She Was My Best Friend

“Who was on the phone?” I asked my mom as I entered the living room dressed in my Ryan’s waitress uniform. Mom was sitting in her recliner with a sick look on her face. “That was Jean. You know the biopsy she had done? It’s positive for cancer.”

I stood frozen in the doorway, numb. Cancer. The word suddenly seemed worse than any four-letter word I had ever heard. “Why did it come back? She’s been fine since I was little.” My mind went back to hearing stories of Aunt Jean and Uncle Herman living in Houston close to the cancer clinic there.

In a daze, I walked over to mom, hugged her neck, kissed her, and told her I loved her. “I’ve gotta be at work for eleven. I’ll be home between two and four.”

My whole shift was a blur. I still don’t know how I functioned. Everywhere I looked, I saw that word.

Aunt Jean started chemo in early spring. She had the usual symptoms: nausea, vomiting, and tiredness. I was torn between wanting to spend time with her when she was feeling pretty good to let her know that I was there for her, and staying away so she could conserve her strength. I think she felt the same way. Aunt Jean was a strong woman. She would have hated it if we had seen her vulnerable. Within a few months, she began losing her hair. But she never let us see her without a wig on. That would have torn her up more than the illness.

There were days when she would be in the mood to cook and call me to come over. She was an amazing cook. Her speciality was microwave pralines. I'm not a great cook. My idea of baking is Slice 'n Bake cookies. She always said, "Slice 'n Bake cookies aren't baking!" to which I'd respond, "Well, SOMEBODY has to put them in the oven and take them out." Those are the memories I never want to forget.

Aunt Jean was my best friend. None of my other friends had a relationship with their aunts anywhere similar to ours. I told her things that I never told anybody else.

She went through a year of chemo and the doctor said he wanted to increase the dosage. The cancer wasn’t spreading or growing, it just wasn’t going away. In my naïve world, I thought there was still hope.

One day, she joked about going through chemo. Uncle Herman was out of town, and her car was in the shop. On the way home from her office, we were talking and enjoying each other’s company. I could tell she was having an okay day.

“You know,” she said, “there is a good side to going through chemo and losing my hair.”

My mouth flew open, and I had to force myself to keep my eyes on the road. “What good could there be in this?” I asked.

“Well,” she said with a sparkle in her eyes, “I figure I’ve saved a few hundred dollars on hair stuff and razors. I don’t miss shaving.” Even though I didn’t want to admit it, she was right. I knew that was how she dealt with things. If a big storm brought flooding, she would say something like, “The rain washed the day’s dirt away. Now we can start over.”

I never let myself see what was happening to her. I didn’t want to face it. Finally, I was forced to see. We were sitting on her couch talking, and she fell asleep in mid sentence. As I watched her sleep, I wondered what had happened to the strong woman I once knew, and if possible, loved even more right then. She looked frail. Chemo had caused her to lose close to one hundred pounds in two and a half years. I remembered back to being little. I was spending probably the third weekend that month at her house. We were walking together outside when I stepped in an ant bed. She brushed the ants off, put some lotion on my feet, and gave me a hug and kiss. Mysteriously, the pain went away. At that instant, I wished I could rub some lotion on her face, and with a hug and kiss, make the cancer go away.

I still remember our last conversation like it was yesterday. I was giving her the latest on the brilliant minds that run the academic office at the college I was enrolled in.

“You know how important it is to finish school, right?” she asked.

“Yeah. I know. I’m not going to let them get me down.”

“Promise me you’ll finish school.”

“I will.”

“No. PROMISE me,” she said, almost yelling, her eyes watching me.

Her reaction startled me. In my whole life, I had never once heard her raise her voice. “I promise.”

“No matter what happens.”

“I promise. No matter what.”

At the time, I didn’t know that she had less than two months to live. She knew, and this was her way of saying goodbye. I just knew that it scared me.

My birthday came and went without her calling. She always called, but not this time. I didn’t want to think about why.

Two days after my birthday, the phone rang, and I knew. I just knew. The tears that flowed were so hot and salty that my eyes burned. I found out the day she died, that on the day of paw-paw’s funeral three months prior, her doctor gave her two months to live. She loved us so much that she didn’t want to put more grief on our plate. I think she wanted to tell me during our last conversation, but she saw how sad I got when I talked about paw-paw.

I was hurt and angry at the same time. After all we had been through during the past three years, how could she think that we wouldn’t be able to handle it? But my love for her overshadowed it all.

As we stood in the hospital room, she looked so small. I can still hear and see the creak of the bed as a result of my uncle’s sobbing. All I could think of as I looked at her lying in the bed, the covers tucked under her arms, was that she looked like a China Doll. Even in death, she was beautiful.

Her wake and funeral was probably the hardest thing I ever went through. Even though I was surrounded by family and friends, I felt completely alone. I found myself not wanting to get more than a few feet away from her casket. I didn’t want to leave her alone. I found myself not wanting to get more than a few feet away from her casket for more than a few minutes at a time. It was the same way when, as a kid, I got lost in the grocery store. I stopped to look at a box of cereal, and when I looked up, mama was gone. Of course, she found me after a minute, but this was worse than that. Seeing her lying peaceful in the coffin, I realized I’d never be able to call her and just talk.

I was angry, but not at her. She had done everything right – never missed a chemo treatment, kept doctor appointments. I was angry with God. How could he take somebody so loving and compassionate, and let them die from a disease? How many people kill other people, and then get off on a technicality? It didn’t make sense to me. People kept saying, “She’s fine now. She’s in heaven. There’s no more pain.” I didn’t care about that. I just wanted her back. I knew I was being selfish, but I didn’t care. I’ve said those same words to people at funerals, too, but I didn’t realize how hollow and empty and routine they sound until I heard them. It’s like that’s what you’re expected to say.

The days after the funeral turned into weeks and months. Now, almost three years after her death, I still miss her very much. Most days aren’t bad, but some days I cry so hard it hurts to breathe.

I eventually got over my anger towards God. I still don’t understand or think it’s fair. When I have those days, I just close my eyes and her face appears with a smile, letting me know that she’s okay and happy.

Author's note: This story might not be the best, but it was extrememly hard to write. If anybody has any suggestions, please let me know. I could use a better title, I know.