A Friend is Dying

When did I become old enough that typing that phrase doesn't raise gasps amongst my readers?  When my 6th grade crush was killed by a speeding car there was no precedent for our emotions.  We didn't know how to feel so we pretended it had never happened.  When Debbie Goodman starved herself to death  in the 9th grade, we all learned about anorexia as we hid behind a facade of it can never happen to me.  When Marian Lubart died in one of those awful too-many-counselors-in-an-out-of-control-car summer camp nightmares she was just 16 and our parents used her as a cautionary tale.  She'd been my friend since we were very little, but her death was a learning experience, not an opportunity to grieve.  When I heard that Roomie's twin brother had met a similar fate some years later I felt, ever so briefly, my own mortality.  Boys had gone to Viet Nam, after all, boys I'd sat next to in class or at the movies.  But they were still felt at a distance, with a sense of separation from the real sorrow.


I had all 4 grandparents until I was a senior in high school.  My cousin and I had stopped at the deli and Dunkin' Donuts and we were returning with our treasures when our mothers broke the news that the cancer had won and Grandpa was dead.  We looked at one another, we looked at our mothers (they were married to Grandpa's sons), and then we looked at those donuts.... those fresh from the oven donuts ...... those still warm donuts.... and, with a nod to our Grandpa we sat at G'ma's kitchen table and chowed down.  I was thinking about Grandpa, and I was choking on my tears, but I enjoyed those donuts.... cinnamon dusted donuts.... which I can't eat to this day without thinking of that afternoon.  I felt his loss, but he was an old man and it was his time.  I still miss him cheating me at cards, but I knew and I know that no one lives forever.  He was a grandfather, and they die.


But this friend, this 64 year old man with whom I've shared child rearing for nearly 3 decades, this is different.  He'd beaten two awful, long, expensive, draining, painful and disgusting medical experiences over the last 20 years, and, for 10 blessed days he was healthy.  Then a glioblastoma decided to take up residence in his skull and now he's dying and I don't know what to do.


I'm thousands of miles away from them, these playgroup buddies from when the Big Cuter was an infant.  Were I in town I know what I'd do but I'm not and I'm stuck.  The Little Cuter will bring home cooked meals (she's better at it than I am, anyway) as they are needed and I'll call and have no agenda of my own and meet theirs, wherever they are, but I want it all to just go away.  I want to be in charge, and I want to make it vanish.  


POOF!


After all, our investments disappeared without our having much to say about it.  Why can't the same thing happen to this tumor, this rancid malignancy that is ruining the joy they ought to be feeling because he'd won.  He'd undergone an ugly, year long course of treatment that had cured him of his disease and then this decided to invade his personal space.  It's not right.  Someone is not paying attention.


I was able to bring something to the table, at least.  My years of medical social work have been put to good use, and for that I am grateful to all those teachers and mentors and supervisors who encouraged me to trust my gut and tell people what I knew they should hear.  I've been doing it on the phone and his wife keeps texting me that I am forcing her to reevaluate her otherwise less than favorable impression of my professional peers.  I wish I were there to run interference for her.


Her son, the official member of playgroup, has been home and wonderful and in her face and dealing with his own piece of the puzzle and that's not an easy part, either.  I remember how I thought of my parents when I was nearly 30.  I knew more than they did.  I dealt with people and systems better than they did.  I was stronger and healthier and street-smarter and most important I was younger than they were and so they should defer to my judgment and let me be in charge.  That's not my girlfriend's style... not even close to her style... in fact it's probably the antithesis of her style... and she's not reluctant to share that opinion with anyone who might be in shouting range.  


And she's right.  Of course she's right.  She's known him forever and they've loved one another through thick and thin and sickness and health and she has good insights and yet she screams so loudly that no one can hear her.  Kind of like the Tea Party and Fox News on a hospital ward... only with brains and love thrown into the mix.  She's losing her partner, her friend, her person..... and yes, he's losing his dad but that doesn't mean they have to be at odds but if they're not then the reality is there, staring them in the face, and it's awful.


There's no way to make the reality any less brutal.


There's no way to alter the outcome to any substantial degree.


There are just 3 people who are used to bending the world to their will and they are failing.  Not from lack of trying nor from faintness of heart nor depth of commitment or love.  There is truly, really, without a doubt or second guessing, absolutely nothing they can do.


Except, perhaps, feel the love that I'm sending, each and every time I think of them.... which is really, now that I reflect on it, quite often these days.


Oh, how I wish I were there.