A single drop. One single drop at a time, over the course of
three hours. Treatment number two; only six more to go. I watched the poison – the “draino” as we
called it – drip into the arm of my Big Susan, Neiman. You see, Neiman has
breast cancer.
Just writing that makes me catch my breath and causes a deep
pain in my chest. This year was supposed
to be different. The psychic said
so. The new people this year brought to
her life weren’t supposed to be oncologists, pathologists and care
coordinators. This year is our 20 year
friend-a-versary and we wanted to take a trip to celebrate our two decades of
putting up with each with nary a cross word.
A trip to the hospital is not what we had in mind. Unfortunately, being a part of this is sadly
familiar to me. The thought of losing a
friend – of losing Neiman – makes me lose my breath and I am scared. But, I don’t tell her that.
I know I must see her, be with her and help in any way that
I can. The helping is secondary to just seeing her and being in her world. I took treatment number two. Why? Because, week two, after 14 days of the
poison coursing through her veins and likely around the time of the second
treatment, Neiman would lose her hair.
She may be western born and bred but four years of college in Texas gave
her not only a degree but a whole different kind of seriousness about hair – or
the lack thereof.
I arrived Wednesday night.
We were so happy to see each other; sick about the reason. The
conversation is familiar and safe and then moves to the 800-lb cancer gorilla
in the room. How she feels, how her boob
has healed (happily displaying said boob
as she says, “My boob is now like my hand, anyone can see it.”) She showed
me her regimen of pills and supplements.
I met the new dog. I saw her
thinning hair and the new wigs in between our regular catch up routine of
surveying what is new in one another’s houses and closets.
 |
| It's a chemo cocktail |
Chemo day is easy, relatively speaking. Relaxing morning and
lunch with an old friend. Would have
been like any other visit – except for that whole cancer thing. Instead of
looking at magazines, I reviewed her cancer notebook – full of surgical plans,
pathology reports, treatment options and notes, taken by assorted friends who
accompanied her on assorted medical appointments. The chemo lounge is bright, warm with camaraderie
and positive energy – everything orchestrated by the nurses who have warmth and
humor that is astonishing. I’m taken
aback by the smiles – the laughter. Hugs
with people she’s met only once but who now figure prominently in her
life. I am grateful for them. Chemo takes a while; most of the fluid is
clear – very innocuous looking. Except for the kool-aid – that last bit that is
red in color and so toxic that they don’t administer it through a drip but
directly into her port.
The day after will be a tough day. It will be “Hair
Friday.” In between her cancer rehab
appointment and the hideous shot that will make her weekend truly suck, we go
to the wig master extraordinaire. No
shorts and t-shirts for us today – we will honor it with pretty sundresses,
sandals and make up. I know this will be hard, I know her emotions are on the
edge. We look at each other, we join
hands, a few tears and whispers and then we hear the snip of the scissors. She
never turns away from the mirror, she never looks down. Like everything else, she faces this, head
held high and with beauty and grace.
Her wigs are remarkable.
She has her “brand” which looks just like her regular hair. I’m can’t believe how amazing it looks. But it’s the second wig that surprises me -
longer, darker – for her alter ego (we
call her Serena.) For some reason,
this makes me so happy – that she is willing to have a bit of fun, do something
a little bit different during such a tumultuous time when sameness is likely
all she really wants.
The rest of the afternoon is us – we lunch, we chat, we
participate in some significant retail therapy.
As we approach the mall, the store comes into view – she calls it the
“mother ship” and yes, Neiman-Marcus beckons us and does not disappoint. She buys frocks to go with her brand and we
remark that Serena could give them a completely different look. I’m shocked that when looking at her, I
forget for one moment – just one nanosecond - that she is wearing a wig, that
she has cancer.
Home brings visitors and calls – how is she doing, what does
she need. Someone drops by with three coolers of food from a friend who is a
caterer. We freeze some and finally, in our jammies and our faces scrubbed
clean, we feast on a catered meal, slipping bites to the pooch, who waits less
than patiently next to the table.
I brace myself for the next two days. I’ve been warned by Jackson, a dear college friend
who was here for the first treatment, what to expect. She is tired, achy – almost like she has the
flu but her bones truly hurt. Her mouth feels swollen, her spine hurts. The
long walk with the dog probably did not help but it was her routine and so
important that she do what she can. She naps. We sit outside and have a
Pelligrino. A neighbor comes by and she
walks out front without her wig. I am
astonished. Shortly after coming back
in, we are in the kitchen and for the first time, she cries. Real tears, sobs. There is nothing I can do but hold her, let
her know I love her and that this is just a really shitty bump in the
road. That we will get through this. And, I believe it.
With a cancer diagnosis, things happen quickly and Neiman’s army
of supporters each plays a role. One
took on keeping everyone in the loop with mass emails, another researched and
provided supplements, another organized the meal plan. Others took her to surgery and nursed her
through recovery while still others walked the dog or dropped by with warm
wishes and smiles. I took no role
–because I’m simply too far away. It’s
hard to watch these others – these amazing friends of hers – take on roles that
I selfishly feel belong only to me. I’m
the best friend.
I’ve been able to meet some of these wonderful folks – these
friends that fill her day-to-day life and are so important to her. Many of whom – no, most of whom, I’ve either
only met briefly, if at all. It is hard
for me to know that it will not be me caring for her each time and I remember
to be grateful for this weekend – for this time. I remember to be grateful that she has so
many friends to lean on. I am not
surprised that so many surround Neiman – it’s just the way she is. I know that like me, many of them are scared.
They also know we will get through this. We believe it.
As grateful as I am for Neiman’s friends, I’m grateful for
mine as well. Lips, Legs, Perky, Handy
and Belle - they helped me navigate Olympic-worthy logistics for childcare,
animal care and airport transport. My
family has checked in. I’ve been sent
pictures of mini-me having a great weekend and of the pooch snuggling with Lips
and her family (my pooch Maddy, and Lips’
pooch Mario have a thing – here’s hoping Maddy hasn’t worn out her welcome by
constantly humping Mario. Yes, you read that right. ) I know that I can
give Neiman my all this weekend – and make the most of this time – because of
my friends.
I’ve learned it takes a village – to raise, to care, to
nurture and to heal. The village may not
always be the one I live in but sometimes, getting to know the other villagers
is just as rewarding. The fear, tears,
laughs and uncertainly are simply all an amazing reminder that I’m not only
lucky to have Neiman, but oh so lucky that my villagers – and Neiman’s - are with us on this journey and will celebrate together on the other end. I believe it.
