When Girlfriends Break Hearts (16 page)

“I have cancer,” I heard her repeat through what seemed like an ocean of deafening silence.
 

I finally, slowly, registered that a life was being lost. A life that was so precious and so beautiful was going to be taken.

The silence broke with tears, with cries, with words of comfort, with questions, with denial, with moans, with the words, “I have four weeks, six at most.”

It couldn’t be true. Pamela, a healthy, vibrant, youthful, beautiful woman with the compassionate heart and warmest soul could not have cancer.
 

How can this be? I…I…I don’t believe this…this can’t be true. No…no…it isn’t true. It just isn’t….

“Pamela,
how
?
Why
?” Indistinct voices sounded.

“When did you find out?”

“Are you sure?”

“Did you get a second opinion? A third?”

“How is this
possible
?”

No…this just can’t be. It simply cannot be true.
 

But the devastated look on Pamela’s face and the chorus of cries and condolences affirmed what I did not want to believe. Pamela had cancer and it would very soon take her life.

Throughout the entire hour that we comforted Pamela while she shared her tragic news, I felt larger pieces by larger pieces of my life—my world as I knew it—crumble away. I realized at that point that I had absolutely
no
control over my life and the motions of the universe. I assumed control and hope were lost when I discovered that Brandon had cheated on me, but hearing Pamela’s news, hearing that a
good
soul—a
good
person—would lose their life, made me realize that the world and its events were bigger than me. Much bigger. My own problems suddenly seemed so much smaller and less significant.
 

As best she could, Pamela explained that she was completely unaware that anything of the sort could have been progressing for years. She had experienced particularly painful stomach cramping for the past few weeks, and during a routine physical and mammogram she was delivered the news by her doctor. She said that when he told her he had bad news, she instantly thought of cancer.
 

When the doctor confirmed it, she, in her ever-positive and ever-encouraging way, assumed it was breast cancer and that she could beat it. She knew plenty of women who had unfortunately been faced with the horrendous news of breast cancer, all of whom were proud survivors, and two of whom were students of hers. She only hoped that she had caught it quickly enough. But then her doctor had told her that she had pancreatic cancer—a cancer that had, regrettably, gone undetected for years and was now terminal.
 

We gave comforting words and embraces as best we could through tears, but Pamela’s news had affected all of us as if we each had been told by our own doctors that we, ourselves, had just weeks left on Earth.

This wasn’t really happening, was it? It
couldn’t
be real. Pamela was not going anywhere. Right? She couldn’t leave. There was not going to be a discussion about how she’d go through treatments or how she’d spend the last weeks of her life. There was not going to be talk of who would take her place at the studio and how all of us students should continue with our exercise classes.

But as I surveyed the room, all of the women in tears, comforting hands on Pamela, I knew it was true. There
was
going to be a discussion about the cancer treatments she would undergo; there
was
going to be a discussion about how the last weeks of her life would be spent. There
was
talk of who would take her place in the studio, and there
was
already encouragement that we continue our classes. It was all happening. It was all very real. So terribly real.

Through tears that chilled and words that cut, Pamela told us of her plans. She was brave despite the news she had just shared…despite the news that her doctor had given her less than twenty-four hours ago.
 

Pamela would no longer be leading classes. Her energy needed to be conserved, particularly over her last weeks, when the pain of the cancer would intensify exponentially, diminishing her strength. Eventually the high and frequent doses of morphine and sedatives would render Pamela’s body and mind too weak to do anything more than walk to the restroom, or take a meal upright in bed for longer than thirty minutes at a stretch. But the relief it provided would be worth the side effects like the loss of mobility. Pancreatic cancer was one, if not the, most progressive of cancers. Due to its ability to go undetected for a great length of time, it would often be discovered at a point too late to fight.

For the next four to six weeks, or, as Pamela told her us through her sweet, yet forced, giggle, “many weeks or months or maybe
years
,” she would be spending her time at home with her three children, her grandchildren, and other dear family members and close friends. She invited us to visit with her at her home.
 

In her remaining time, Pamela would finish perfecting the English-style garden she’d been working on for years. She wouldn’t expend the energy planting, but she would be finishing the sketches and plans she had made.
 

“I have the most beautiful back bay window that shows off the garden exquisitely,” she said. “When it’s warm I can sit out on the patio and watch the new plants go in. And when it’s cold I can take up a seat in my seating area by the bay window. The sun shines in so beautifully. It’ll be a dream! If I can’t plant the garden myself, then I want to watch it come alive.”
 

Her strength and positive attitude astounded me. She was the epitome of a wise, kind, good, and positive soul.

Pamela hoped to have the garden finished in four weeks, which should be the perfect time for some flowers to bloom and others to be planted. Then she wanted to host a garden party, complete with tea, wind chimes, big umbrellas, fancy hats for the ladies, maybe even bow ties for the gentlemen, and of course my “famous” carrot and zucchini cupcakes with cream cheese icing—Pamela’s favorite.
 

“I know I probably won’t be very lucid,” she said through tears and a stifled laugh. “But I would so love for you to see the garden that I’ve always wanted. It’s been a dream of mine for so long. It’d mean a lot if you could all come for a celebration. An unveiling!”

She smiled, her face lighting up at the talk of her grand party. Was she masking her fear or seeking denial? Perhaps, but as we all agreed to join in the festivities of her garden party we all were grabbing at straws, trying to bite back the painful reality that one of our dearest friends and mentors was leaving. It was one of those realities that you know you will have to face at some point down the road, but one you try to avoid or conceal with laughter, however forced.
 

“And it could be a kind of farewell party, too,” she said, bringing her tissue up to her eyes.
 

“Pamela, no,” we all sounded.

She waved her hands about, dismissing the sympathy.
 

“We’re having the party,” she stated firmly. “And you’re
all
invited. It’ll be a grand time! You think you can make those cupcakes that you make so well, Sophie? It won’t be a burden?” She gave me a small smile.

I took in a quick and sudden breath, trying to keep back any more tears. “Absolutely,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around the small, beautiful woman whom I looked up to and revered as one of the brightest stars in the universe. “Absolutely. Not a burden at all, Pamela. Not…at…all….”

The sun long set and the sky dark, our “class” was over and we eventually filed away. As we did, Pamela gathered her belongings. She began winding up her resistance band, then slipped it into the colorful cloth exercise bag that had more than likely been a find in Bali during her period of training. She rolled up the mat that she had habitually laid out in the studio and put it away with the rest of the mats for the last time.

I watched her as she wrapped her soft beige scarf around her petite neck. She was absolutely stunning. Courage and compassion radiated from her every pore. Pamela was everything that I was not. She was everything that I wanted to be. Her kindness and patience and understanding were purely inspiring. Even bearing this painful news, she remained the same kind woman: compassionate and sweet. She maintained a courage that I know could never be replicated on my part. She was, at that moment, at that moment of deep sorrow and loss, truly the most inspiring woman in the world.

I walked with her to the studio door, in the company of four other women who wanted to close the day—and the studio—with Pamela. For one last time.

“Well, you ladies best get home to those husbands and lives of your own,” Pamela said in her usual cheerful manner, opening up the front door. The air was chilly and the familiar pour of the Seattle rain was still coming down. “Oh poop, it’s still raining. Well, that’s spring for you.” She patted me on the back, ushering me ahead and out.

Crowded together under the awning, sheltering ourselves from the rain, we watched Pamela lock up the studio. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to drive away from the studio knowing that it would be the last time Pamela would be on the other side of the door, welcoming me with open arms and a bright smile. I didn’t want to believe that she was going to have to say goodbye to life. And I didn’t want to say goodbye to her.

Pamela pulled an umbrella from her purse and propped it open, and myself and a few others followed in suit.

We walked with her to her car, then kissed her and embraced her and wished her safe travels. And we made sure to let her know that we’d be knocking on her door very soon to visit.

“Oh please do!” she said, smiling, her eyes glassy and filling with another round of tears. “Now you ladies get home. I’ll be in touch about that garden party.”
 

Some of us rushed for our own cars, trying to seek shelter from the rain. I, however, remained standing near Pamela’s parking space as she drove off into the wet and dark night. Before she made a left onto the exiting street she waved a hand out her window.

I knew, at that very moment, that that image of Pamela driving off into the night, waving goodbye to her students—her friends—and her studio for the last time would be one of the forever-remaining memories I would have of her. It would be that last memory when Pamela was the Pamela I would always know and always love. The woman she was, and would always be, before the cancer would claim her life. I would remember how dark and cold the night was, yet how beautifully the city lights bounced off the wet, crystal-like street and reflected back into the darkness. I would remember the flow of Pamela’s linen sleeve as she reached it out to wave her final goodbye to the life she had beautifully led, and inspired, at our studio and in our group of women.

I closed my umbrella, giving myself over to the tears of the sky, and wept.

It did not rain that somber night in Seattle. That night the sky—the heavens—cried. I cried, Pamela cried, and the world cried with us.

Chapter Sixteen

Thank God for personal days. And thank God for an understanding boss. Pamela’s awful news had left me speechless, even emptier, and overwhelmed with a palpable sense of loss…a loss of so very much. The stress of my crumbling life had taken its toll. My immune system had worn down and the only measure I could take to make my head feel a little less bloated (not to mention make my heart feel a little less broken) was to call in sick and lie in bed for the next couple of days.
 

Claire and Conner had been extremely supportive and offered all of the Kleenex, fresh Perrier, and romantic comedies a girl could need.

Come Saturday, when my nostrils became less congested and I was able to reduce my tears over Pamela’s news to little more than a minimum, I headed into work.
Katie’s Kitchen
had another fairly busy wedding weekend on the books and even though Katie offered me the chance to stay home and recoup, I saw otherwise. I was feeling better after hours upon hours of being cooped up in the house, cuddled in warm blankets in my bed, and occasionally on the living room sofa. I had essentially nursed away my cold with liquids, crackers, and chick flicks. And, of course, Claire by my side when she’d get off of work and back from walking the dog. I hadn’t nursed away the pain of loss, but I had no choice but to sidle up to acceptance and bravery, however incrementally.

I hadn’t heard from Emily yet since I had sent the email regaling her with the juicy gossip and dirty details of my life. It wasn’t unusual for her to take several weeks, sometimes even two or three months, to respond to an email. Her wild and intrepid ventures took her anywhere and everywhere, and sometimes that meant she’d be pushed briefly back into the dark ages. I was sure her location and adventures in Ghana were not much different than the Arctic adventure with the Russian liner she took a year or two ago when none of us had heard from her for nearly eight weeks.
 

I hoped to hear from her soon, though. I regarded her advice and her words as solid and helpful, and had been eager to hear her take on the Robin-Brandon-Sophie saga. The idea crossed my mind to shoot her another email, a sort of follow-up, letting her know of the latest with Lara and Pamela’s news. But I thought better of it and decided to wait until Emily responded to the first round of news.

I detected that my personal problems and general negative attitude about, well, everything
negative
in my life were starting to wear on Claire, and I wasn’t about to throw Emily into that loop, too. I could picture it: Lara and Robin were out of my life. Claire was hanging by a thread. Emily would label me “that drama friend” who sent obnoxious emails. Then there I’d be, hoping that Jackie would have my back, but I knew that I couldn’t keep up with her social agenda or her drinking pace, and I certainly couldn’t compete with Hank.