I was friends with her husband first. He was part of the same gym that the kids were going to for martial arts, and his daughters’ class times overlapped those of our boys. We never sat and chatted as he was in his own class, but we would smile and say hello. He and Steve became friends when Steve joined his class, but it was never more than a passing acquaintance at the gym.
I met her a few times, as she would drop the kids off for class, and we even had a few conversations. It was one of those times when you know this is someone you could be friends with, but the timing never really worked out. I really liked her, though, wishing I could see her more often and develop that friendship.
What I didn’t know at the time was what an impact this family would have on my own life.
A couple years after first meeting them all, as I was working with a personal trainer, he became my training partner. I saw him twice a week for nearly two years, and in the course of that time, we became incredible friends. Slowly, over warm ups and cool downs, sprints and lunges, he started to tell me about his wife and how she had been battling cancer for nearly 10 years.
This family, that looked so perfect from the outside, was engaged in a ferocious battle that no one could see. His wife had been diagnosed either while pregnant with their second child, or shortly thereafter. And she did everything she thought she should do, including chemotherapy. And it worked…
…for a time.
It seemed that every two years, give or take, she had a new cancer appear. And slowly her body was subjected to horrendous surgeries, and reconstructions that would drive most people crazy. They took her apart and put her back together with metal and rods and staples…she had to learn to walk again, as her pelvis was literally ripped from her body and held together with the sheer force of her will and the wonders of modern medicine.
Along the way she lost a lung, but gained an incredible zest for life. Living in the moment became her family’s mantra and they did just that. Trips around the world, building a dream house, making pizza with the kids every friday night, enjoying time with friends and family – they lived every moment the way we all should, like it was the last.
And then it happened again. Just before I was dealing with my own cancer scare last year, I got the call – more spots on her remaining lung. I remember so clearly where I was – in a shopping mall with my husband and kids – and my reaction when I read his text. Oh crap, I thought, they do not deserve this – again.
See, she never did anything to put herself at risk. She was athletic, ate good and clean food. She was a social drinker, but never abused alcohol or drugs. She never smoked. And she was only 39 years old when this last diagnosis was given.
10 years of fighting a battle that she was determined to win. 10 years of good living, really good living, and the knowledge that her family and friends loved her dearly. 10 years of watching her children grow into these incredible creatures, full of joy and laughter and love.
10 years and now she had to do it all again.
He was my friend first, but she became my friend shortly after her diagnosis.
It was right then and there that we scheduled a photo shoot with her family – just her, her husband, and the girls. It was a very difficult session – she and I cried together more than once. But it was an incredible session as well.
I had always known how important our job is – preserving moments and memories of life’s big events. But it had always been about the big events. What this session taught me was the value of everyday, the importance of the quiet moments that come between the big ones, the beauty of the personalities that make a family complete, the moments between the moments – the giggle, the smile, the pout – those are the moments that are most important.
And so we began a year of photographing the everyday moments. Family would come visit and we would come over with our cameras – not to pose them, but to document them together, as they always are. It wasn’t the posed moments that she cared about, it was the real moments, where they were together, natural in their interactions. It tested our abilities as observers and our skills as documentarians and artists.
It was the hardest and easiest thing we had ever done. It was the best thing we had ever done.
It culminates today, with a wall piece that combines her favorite moments, with our organic mounts. Almost ten feet wide and over four feet high, this piece is going to sit on their bedroom wall, where she can see it everyday for the rest of her life. At night, when the pain wakes her, she wants to see the faces of the people she loves. As she lies in bed, barely able to move, she wants to relive the moments of her life. When she finally goes, she wants those faces and those moments to be the last thing she sees.
He called me on Friday to let me know time was short. And it seems crazy to me how quickly it can go from good to tolerable to difficult, to bad.
It’s bad now.
He was my friend first, and remains someone I care deeply about.
She and I became friends this past year.
She is not my best friend, I don’t see her every day or even every week. We have laughed together and cried together, we have had many long talks. She has thanked me for being her husband’s friend and asked me to be there for him when she can’t be. She was one of the most vivacious and beautiful women I ever met – inside and out – bringing laughter and joy with her everywhere.
He loves her, with everything he has, pulling closer as time goes on, rather than away. He isn’t preparing himself for her loss, although he knows it is coming, but is loving her with everything he has, right to the end.
I am in awe of the love they share. And I am fortunate enough to have that with my own husband. It is a humbling thing to witness and fills me with equal parts of sadness and joy. He loves her, and will love her forever. And he will be devastated when she is gone.
She is not my best friend, not someone I chat with regularly. And yet, I am afraid of how I will feel when she is gone, afraid of the depth of my sadness (because I am already sad) and the reaction I might have. What right do I have to mourn deeply, someone who is relatively new in my life…what is the right way to do this?
I don’t know how to handle the loss that is coming, looming ever closer like a storm on the horizon. I’ve never lost anyone before. It is like an ache in the pit of my stomach, growing larger everyday. I desperately want to go see her one last time, yet I am so very afraid to do that. I want to bring my cameras for the last few days or weeks and give these moments to her family. But I don’t want to intrude. I want to fix this, trade places with her, do anything to make it stop. It is the most horrific thing I have ever seen, this end game, and I don’t want her to have to do it anymore.
If I had only one wish, for the rest of my life, I would use it here, on her, to make her well again, give her time with her children, to hear her laugh once more.
It is the laughter that has gone – the glint in her eye and the joy in her smile. Now the effort to simply breathe from moment to moment is all there is. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…you can see how hard it is. For everyone.
He was my friend first, but she has touched my heart in indelible ink, writing her story between the beats. The ending is yet unwritten, but the story is coming to a close. A life well lived, a family well loved. I am better for having known her, and selfishly wish for more time.
He was my friend first…she is forever part of my soul.