A Grand Gift, A Grand Girl

My senior year in college I lived in an apartment building with eleven other women.  Three apartments.   Four women each.  Most of them had been friends since freshman year.  I was new to the group--introduced by a friend who was one of the twelve.  We lived on Grand Boulevard, and they were the "Grand Girls" before I got there.  But, it was grand to be a Grand Girl for one year.

Senior year, second semester was a little like being in a holding pattern.   We had taken the GRE's and LSAT's, sent out our graduate school applications, and were planning our next steps--law school, nursing school, graduate school, jobs.  In between going to classes, waiting for graduate school acceptances and planning for life after college, we hung out in each others apartments and talked about travel after graduation, Spring Break, "thirtysomething"(every Tuesday night at 10), going out, hair and lipstick.

One lazy day, a few of us were sitting at the kitchen table, doing the Times crossword puzzle, and reading magazines.  One roommate reading People magazine asked if we thought she could carry off the Demi Moore "Ghost" hair cut.  Lots of hair talk ensued.  We started talking about who in the house could and couldn't carry off the pixie cut--bone structure, hair texture, all of the key features that would factor into a successful pixie cut.

No one wound up getting their hair cut like Demi Moore.  There was a lot of hair going on in those apartments in 1991.  We grew up in the eighties.  No one was voluntarily cutting off their long locks.

I've thought a lot about that roommate and the pixie cut conversation this past year--in my year of hair. It turns out that after four months of chemo I could carry off the pixie hair cut.  I hated it, but I carried it off.

But, what I didn't know was that the same roommate who first asked if she could carry off the Demi Moore hair cut was also sporting the pixie cut--also, not by choice.  We had been out of touch for over ten years, and we were both being treated for breast cancer.  And, neither of us knew about the other.

My old, dear friend who had a quick wit, sharp intelligence and great style (who taught me, among many other things, about the beauty of the Russian literature and the power of a good lipstick) had been diagnosed with breast cancer eight months before I was.  We hadn't spoken in years, and she and I kept in touch with different women from the original house of twelve.  We both had surgeries and endured chemo.  And, we chose and wore wigs without knowing about each other's cancer.

By the time I went public with my breast cancer and started posting my blog to Facebook I was already done with my treatments.   I had "N.E.D," no evidence of disease.   But, it seems my old, dear friend was still being treated--aggressively.  I know that she was fiercely private about her stage of cancer, her treatment and her prognosis.  I know very little about her course of treatment.  But, it was aggressive and continuous.   I was done, and she was still being treated.

I reconnected with some of the Grand Girls this year through Facebook.  They found me, and they found my blog.   They found out I had cancer.   Those girls, those Grand Girls were quite grand.  They decided not to tell me about our other roommate with breast cancer.  Because, they decided, I had a hard year; we had been out of touch for so long; our roommate was so private; and, our breast cancer stories were very different.  They definitely struggled with the decision, but in the end they didn't reconnect the two roommates with breast cancer.  Until last week.

Last week, a roommate called me to tell me that my old, dear friend was very sick and was dying.   It was too late for me to call her. 

At first I was angry and so sad.  I was fall-to-the-floor-crying sad that we didn't have the chance to reconnect.  We could have been sick and fighting and scared and bald together.

Then I thought, if I had known that my old, dear friend was dying of the same disease that I was fighting could I have walked the walk from Grand Central to Sloan Kettering for sixteen weeks?  Could I have gotten myself to all 28 radiation appointments?  Could I have laughed and joked with my kids about hair balls and wigs?  Maybe not.

It turns out those Grand Girls gave me a gift.   They let me keep believing that a fortysomething year old woman fights and survives cancer.  They protected me until they couldn't anymore. 

Yesterday, a roommate called to tell me our friend had died.

My 42 year old, dear friend died of the disease that we were both fighting all of last year.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.