Good-bye can be said in many ways – farewell, adieu, bye-bye, so long, kiddo. These are only a few. We take our leave pretty casually when we know there'll be another hello before long. But how do you say good-bye when you know there will be no more hellos? No more hugs. No more laughs. No more long lunches with conversations darting in different directions.
How do you say good-bye to a friend when she's dying of cancer? Was it only a little more than a year ago when she went to the doctor because she was tired and noticed she'd been a little short of breath? Heart problems loomed first in the doctor's mind, but tests showed her heart was fine. More tests, days of waiting for reports, not anxiously, for she knew it would come to nothing. But that nothing turned out to be a tumor in a lung, inoperable and already spreading its cruel way into other parts of her body.
Shock, dismay, anger, fear – she experienced them all and so did her family and close friends. Her family is small, but her circle of friends spreads across our community and beyond. This tiny person has been a bundle of energy all her life, the one who spearheaded committees and huge fundraising events. Her sharp wit and knowledge of current events made her an asset to any social occasion. She's been there for others whenever someone needed her, stepping in when trouble visited her friends, arriving with food in hand before the call for help came.
She vowed to fight the disease with every fiber of body and soul, and her family and friends supported her pledge. She and her husband traveled to a large cancer center where a new wonder drug was prescribed. With great enthusiasm the doctor pronounced her to be a perfect candidate. She arrived home clutching at the hope the specialist had offered only to have that hope dashed in a few weeks when tests showed the drug ineffective.
Next they offered chemo. She didn't want her husband to go through the three to four hour treatments with her, so a few close friends took turns sitting with her. The chairs were lined up in a long row with patients in several, IV drips running. Most were alone, but she had her ladies-in-waiting with her. After the first session, the nurses put her in a small private room where we could laugh and chat without disturbing the other patients. We drank coffee and discussed all manner of things. Sometimes when it was only the two of us, our talk turned to the mysteries of what lay ahead. Hope rose above the fear in those early days.
How she could still look glamorous was a wonder, but she did. She donned headscarves and wigs and hats when her hair fell out. Long, dangly earrings added to the exotic effect of her headgear. Her shortness of breath increased, and her lungs had to be drained, which proved to be a painful process, but helped considerably. She continued to attend committee meetings, to fulfill the many volunteer jobs she held, and to attend social events despite her breathlessness, pain, and fatigue. Then the cancer specialist studied her new MRI scans, blood test results, and more, and told her he was sorry but there was nothing more he could offer in the way of treatment. The cancer had spread to a kidney. Her bones. Her bloodstream. Hope seeped slowly away, and the darkness began to close in.
With few choices left, she listened to a radiologist who declared he could help her. "I can't cure you," he said, "but I can help you to feel better, to be able to lead your life in a more normal way." Who wouldn't reach out for that golden ring? She decided to try the radiation, and her family agreed. And for awhile it helped ease the pain in her bones, while oxygen aided her breathing. Her lungs had to be drained frequently, and then her kidneys. The cruel fingers of the cancer that gripped and grasped and squeezed her made hospitalization necessary.
Hospice workers now ease her final days. I visited her today for only a very few minutes for fear of tiring her. It was time to say good-bye before she becomes unaware of her surroundings and her visitors. I wanted to say so many things, and I wasn't sure how. We learn much over a lifetime, but we don't learn how to die, nor do we learn how to say good-bye to one whose days are short.
We visited about everyday things, but as I prepared to leave her, I said good-bye in the only way I knew how. "I love you, Rosie." Our eyes met, and she smiled and said a simple, "I know." I think she knew, too, all that my simple statement meant.