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Toronto
Star,
INSIGHT
Tuesday, Novermber 28, 1995
Soul Mates - It's so difficult to say a last farewell
to a dying
friend
I saw the film
Beaches about two years ago. After sniffling my way through a
box of tissues, I phoned my best friend in England and
recommended that she see it. Anita called me back after seeing
the film and we both had a weepy conversation.
She insisted she
is the one who dies in the film, and would I look after her
children. No way, I argued. I will die first. Then we giggled at
our stupidity and forgot about the film.
Today Beaches is
becoming a reality in my life.
My friend is
dying of cancer.
Unlike the film,
I have not had much time to absorb the tragedy. In May, I went
to visit Anita. She had been diagnosed with stomach cancer.
Doctors said it can be treated and gave her an 80 per cent
chance of beating the disease. We were all hopeful. She looked
pale and had lost weight but was moving around. I teased her
about a quick diet to look slim.
Assured that she
was now on her way to recovery, we spent quality time together.
Her bout with cancer made us aware of the fine thread of life,
so we talked about old days, walked, went shopping, had lunch
and did all the things we had missed due to our busy schedules.
Three weeks ago,
I got a call saying she was in hospital and in bad shape. I flew
to England to see her. Nothing in my life could have prepared me
for what I saw. My robust, aggressive chum was reduced to a mere
skeleton. She had lost 60 pounds and all her hair
in a few
months.
She looked at me
and cried, "What's happening to me?"
Anita has four
children, her husband is on a waiting list for a heart
transplant and there is no extended family.
The same weekend
that I went to see her, she responded to a particular dose of
chemotherapy and had the first surge of strength in months. She
was allowed to go home for the weekend. Everyone's hopes soared.
Her young son called all his friends and announced that his
mother was home and had expressed a desire to eat potatoes.
There was a feeling of celebration in the air.
I spent three
precious days at Anita's side.
She was hopeful
that she would get better. I could see otherwise. I cooked for
her, fed her, clipped her nails, massaged oil on her hairless
scalp and dried, shrivelled body, and read to her. Once she
looked at me and said, "Why are you being so nice to me?
You and I are
always squabbling."
She reminded me
how close, yet how dissimilar, we always were and how we always
looked at life differently, arguing about everything. She burst
into tears and demanded weakly that I should continue to
disagree with her. I complied, but my heart was not in it.
On Monday, as we
dropped her back at the hospital, Anita clung to me and cried.
We knew this may be the last time we would meet. I could not and
did not say goodbye aloud, although in my heart I knew this was
goodbye.
There is so much
I wanted to say, but I could not. I keep thinking of our 30 years together.
Our camaraderie
went far beyond the realm of friendship. We bonded spiritually
from the first day we met. We stayed together through college
till she got married. I was there for her when she had her four
children and when she lost her father. When I was expecting my
second son, I went to stay with her and, after he was born,
Anita tended to me like a mother.
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