This is an open letter to my good friend J*. It is, in part, written for J, but also for my own purposes. J came into my life a couple of years ago. We had both been attending the opening night of an exhibition at the Dax Centre titled ‘The Body Betrayal’. It was an artistic expose of life with cancer, produced by the wonderful late artist Rosa Niran. Rosa was raw and unforgiving in her portrait of this fractured kind of existence, which provided outsiders with an idea of the trauma behind life with a terminal illness. As a former patient myself, the exhibition was both comforting and confronting – with pieces that reached deep inside and triggered memories and emotions that I had assumed (or rather hoped) were long forgotten. My good friend and psychooncologist had invited me to attend, and when I bumped into her she introduced me to another woman; this woman was well dressed, but without hair and obviously still experiencing what was plastered all over the walls. Being so long in remission, I always find myself feeling like somewhat of a fraud or imposter when I meet fellow “patients” – here I am expecting them to believe that at one point in time I looked and felt much the same as them. These feelings usually prevent either of us from opening up straight away, but it didn’t take either of us long. As we sat and studied the paintings, we sparked up a conversation. Her name was J, she was also a lawyer, and she had breast cancer. She had been diagnosed some 8 years prior and recovered, and despite living cancer free for a number of years, had received the devastating news around a six months prior that the cancer was back. This was undoubtedly the least interesting thing about her though – she was rich and vivacious, witty and wise – and the diagnosis paled in comparison to the person I found before me. We talked and talked, and despite the thirty-year age gap, I felt the same excitement as you would at making friends the first day of school. After the opening finished, we were both invited to dinner by the curators and those close to Rosa. We sat next to each other and talked all the way through dinner – about cancer, careers, life and love (or the lack of). I remember telling her that she was far too special, too vivacious, and with far too much life in her to shy away from love. She need not protect potential partners based on her illness, instead be kind enough as to share herself with them…she was wasting their opportunity (and her own) to simply enjoy the company of someone so wonderful. She was witty and wise, extremely smart with a straight forward, no nonsense approach to life, as well as a black sense of humour. J had a zest for life, despite being told that the cancer she had left behind was now back in the worst possible way. I genuinely left dinner that night feeling enriched and privileged to have met this human being. We exchanged details and agreed to meet up again, which we did on a number of occasions. She would often email or message things like “Want to come visit and breathe together?” One thing J cherished is her time away at her country property – surrounded by art and nature, she would invite friends to visit and simply breathe with her. There was no need for words, or filling the empty spaces – just being in each other’s presence. We met for breakfast a couple of times and she showed me her city apartment and photos from her many travels. She was an avid cyclist, and did so at any chance, despite the physical set backs. It was remarkable to see someone with such vitality, despite having more reason than most to excuse herself from these kinds of things. But lazy or dilatory J definitely was not. Every time I visited I left with a token of her generosity, whether it were a book she loved and wanted to share, or an expensive scarf she no longer had use for. J was always giving. Her greatest gift was her company, her ever-present presence, and her words which will stay with me forever. J wasn’t afraid of talking about death and dying. We discussed the treatment, the different things her oncologist was trying to prolong her life, as well as the soundtrack she would like to have played at her funeral. J was an extremely successful, independent and organised woman – and didn’t want to leave these things to others to worry about. She described her new tumour as a “brief blip” in an email headline, and a “real shame” – because she was at the top of her game career wise. Cancer took a lot from J, but by the same token it provided her with an unbelievable insight into the true meaning behind this life we have – “Life is easy if we let go. I did not learn that until recent times when my cancer returned. We can talk about this. A big step but easy once realised. J.” J always reassured me that life was rich and complex, and to make the most of it you had to live it with passion. I would often lament my lack of direction or work, about how I felt like I was sometimes living in suspended animation. She assured me that the fact I thought about these things at all was more than most people ever do. “It’s not a bad thing to question what you’re doing, or why youre doing it”, she would say – “but you have to use these emotions for positive growth, not negative paralysis.” J was always offering me honest and thoughtful advice, and exposed parts of her life that were clearly uncomfortable. In return I attempted to do the same. I tried not to avoid those conversations which seemed awkward or saddening – yes, she was slowly dying, but she showed me more about living than most people I knew. In her final months, we spoke less. I hadn’t seen her in about 6 weeks, and I hadn’t realised that since changing my number she would not be able to contact me. I finally reached out to her and apologised. She had been trying to get in contact with me. She told me she was in quite some pain and in her typical matter of a fact way she said “Want to catch up? I do not have many weeks left. J”. After a few text exchanges back and forth to arrange a time, she said she would like to see me at least once more before she left this earth. I said I would love to see her, and asked when was best for her. When I didn’t receive a response – I never pushed it. I was too consumed with my own life. I let one day pass, then another and another. I thought about her a lot and the fact that I needed to make the time to go and see her (despite knowing that it would probably be difficult to see her so unwell). Yes, there were things in my own life I was dealing with – but was anything more important than visiting my good friend? Absolutely not. Three weeks after exchanging those final texts, J passed away. I never made the time to go and see her and say goodbye. I can never change that. My good friend is gone, and I could not find the time to see her – one of the very few things she ever asked of me. It is one of the most powerful, and heartbreaking confrontations I have had. I have absolutely no excuse for my behaviour and I guess this open letter to J is my public apology as well. I definitely need to reprioritise my life, and refocus where my energy is spent. J, I love you, and I know you would forgive me for not making the time, as you always did. The simple fact is that it isn’t good enough. I am deeply sorry for being too consumed in my own life, for putting off an uncomfortable situation and for letting life go by as yours slipped away. If I had the chance, I would go back and visit you, I would sit by your bed side and hold your hand (even though you weren’t really into the mushy stuff). We could talk about life, love, art and whatever the hell else we wanted. Or we could talk about nothing, and simply breathe together. I will see you one day and make it up to you. X
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 10:50:32 +0000
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