Just Breathe...

The truth is, I envied her. I admired her blonde hair and green eyes, her slim figure and what it did for the very same periwinkle blue bathing suit I had tried on and quickly abandoned in the dressing room. I appreciated her energy in the morning and applauded her commitment to getting into that pool every day, no matter what. It was, she said, her balance.

I liked her voice. She could be talking about anything and I’d listen, bathed in the rich buttery tones of her words. Mostly she talked about her work, interior design. And I knew she was good at it just by the sophistication of her language and the maturity in her stories. I admired that.

By most interpretations, I didn’t really know her. She told me her name was Diane Carroll, and at first I couldn’t quite remember it with confidence. Surely it wasn’t the same name as the actress’, save spelling, but it was. I never thought to ask if it bothered her, but I always felt she carried it well.

We met in the locker room of the local pool, Diane and I, and our conversations became habit. I learned she was born in Vancouver, British Columbia, and that she later lived in the San Francisco Bay Area where I had been raised. I knew she had earned a bachelor’s degree in English literature from my grandmother’s alma mater, Mills College in Berkeley.

I knew she liked to socialize and to shop to decorate and design. And I knew she appreciated books, both spiritual and philosophical. I believed her to be a very serene, centered person. And I admired that.

What I found hard to believe was that she had diabetes. When she told me she had been living with it since age 16, I remember doing a quick scan of her appearance. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but I couldn’t see it. She seemed so healthy. What she was, I came to learn, was committed and
careful.

When I stopped swimming with any regularity, my frequent visits with Diane ended. But I still ran into her around town every few months, and we’d talk like old friends. When I saw her during the holidays last year, she looked pretty but tired. She said she felt run down, and I asked if she’d seen a doctor.

She told me about the 11 eye surgeries and a hysterectomy, all related to her diabetes. She told me she’d been to more doctors in recent months than I likely had in my entire life. I wondered how a person could seem so together and so positive in the midst of such trauma. I admired her for that.

A month later, Diane told me she was waiting for a kidney, that her need for one was becoming increasingly dire. She said she thought she’d found a donor and just might have her kidney by the next time I saw her.

I looked down at the roses I had bought for a friend and thought better of it. “Consider these an early celebration of your renewed health,” I said. She cried.

The next time I saw Diane, she told me the kidney had not worked out. By then, I could see the need in her eyes.

Last fall, I read an article about an extended family of five who donated their time, money, and kidneys to help people they don’t even know. It said that, despite the great need in this country, only 2 percent of the population actually proves healthy enough to donate one of their own. In that moment, I vowed to do something, to write something that might get the word out about Diane. Maybe, just maybe, my story would reach her match.

I called an editor to share my idea. Once I had finished explaining, she said, “Oh, I remember reading about Diane. She died.”

I didn’t know her that well. But I admired her — envied her, really — and looked forward to the next time I would run into her at the store, the parking lot, the gym just so I could hear that smooth, buttery voice. Just so I could remember what it is to live life fully, no matter what.