I just finished writing an e-mail to friends, mostly as a way to process the last 72 hours. Afterwards I went to copy and paste the text into my "cancer journal" word document and the last thing there is from almost 8 months ago. This is what it said:
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August 5, 2008
9:50
In the space of less than two weeks, two women I know from the BAYS community have died. Lynnly died yesterday. I have been processing this mostly alone. I wasn’t able to make it to the BAYS meeting on Sunday. And I’m actually realizing that I don’t quite have people that I want to process this with. It feels very solitary. Lonely. I’ve been thinking a lot about my friend Jane, who also has stage 4 cancer, (and is still living and thriving), and holds both Deb and Lynnly as close members of her community. I feel a very deep sense of grief, and of loss (in a more general sort of way). And I think some of that grief, at least in part, is attempting to imagine what it would be like if these were both good friends of mine. If I had to accompany two women in their passing in such a short space of time. It is a fear I don’t like to speak or acknowledge is there, but what if someday I have to experience Jane dieing? Even teaching in the inner city, I have not personally had to experience the death of a lot of young people (thankfully). I have not ever sat with someone who was dying—the beauty and the grief in holding that kind of space. And I am afraid. Afraid of sitting with death in such an intimate way. I am not afraid that I am going to die, but I am afraid that others will. Is this strange? In staying connected to a community of women with breast cancer, I am going to ultimately lose friends, lose people I know. I will be able to count. I now know two women who have died from breast cancer.
9:50
In the space of less than two weeks, two women I know from the BAYS community have died. Lynnly died yesterday. I have been processing this mostly alone. I wasn’t able to make it to the BAYS meeting on Sunday. And I’m actually realizing that I don’t quite have people that I want to process this with. It feels very solitary. Lonely. I’ve been thinking a lot about my friend Jane, who also has stage 4 cancer, (and is still living and thriving), and holds both Deb and Lynnly as close members of her community. I feel a very deep sense of grief, and of loss (in a more general sort of way). And I think some of that grief, at least in part, is attempting to imagine what it would be like if these were both good friends of mine. If I had to accompany two women in their passing in such a short space of time. It is a fear I don’t like to speak or acknowledge is there, but what if someday I have to experience Jane dieing? Even teaching in the inner city, I have not personally had to experience the death of a lot of young people (thankfully). I have not ever sat with someone who was dying—the beauty and the grief in holding that kind of space. And I am afraid. Afraid of sitting with death in such an intimate way. I am not afraid that I am going to die, but I am afraid that others will. Is this strange? In staying connected to a community of women with breast cancer, I am going to ultimately lose friends, lose people I know. I will be able to count. I now know two women who have died from breast cancer.
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And the next entry begins... My friend Jane died today. Strange.
