I’ve been catching up on my blog reading the last few days and I wanted to share something I read–something that moved me.
That’s Bryan. He’s in my writing program and he was the guy in the lecture hall with all the insightful comments. And also the guy at the late-night beer-drinking festivities with the wicked wit. And although I haven’t actually read any of his fiction yet, I suspect that it’s pretty effing fabulous.
Anyway, Bryan wrote about how he reacted to the death of a friend by avoiding it, and he ended his post by saying how sorry he is.
I know how he feels.
A few years ago, Girlish had a pre-school friend whose mother I knew from all the birthday parties we attended together. We weren’t close friends, but our girls were the same ages, in the same class and she and I were pregnant at the same time. We both gave birth to boys in June. We used to chat at birthday parties, and one time I made a joke about smoking pot and she was the only mother standing in the circle who got it. (I make inappropriate jokes at children’s birthday parties; I can’t help myself, and occasionally it pays off with a look like the one Christy gave me that day). We didn’t spend a lot of time together, but I’d had coffee in her kitchen; I’d laughed politely at her husband’s jokes.
Then, just after our girls started kindergarten at different schools, Christy came to Girlish’s fifth birthday party wearing a wig. She told my mom, who’s a doctor, that she had kidney cancer. Later my mom told me she figured Christy had six months—two or three years at the outside. A couple of months later I took Girlish to Christy’s daughter’s birthday party and noticed a small stack of books about dying on her kitchen counter. That might have been the last time I saw her. Not because she died—it was the last time I saw her because I never called her again.
How’s that for cowardly? I never even asked her about it. I wanted to know how she was doing; I wanted to offer some words of comfort, maybe, but I couldn’t bear to hear what she might say if I’d have had the nerve to ask her about it. She was my age! We both had little girls just-turned-5, and little boys just over a year. I imagined myself sitting on the end of Girlish’s bed, trying to explain that I would be gone in a while, and that I would never, ever be back. I pictured a photograph of me on my son’s dresser someday and him saying, “Oh, yeah, that’s my mom. I don’t really remember her.”
I say “I imagined,” and “I pictured,” but the truth is I’m doing that now. At the time, I don’t think I even dared imagine. At least Bryan said prayers. Me, I just shut all of it, and her, out.
So somehow, reading what he wrote about his friend—although it dredged up memories I might rather not revisit—made me feel just the tiniest bit better. Like my reaction wasn’t so much about me being heartless and self-centered, but about death being scary, particularly when it hits so close to where you’re living. About our fragile, precious time on the planet among the ones we love.
Would Christy have done better by me than I did by her? Probably. It wouldn’t have taken much, certainly, to be a better friend than the woman who never called you again. I hate that I was probably one of many friends who dropped away when she needed us most. But I like to think now that she might have understood it, that whatever wisdom death brought also allowed her to forgive.
At least I hope so.
8 Responses
May 23rd, 2008 at 9:40 pm
God, reading your post and Bryan’s reminded me of how, when a good friend of mine from college was diagnosed with testicular cancer soon after we graduated, I didn’t call him, or write him an email, or go and see him. At first it was because I didn’t know what to do (lame) and then the longer it went on, the more inappropriate it was (and the more filled with shame and self-loathing I was) that I couldn’t ask him about his condition. I eventually did get in touch with him, and the fact that he was kind and gentle about it (he’s fine now) made me disgusted with myself all the more. By his kindness he meant, “It’s okay,” but what I heard was, “I forgive you.” And that forgiveness brought me so far down to earth, I don’t think I could be any closer to the ground.
And, yes, can we PLEASE bring Aaryn with us to residency?! And I’m going to bring you a quilt of your own, so you don’t have to use a prison-issue blanket.
May 24th, 2008 at 2:21 am
Very courageous writing girl. We have all men in this awkward space with someone who’s dying. Thanks for sharing your experience and normalizing it.
May 25th, 2008 at 9:52 pm
I don’t want to offer any platitudes, because they are not helpful. I’ll just say I can understand why you felt and acted the way you did.
May 28th, 2008 at 4:09 am
I can completely relate. Anything difficult I avoid and then so much time passes and I lose that relationship forever.
May 28th, 2008 at 5:16 am
Wow. Very honest, sad and probably very common.
I was recently in a similar situation and I didn’t walk away from it. I walked right into it and then continued walking, and walking and walking until both feet were planted firmly in my mouth. I’m not sure which is the harder choice to live with for both parties—abandoning or confronting—but I know that doing what I did was absolutely mortifying.
You are utterly loveable.
No prison issue blankets for you.
June 2nd, 2008 at 6:44 pm
I just found yr blog- so excited…I will be back…it is lovely here!
June 15th, 2008 at 9:24 pm
Oh s,
I am dealing with a terminal situation with a friend of Ana’s—just published to my blog—and your writing pushed those buttons again. Now I’m going to have to read the link for the thing that moved you. It’s all too heart-breaking. Thanks for this post.
xo
t
June 18th, 2008 at 11:31 pm
Bless your heart. I was just catching up on some blog-reading myself when I happened across this piece of yours. I’m humbled. And also comforted that I’m not alone in feeling cowed by a friend’s tragedy.
See you at the rez!
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