Godspeed

They say it is inappropriate to refer to cancer as a battle because it is not a win/lose situation. The “they” in this case are oncologists, psychologists, neurologists, authors, and influencers. But what about the patient? What does she call it? What did my friend Deb, who died on Sunday from metastatic breast cancer, call her journey in the wake of a diagnosis she never believed would take her life? It is a win/lose disease, and Deb fought like hell to stay here with the rest of us. And in the end, she lost: She lost her courage, her fiery spirit, and her battle cry. She lost her life.

Cancer won.

I met Deb shortly after she started dating our friend Brian. This was pre-COVID, when the world still gently swayed on its axis. We hit it off right away, and as I told Brian, “Don’t f*ck this up. I like her.”  

The first time Deb mentioned breast cancer, the two of us were eating tacos at our favorite Mexican restaurant. “I was diagnosed about five years ago,” she said.

With my mouth full, I managed, “What are you talking about?”

“I have a lump in my armpit. I know the cancer has spread,” she said.

Deb and I shared different opinions on many subjects. In the area of health, the gap was wider than politics and religion combined. I knew to tread lightly. “What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I need to figure it out,” she said.

As a friend standing on the periphery of what would become Deb’s medical odyssey, I was constantly amazed at her tenacity to hold doctors accountable and dream big for a future that no longer involved the enemy devouring her body. Something she never let enter or even touch her psyche or essence.

Over the next eighteen months, Deb and I spent hours on the phone or sitting on her front porch, sharing stories, complaining about daily struggles, and giggling. In the beginning, we still met for taco Tuesday and meals at our house in town or in the airplane hangar. Deb’s treatments were in Phoenix, three hours away. Eventually, cancer demanded her full attention, so our phone calls became a sacred time that I cherished. She shared her fight openly. There were cancer markers to watch, surgeries to heal from, chemo appointments to schedule, and supplements to take. Most of all, Deb missed the foods she loved. “I’ll make you mashed potatoes when you come home,” I said.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Brian, who had always been the fun-loving, adventurous type, morphed into every girl’s dream man, a knight in shining armor. He was attentive to Deb’s needs, drove her to all appointments, and slept in chairs or on the floor to be there when she needed medication or to use the bathroom. And for his efforts, Deb became more dependent on him. Yet, he never complained. It was a beautiful love story with the most tragic ending.

Deb and I were the same age. Those years in life when time feels like you are white knuckling it on a derailed train careening toward an abyss. When bones and muscles remind you of past injuries, announcing each morning, “We’re here!” And we were here. We had arrived at a place where we should have been planning day trips and spending more time with family and friends. But cancer doesn’t give a shit about our plans, our fears, or our loss when it takes someone we love.

The last weeks were brutal for everyone. Brian brought her home after the doctors said there was nothing else they could do. Deb couldn’t eat and became weaker by the hour. Family camped out next to her bed at home while friends and hospice nurses came and went. “I can’t hear you,” I said one day while we were on the phone.

“I’m too weak,” she said.

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

Next month marks our lunch date from two years ago, when we ate tacos and she told me about the lump in her armpit. I remember thinking, It’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month. How ironic.

There is nothing ironic about losing someone you love to cancer or the legacy the disease leaves in its wake. I do not mourn the frail, motionless body, cancer consumed and left behind. I mourn my friend, Deb. The woman who single-handedly brought back the hippy phrase “right on”. I mourn the 5’4” woman who will always remain bigger than life in my memory. I mourn Deb’s compassion, her giggle, and her insistence that there is power in our beliefs.

I mourn the warrior.

I mourn my friend. Godspeed, Deb.