances are
they were swimming in it with you before it even got to the bridge. And
sometimes when things are hardest, as much as people around you want to help, it’s
nice not to have to explain the water. It’s way less exhausting.
This visit was all about the
bridges. And it was nice to just let the water flow underneath us without a thought.
I had been feeling I needed to plan a trip to Tennessee, but that seemed silly
so I ignored the naggings in my head.
And then there was a call in
February where suddenly that gut feeling made more sense in a new context. My
healthy, wonderful friend had cancer. T-cell lymphoma to be exact. Now as far
as anyone understands, it’s completely controllable. But there have been less
than 40 cases ever treated in our age group. Most of the people who get this
are old men. So some of it is unknown. There is so little to know, except for
what is real and possible right now. At first I offered to come and be there to
help with her family, before we knew what the treatment options were or how
that was going to really look. The good news was that ultimately the treatment
came in the form of a chemo-based gel. It wasn’t really going to be
debilitating like radiation might be. But we decided I should come anyway.
“I don’t think I’ll need you
physically by then, but I think we might need each other mentally.”
When we met at the baggage claim
in Atlanta, we threw our arms around each other and tears filled our eyes. She
was right. It was the right kind of medicine.
The next few days passed both
slowly and quickly. We didn’t do much outside of the house… a few fun and wonderful
and memorable field trips were planned and carried out. But the treatment makes
her tired. Her body and mind are fighting this terrible battle, and sometimes
Melody is the loser no matter which side is winning. And I know she was sad.
She wasn’t herself. She wanted to be doing more. But I hope, I truly hope that
she knows, that I wasn’t there to do. I was there to simply be. And because of
that, every moment…even (and perhaps most especially) the moments when we were
sitting in our PJ’s on the couch watching some sappy chick flick, mattered
immensely.
But the days did pass. And the
moment for me to go back to my family arrived. We stood on the curb for a
moment as we said goodbye. We hugged, tears on our cheeks. “I love you my
friend,” She whispered. “I love you too” was my quiet reply.
Life happens. Pain is real. We
both knew that. We had both seen it. In our own lives and in each other’s
lives.
But that moment of love was just
as real as the pain. And far more powerful.
“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”
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