November 2011.
Kim and I’d only been working together for a couple of months when she got news that she had an aneurism and was having surgery. I remember her telling me - she was so calm and collected. I thought, an aneurism! That’s a BIG deal. But she was so matter of fact about it.
This is one of the things I love about Kim. She has this honest, gentle, no nonsense, straight to the point way about her. During her recovery, I made a pot of chili and brought it over. Her daughter, Ava, was just two and a half and eager to show me her toys.. I stayed for a quick visit to play. Over the next few months working together, we became close friends.
*****
Kim gets back to the office from her doctor’s appointment. She’s at her desk and a group of us gather to get the update. Then she says the dreaded word. Cancer. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! I try my best to maintain composure. All the feelings from going through this with Mom are flooding back with a force. Don’t breakdown here. Don’t terrify her more than she already is. I want her to know that we are here and we will rally. I want to show her I am heartbroken for her. Keep steady.
Kim is rocked. I can see it. She doesn’t have all the information just yet. She needs to do more tests. Shit. The tears start, despite trying to keep the flood of emotions at bay. They are all mixed together. The fear and heartbreak for my dear friend and the immense grief of going through this before and losing mom. I need to keep it together. I need to wait until I am alone to feel it all. Not here, please.
There’s this thing that happens when I learn someone is sick. One half feels utter powerlessness. There is nothing I can do or say to change this. This feeling is equally matched with a primal response to help, fix, mend… do anything to bring things back to “normal”, back to way they should be, the way they were before.
When Mom got sick, I had no real experience with a serious illness. I had lost my grandfathers and my aunt when I was young. Now my friend is sick - my kindred spirit, my bosom buddy. How is this happening?
My brain flies everywhere, to those dreadful scary places because I’ve have been there before. That place where I want to protect my heart and just stick with the comfort of denial, versus where my inner warrior is awoken and ready to do battle.
I want to pass along all the information I’d learned. I want her to have the outcome we didn’t get with mom. I will do anything for Ava not to feel what I have felt.
Kim is a trooper. She is one of the strongest, most focused, calm, even keeled people I know. I would like to hope that over the years, with the amount of time we have spent both working together and as friends, that a few of these qualities have rubbed off on me. I know that what lies ahead is not something anyone can prepare for. I think it’s especially hard if you haven’t been closely affected by the disease you are diagnosed with. There is so much information, too much to process all at once. There are decisions to make, serious decisions. I want to choose carefully what information I give her. I know she likes to have all of the information she can. But this is different. This is her life - her world has just been turned upside down, and what was normal isn’t normal anymore.
Kim will need all of her energy, every single ounce her body, mind and spirit to get through this. I haven’t been in her shoes - I don’t know how utterly overwhelming and terrifying it is to receive this news. But I do know what it feels like to be the daughter. I hope that maybe what I have experienced can help to make the roller coaster ahead just the a bit less terrifying, or at least to alleviate some part of the everyday day stuff so that she can focus more on herself. And most of all I hope to just be there, with her. In the fear, in the uncomfort of the unknown, in the laughter when the opportunity arises, and in the tears and sadness.
- Krista
photo: Krista McKeachie