Just breathe…
She eats right, gets plenty of exercise, and thinks good thoughts. She looks after family, cares about close friends, and donates heavily to causes like breast cancer, AIDS, and violence against women. She knows how to save an orchid, cook pasta al dente, and dance so her partner looks smooth. She laughs with her whole body, gives hugs with her eyes, and keeps secrets and promises forever. She is Denise, my best friend and the heart of our inner circle. I call her Necie.
Three years ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
She knew what it was the first time she felt it, but she didn’t let on. We’re not sure whether she was protecting us or nurturing her own fears, but she kept this secret like a codependent lover, never letting on that there was something stalking her well-being.
We each got the call shortly after the doctor confirmed what she already knew and what we couldn’t accept, couldn’t let in.
One or two of us cried. I didn’t. She didn’t. It wasn’t real. And it didn’t become any more real as we, her three closest friends, held vigil in the waiting room during her surgery, telling inane jokes that made us laugh to the point of tears.
It still wasn’t real when we brought her dinner and gathered on the couch, watching American Idol on television and making plans as though nothing had changed.
It got real for me the morning she called to say her brush had culled clumped strands of hair like carded wool. She cried, and so did I.
We had no idea she would look so good without hair. A swath of lipstick, and she was actually chic. Part of it was her countenance. It was she who dressed for dinner and turned scarves into origami, she who smiled at those who stared, and she who stepped out of her own story to help others with theirs. It was Necie who got the rest of us through her ordeal.
Two years later, when we all had finally settled into the illusory security of the passage of time, her cancer came back with a vengeance, threatening the stability of her bones and her beliefs. It became difficult for her to harness enough energy to get up in the morning. It was even harder to walk, but she did it anyway. She fought again. Harder. This time she didn’t lose her hair and she hung on, most of the time, to her hope.
But then one morning, she didn’t get up. As she lay in her bed among sweat-soaked sheets, her breathing constrained and virtually unresponsive, Necie seemed to be giving up. After being rushed to the emergency room at Community Hospital, she was diagnosed with diabetes, a companion to her cancer and its treatments.
Among the vials of pills and other remedies lined up on her nightstand, there’s now a pouch containing the tools of her newest treatment. She has learned to test her blood sugar level and give herself insulin shots. Four times a day.
The first time Necie ventured back out into the world as she had known it, she joined friends and family for brunch at a neighborhood restaurant. Having adjusted her blood sugar level before leaving home, she left her insulin behind. And she had neglected to bring a snack; after all, she was going to a restaurant.
The wait was too long, however. She fainted before receiving her meal.
A day later, her doctor adjusted her insulin protocol and talked with her about the dynamics of life with diabetes and how to navigate it so she can participate with confidence and comfort.
Today, she got up, showered, and sauntered downstairs, unassisted, to have breakfast.