“What made you sad?” a friend asked, privately, after my last post. I will tell you: someone important in my life is dying of cancer.
We are both femmes. Introduced by a mutual friend five years ago, we’ve become close as family. We both like making houses beautiful, keeping vintage clothing forever, old-school dinner parties and acres of books. My friend has recreated herself again and again, challenging society, making the most of her talents, intelligence, and sensuality. She was wrapping up her Ph.D and starting a new teaching job when she got the health news.
What can I do? Love unceasingly. But, along with that, love respectfully. I do my best to respect how she needs and wants to spend her time, and to help whenever I’m asked. I bring food – mild and easy things to eat, such as risotto, braised oxtail with polenta, a swirled pound cake, rewena bread. She asked, “Can you do my nails?” I said yes. “Sooner rather than later?” Again, of course. Chemo can be hard on one’s nails. I assembled a nail kit (with sterilized clippers and just-for-her files and orange sticks) and Saturday I stopped by and gave her a pedicure at the hospital. She chose a rich, iridescent paua-shell blue. I support her decisions in other ways, too – she is choosing how to treat her cancer and deal with her life issues.
What can we all do for our friends with cancer? At one point, a friend of hers, a single man, had had a heart attack. She observed, “Everyone was sending love and light on Facebook, but nobody DID anything. So several of us banded together and went over to clean his house.” Front up with the hands-on care and in-person presence. And help your friends feel beautiful in other ways, but keep your own hair on your head – Locks of Love, the world’s biggest cut-your-hair-for-cancer charity, is being investigated for fraud, and in New Zealand high-quality cancer hairpieces are funded by national health care. (Cutting hair has been a sign of grieving throughout human history and in many cultures, so I see where they’re coming from, it’s a pity it doesn’t work very well.)
This is how it goes; I’m sad, in waves, like the ocean around the paua. Then my friend and I see each other, and we are sad together. But then we laugh, and rejoice in each other’s presence, and go on rants about health care and hair – because we’re alive. “We’re making memories,” she says.