Reflections - Letter from a Friend

Barb's Card

My fingers tingled. Holding the envelope with the recognizable script, I settled into the hewn-log chair. Three tabby cats dozed in the sunshine streaming through the screen door that late July afternoon. Outside daisies bounced in the breeze and a goldfinch twittered.

The large top loop and straight line bottom of the uppercase “J” plus the wide, squat “W” on the envelope meant I’d received a birthday card from Barb. She and I met at Wilson College in the fall of 1967. We giggled over Pepsi and hot pretzels in the Snacky. We challenged curfews—getting Barb locked on her dorm’s glass porch in slippers and bathrobe the night I raced over to borrow her biology notes. She knocked on the window of the assistant dorm mother, a softy, to get in. Luckily, my dorm mother hadn’t locked the side door before I ran back.

Careful not to rip the envelope, I eased it open and pulled out a card with cute examples of “Incredible Life Moments” which ended with “Getting a card from someone who thinks you’re the BEST.” She knew I would say “Aah.” I did. Cheek muscles aching from smiling, I read the letter which opened hoping I’d had a happy birthday and continued with—

I’m late as usual but have a good reason this year.

I chuckled. After two years together at Wilson, I left to marry Spence. Barb graduated and moved to New Jersey. I lived in Ohio then Pennsylvania. Though we visited a couple of times, our friendship continued via letters, long letters in cards every birthday and Christmas. Barb’s cards were often late, but welcome whenever they came. Reasons for lateness could be newsworthy—a big project for the insurance firm, caring for her sick cocker spaniel, or preparing for her daughter Sara’s wedding. Curious, I kept reading.

I’m in the final stages of ovarian cancer. I stopped      treatment in April . . .

The words on the page blurred. Gasping, I blinked and read the sentence again.

The cats’ heads swiveled toward me. Gilbert crept across the great room, jumped onto the coffee table, and eased onto my lap. Placing his front paws on my shoulder, he brushed his whiskers against my cheek. His purring vibrated in my ear.

Stroking his back, I read about Barb’s pain medication, being at home, and—

The worst part at this point is that I no longer drive     - awful to have to rely on others.

Though Barb couldn’t see me, I shook my head and mentally admonished her. It’s okay to accept some help. You helped Sara her whole life. You babysat her twin boys whenever she asked. Yes, Sara’s busy, but the boys are eight now. She loves you. Helping you is Sara’s gift to you and to herself.

Still have a long list of things to handle but can         only do a little at a time.

Kudos to Barb for keeping busy during the “final stages.” But she always kept busy and organized. One of the times Spence and I visited Barb and her husband Mac, she had saved a matrix of ideas for baking casseroles. She cut the page from a magazine, framed it, and hung it on her kitchen wall. A small thing, but indicative of how she organized housework, sewing, and life. What things did Barb still want or need to handle?

But I’ve had a good life for which I’m very thankful. And, at 74, I’ve substantially outlived everyone else in my family.

Barb was dying. She faced death with dignity and grace, with acceptance and bravery. I hope I can summon her peace and courage when death’s hand reaches for mine.

Love you, Janet, and wish the best for you and             Spence and the kids.

All of Barb’s letters had ended with, write, please write, or write soon. Though I’d sent her my email address and phone number, she preferred we write. And Barb made her final goodbye. I wouldn’t search for a phone number. She had things to accomplish.

I did write, though. The next morning I described my birthday assuring her that her wishes for a good celebration had come true. I also wrote, “I admit your letter brought tears to my eyes and impressed me. Your bravery and positive outlook are admirable. Thanks for being my special friend all these years.”

Labor Day has come and gone. I sit in the hewn-log chair holding Barb’s card. Outside cicadas drone and mourning doves coo. September girasoles blossom in the field. On the deck, bumblebees buzz in begonias dripping from rain.

My mind buzzes too. It buzzes with questions. Is Barb in pain? Is she home? Did she finish her “list of things to handle?” Is she still alive?

I won't receive another letter. But upstairs a folder is stuffed with half a century of cards to reread. I pore over my friend’s last letter—short for her, but long on honesty. All through the reading my mind keeps asking, Is Barb still alive?

The answer, of course, is she will always be alive in spirit. Barb lives in my heart.

Daisies

Girasole