Jane

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.

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And the next entry begins... My friend Jane died today. Strange.

Grace

As I sat with Jane in the ICU tonight, I thought about how rare it is that we get to care for our friends in this way, especially if we are young. The word that comes to mind is grace.

When I was undergoing chemotherapy, Michael Broffman, my chinese herbalist, would tell me that my being sick gave people the opportunity to practice giving (as if I were doing them a service). And tonight, 2 years later, his words make more sense. I can't find the right word for it... Grateful? Blessed? Lucky? Or just simply grace. To be able to sit with Jane, to stroke her forehead, to hold her hand, to rub her feet, to make sure she is not alone. Just to be with her.

On Thursday Jane found out that she had leukemia. The likely culprit is the Adriamycin (a chemo drug) that was used to treat her breast cancer. (I know, the irony is insane.) The situation quickly grew worse and she was admitted to the ICU. Her body had basically shut down and she was experiencing major organ failure. Right now she is on dialysis and has a breathing tube. Ann and I stayed with her through the night on Friday. Today her family arrived and she had lots of visitors so I came home and slept and then headed back in the evening.

Grace.

My body 

bears witness 

to the disease

that has moved through me

has left me

with salt water in my chest

tattooed symmetry

and short, curly hair

the ovaries of a grandmother

sleeping peacefully

in this 30 year old

embodiment of transcendence

this disease has left me 

cracked open

expansive

breathing deeply 

each morning

at the colors of the sunrise

and the shape of the clouds

Dear Delta Airlines,

I am writing to make sure you are aware October has ended, and with it that dreaded thing this country calls "Breast Cancer Awareness Month." Given that it's already December, I realize my letter may seem a bit late. (I've been busy.) You've probably already replaced the pink lemonade you were selling with egg nog and packed away those cute, pink uniforms for something more in line with the upcoming holidays. Good for you!

You probably don't remember trapping me on your plane, not once, but twice as you peddled the pink just over a month ago. I looked harmless enough, definitely too young to even be a cancer survivor. There I sat, headphones on, seething, while a voice announced: "Delta stewardesses will be coming through the cabin with pink lemonade. Your $2 donation will go to support breast cancer awareness." Even in the air, I can't escape the pink!

I, of course, never plan to be on a plane with you again during the month of October. However, should I find myself traveling next year, I hope that you've rethought the purpose of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and replaced the pink lemonade and the uniforms (ridiculously cheesy) with something less trite. Really, who came up with that promotion? What about showing a documentary like "Dear Talula" on your movie screens? This would truly raise awareness, capitalize on a captive audience (literally), and might even give people a clearer sense of purpose as they put their $2 in your baskets. Hell, you might even raise more money.

Sincerely,
Trisha Ekstrom
Flights 72 and 1275