I love you, Tina...

I lost my best ever friend, Marcia, to cancer one cold January day. Diagnosed the previous April, she went through surgery, chemo & radiation. Declared cancer-free at her three-month check-up, we celebrated by heading to Disney World. But in September the pain returned. Another surgery & round of chemo left her unable to eat, & I watched helplessly as she wasted away before my eyes. The last time I saw her—two days before she died—her spirits were still spunky despite staring Death straight in the eye. I, however, was a different story. Unable to reconcile someone so young dying, I refused to believe she wouldn't pull through—she was my best friend, & we were always supposed to be there for each other. I viewed her death—nine months after diagnosis—as nothing short of desertion.

Now, years later, my dear friend Tina is dying. She is back in the hospital after her kidneys shut down & the cancer was found to have spread. Where three months ago she was declared to be in remission, the insidious intruder has now invaded her stomach, lungs, liver & brain. They can't operate or offer chemo or radiation. Our friend Leanna said she also has had pneumonia—a sign, she told me, that Tina's body is beginning to shut down.

Back in October—after her cancer, Stage IV ovarian, was first discovered—it never crossed anyone's mind that she might not make it. Strong, willful, full-of-life Tina would never allow it. She rebounded after surgery looking slender, radiant & in the best of spirits—a joy & relief because we hadn't seen her smile in many months. In hindsight, however, her lack of smile & dry humor was due to the pain she was in, though she never let on. Tina's someone who doesn't complain until she can't tolerate something even a second longer.

She went through chemo. In March, when it was over, she had a full-body cat scan & was declared cancer-free. We planned a big party to celebrate but she held off, saying she wanted to wait until she was better. She did return to work, but was unable to last more than a couple of hours a day. We attributed it to having been through such physical trauma & needing to get her strength back. But she never did.

Still, we were hopeful & never knew, until yesterday, that she is going to leave us soon—never knowing, at the time of her October surgery, that she had been given eighteen months to live. Almost the same death sentence Marcia had received except Tina kept it to herself, putting a brave face forward to alleviate everyone else's worry & suffering.

It is now nine & a half months later & Tina, not unlike Marcia, lies in her hospital room, waiting. She will not accept visitors or phone calls, outside of immediate family. I thought about sending flowers, but why? Giving flowers is something you do in times of joy, hope. Similarly, a card would not work. What kind of card could I possibly send, anyway? Get well?!? Death, for the undying, is a dilemna that does not lend itself to easy, or graceful, interaction—save for saying "I love you," which is something that must be done in person & which I am prevented from doing because she won't allow anyone to see her. I should just bully my way into her room & say "I know you don't want to see anyone but fuck you—I'm here anyway because I love you. Deal with it!"

This process takes me back to Marcia's last birthday—the one that fell in the middle of her cancer treatments. I found myself in a card store on Madison Avenue, barely able to see their various messages—none of which were even remotely appropriate—through a deluge of tears. The clerk asked if I was okay, & I remember wailing "how do you pick out a birthday card for someone who's dying?!?" Then I fled, running & running to nowhere, nothing, until I found myself entering a side door of St. Patrick's Cathedral, where I headed to a back pew, buried my head in my hands, & wept tears of despair & anger—tears the like of which I have not shed since. Not until now.