My Friend and I Both Got Cancer

She isn’t as lucky as I

I wrote this several days ago. Yesterday, I received word that my dear friend died.

My friend is dying. We were both diagnosed with cancer within a few months of each other this past year. It was weird. We had joked in the past-in about how our lives were so similar in many ways.

We both had a history of trauma. Failed marriages-check. Both of us want to make the world a better place. We are both life coaches. We both love to laugh. Both of us are in our late 50s, the autumn of our lives.

We both got a cancer diagnosis.

Mine-early stage breast cancer in both breasts. Course of treatment was textbook: double mastectomy, 4 rounds of chemotherapy and 5–7 years of estrogen blocker. My prognosis is good. If I can continue the estrogen blocker, it brings the likelihood of an encore cancer appearance down to 4–5% over the next nine years.

Hers-a rare and aggressive uterine tumor. Initially, after the hysterectomy, the doc said there was no cancer. We all breathed a sigh of relief. She would be fine. Hallelujah.

Then the pathology came back. The doctor had spoken too soon. My dear friend, against all odds, won the malignancy lottery. The survival statistics are the inverse of those I cling to. Within five years, most of the women will be dead.

The mean survival is measured in months, however. And because her cancer had already spread when they removed the first tumor, well, you can connect the dots here.

I am no stranger to loss. My sister died when I was 17. Dad when I was 19. Mom and my brother years later.

I have never had a good friend die, though. And yes, I know, she has not died yet and so I am in this weird space.

I keep Googling her diagnosis, hoping the statistics will somehow turn around. Perhaps a shaft of light will appear with the Good Witch Glenda wearing a diaphanous gown. With a magic wand of healing, she will gently tap the top of my friend’s head and all will be well.

I try to pray for a miracle but end up crying instead.

While I was going through chemo, she was using alternative medicine as there was no effective medical treatment. We would compare notes with each other and offer encouragement.

Hard shit is hard to go through. (I have a knack for stating the obvious.) But going through hard shit with a beloved friend going through hard shit-like cancer treatment-lightens the load, even if it’s to share a gallows humor laugh.

We had lunch together a few short months ago. It was just before I shoved off for a trip across the country to be with my sweetie.

She looked amazing. The glow of health. Though we both knew better.

While we munched on our salads, I tried to pretend this was just another fun lunch date with my dear friend. As per usual, we laughed and shared about our lives, our loves, our dreams.

Then the damn phone rang. “I gotta take this,” she said. It was her doctor. Yes, she needed follow-up ASAP.

The illusion of “all is well” was shattered.

Shit, shit, SHIT. I don’t want this for my friend.

More tumors had popped up, almost overnight.

Now, here I sit 2,000 miles away from her. I ache to see her again, but know that will not happen.

We continued texting. She told me she had trouble eating anymore. She was in pain. She was building up fluid that required draining. “I look emaciated” she said in one text.

A few weeks ago, there was a hail Mary attempt at injecting chemo directly into the tumor. Hopefully, it would alleviate the pain and perhaps buy her some more time.

No cigar. The tumors continue their death march.

I try to encourage her and speak words of hope. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, stage four cancer can be managed where more years are granted. At least that’s what it is for metastatic breast cancer.

Dr. Google offers no such hope for her type of cancer.

Texts from her have ceased though I continue to send her nature pictures from my daily walks in the Michigan woods. She clicked a “love” emoji in response to one picture a few days ago.

And then a text: Just to let you know, I am on hospice now.

It was a group text. She has a vast circle of loved ones.

I cried again.

This shit’s getting real. All the faith in the world, magical thinking, good vibes, healing energy, have not stopped cancer’s rapacious assault on her body.

I Google again. Same shitty statistics. Damn, you Google.

And then my conundrum.

Do I publish this now or wait and know the title will change to “My Friend and I Got Cancer- She Died”?

Will I jinx things if I publish now? Oh, the mental gymnastics.

I would hate for her to read my words and know I’m talking about the elephant in the room. As though a dying woman, dosed up on pain killers would read this, even though she has been one of my biggest cheerleaders for my writing.

Or do I publish this knowing I will add a sober “PS” to this piece any day now?

In our last conversation, she looked me in the eye and said, “Theresa, keep writing.” She’s familiar with my pattern: I write and then sometimes have a vulnerability hangover so I stop writing for a spell.

Keep writing, she says, her gaze fixed firmly into my brimming eyes.

To have a friend who sees so deeply into your soul is a rare find. She is a treasure and I can only hope that I’ve reflected back to her her magnificence.

She has always encouraged me to be bold and brave and write my truth.

So here I am. Writing. I love you, dear Melanie.

I’ll see you on the other side.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist. (Right now it’s a one year subscription to Canva.)