transitions

My best friend passed away on May 28, 2010 after a long and fierce battle with metastatic breast cancer. Most often when talking about someone who has died of cancer, you hear the phrase, “… and she finally lost a long battle with ...” For Karen, I think of it another way. She was a fierce warrior, she made peace with the cancer while they co-habitated, she beat it into submission as long as she could, and then she finally “won” and left it behind.

Karen was first diagnosed with breast cancer in 2001 and with metastatic cancer in 2004. Last May (2009), it was clear that her health was getting much more precarious. With the loving support of Jean-Max, I made the decision to spend as much time with her as I could while I could. Between May 2009 and May 2010, I was able to see her 12 times. That’s about four years worth of visits packed into one.

Karen moved into a hospice residence in mid-April. On May 26, Karen asked our dear friend Venus, who was at her side, to call “everyone” and tell us that “things were getting rough.” I got my call on the morning of May 26. Through a series of small miracles, I was able to arrive in Massachussetts about 36 hours later. By the time I arrived, Karen was in a dreamy, halfway place, partly because of the very intense pain medication she needed to take and partly because she was getting ready to … transition … I suppose is the best word for it.

Karen’s family was a family of choice, and her inner circle was at her side for this final journey. We came from all over: some friends were already in Massachussetts, two of us came from California, two came from New Jersey, and her sister from Indiana. I was the last to arrive, and it was clear that Karen was waiting for me.

We spent a last day with Karen, praying, listening to music, eating together, holding Karen’s hand, and enjoying every moment with her and one another.

Later that evening, while most everyone was eating dinner in the family area of the hospice house, I went back into Karen’s room and laid down with her. Her breathing was so ragged, and something just felt different. In between tears, I whispered to her that I was so sad only because I didn’t want our time together, as we have always been, to be over, but that I also knew we would always be together, just in a different way. I whispered that she once promised me that she wouldn’t leave me unless she knew I would be okay. I told her I would be okay. Somewhere in the middle of this, she softly and gently stopped breathing. When I finally pulled back to look at her, she was gone. It was the damnedest thing. Her body didn’t look any different than it had just a minute before, but she was gone. Her body really was like, and no more than, a set of clothes.

In her last moment, Karen gave me such as gift. She knew that I needed to hold her hand as she passed away. I desperately needed to know that people don’t just disappear, and I needed to be with her through every single breath and then through the ceasing of breath. It was so clear to me afterwards that everyone in her inner circle needed something different. Some of us needed to be next door, I needed to be with her, and, for Karen’s great love, she simply didn’t want his last memory of her to be of her dying.

Because I live so far away, I didn’t think it would be possible to be with Karen at the moment of her passing, but she made it happen. Even as she was struggling with the fear of the unknown, the pain, and the sadness of dying, she thought of me. I am humbled beyond words that she would relax into the unknown in my arms. Words are inadequate to express how deeply I loved her and how deeply I was loved by her.

PS: I will return to the usual, and lighter, topic of my posts (e.g., Luke love) soon.