Friends

In the late 1980s I was a young, single mother, with big hair, of course.  Looking back through the dewy gauze of age and chemo, I remember my life then as wonderful, if not exactly carefree. Whatever problems I had have been softened and smoothed with time.  I was unmarried (oops) and had the most beautiful, busy, and sensitively charming child you could ever hope to meet.  Yet of course, with no financial support, money was always a struggle: I do remember that.  I'd been a night bartender, a job I could no longer do with a child as it's impossible to find childcare in the evening, and daytime bartenders don't make enough to pay for childcare.  I stayed home with my son until he was nearly 3, living on very little.  To pay my way I did odd jobs, (some very odd).  I borrowed money from my dad, and became incredibly frugal,  which is not my nature.  At all.

When he was almost 3 and the money situation became intolerable,  I went back to school and lived on student loans - which I only paid off recently. My rental home was in a beautiful part of Sacramento - full of tiny craftsmen bungalows and mature, leafy trees creating a canopy over the streets. To this day, it is a very desirable neighborhood despite the small scale of the homes.

One of the many odd jobs I had was delivering flyers.  Yes, I was one of those people who make you angry by littering on your property and whom you have to clean up after.  I no longer remember what the advertisements were for, but they weren't pizza door hangers, they were full sheets of paper.  I would get the flyers and rubber bands the day before I was to deliver them, usually about 500 pieces of paper.  After my son went to bed, I'd turn on the TV and roll them all up tight (the better for tossing) and secure them with a rubber band.  The next day, I'd pop them in plastic bags and hang them from the handles of the umbrella stroller, along with snacks for my son. I'd put my sunny blonde boy in to balance the weight, then off we'd go for a day of work.  For delivering flyers within the zip code requested, I received 5 cents a flyer, cash, which I thought was pretty good pay.  I was a fast walker.  I could make 25 dollars a day, although getting a job every day was not always possible.

Through sun and wind, my son and I would walk through Sacramento neighborhoods; viewing roses and azaleas, oaks and mulberry trees, tripping over lifted sidewalks, stopping to inspect an interesting bug or beautiful leaf.  I'd imagine which house I'd move into when money was less tight, and liked the McKinley Park neighborhood the best.  I walked through rich neighborhoods, which cost me dollars as the homes were too far apart and would lengthen my delivery time.  Poor ones were better for me financially, but often I'd be looked at with suspicion because people were home and none to happy to see a stranger approach their property.  My son was my saving grace - most people left me alone because of him.  Back then, they didn't have the new subdivisions where houses are inches apart, nor did they have GPS,  so I'd have to be speedy to get my flyers delivered and know the best routes.

Day after day, my son and I would walk (and roll) past beautiful landscaping and barking dogs.  We'd get wet from sprinklers or crunch through leaves. The wheels on his stroller took a beating as we'd go over walkways and lawns to find a delivery spot. We'd encounter nice people and suspicious ones.  We'd enjoy the weather or get soaked from the rain.  I'd try to leave each flyer in a place respectful to the homeowner and fast for me.

Flyers depleted, we would eventually reach a park where I could set my boy free to run and let him burn off some of his considerable energy. There are parks everywhere in Sacramento, and I never had to search to find one.   He no longer remembers this but it is one of my fondest times of life.  I do remember the struggle to feed him,  but more, I remember the hours spent in his presence, sun glinting off his hair, his happy smile and cries of "Watch me, mommy!"    I loved being a mother - his mother - and would do it all over again.

On the end of the street near my house, there was literally a "corner store" like you see in movies.    Unlike most convenience stores, there was no parking lot, no flashing beer signs.  Just a simple store where neighbors could pick up things they'd forgotten on shopping trips.   Bananas, candy, bread. I would regularly go there when I needed a small item and didn't want to put my kid in a carseat and drive. As my son grew older in that house, his goal was to be able to walk there by himself.  I think I finally let him when he was about 6, me trailing behind, hidden, in case anything happened.

It was to this store I was walking one day, needing milk or something one late afternoon.  I'd counted my change and dug through the couch, and had just barely enough, as usual.   I walked to the corner, light flickering through the leaves overhead, sidewalk rumbling under the stroller tires, the afternoon light fading amber as it filtered through the trees.

I ran into a woman who had a child the same age as my son, also picking up something at the store. She said hello to me, instantly recognizing our commonality.   Being a reserved person, I just smiled and prepared to go on my way, but she started chatting and asking me questions, and it turned out she lived across the alley behind me.  Within minutes she had invited me to her house for a drink.

My reading material of choice back in those days was True Crime.  Apparently, being a poor single mother wasn't frightening enough; I had to add gruesome murders to my nightly entertainment. So when she invited me, a complete stranger,  over to her house,  my first thought was, "She could be a serial killer.  If I go over there, she could murder us both."

I looked into her very large, sparkling hazel eyes, noted her well-kept brown hair and groomed appearance (I was a mess in a tee shirt, jeans, flip flops with my nails undone).  Her handsome son was the same age as my own, and I thought they could be friends.  I decided if it came down to it, I could take her.  So to her house I went.

And so began a friendship spanning 25 years.  Like with all relationships, there have been ups and downs, good and bad.  We have many differences; she is religious, I am not. She loves home decorating and repairing and building stuff - I am too lazy. She loves flowers and I have a black thumb.  Her parenting philosophy is different than mine; hers is more biblically-based I suppose, and mine comes from psychology books, but the truth is, the similarities outweigh our differences. We both love our kids; we both love raising kids.  We had similar, cold, mothers, and we both have very silly senses of humor.  We both like clothes and makeup and girly stuff.  We laugh a lot.  She is the person who I just went to visit in Utah, and she has come to see me.  We have both aged, of course, but she remains as she was back then: funny, welcoming, open, most importantly,  not a serial killer. She's still quite beautiful for a woman older than me!

She is a bright spirit.

As friends do, we have discussed most things in our lives, which have taken different courses. There are times I've had more money and times she's had more, and there are times when she's been through tough things and times I have. She has been with me as I have faced cancer and I was there as she faced marital abuse.  She is the woman I wrote about who came to decorate my bedroom so I would have a nice place to spend my final days.  She never shied away from the difficult conversations, which made me love her all the more.

One day, back when I was sicker than I am today,  I asked her what it was like for her to know her best friend didn't have much time left.    I asked her to write a blog post for me.

She said that no matter what she wrote, it came out maudlin and depressing, which I understand.  It is hard to stay away from maudlin when facing a terminal illness, as you can see by any movie on the subject. Neither she nor I are really into sentimentality and the cheesy take on life.

After our last visits,  she took a different approach - a humorous one.  One might call it gallows humor, which as you know I love.   I think in reading it, you will see why we are friends.

TIPS FOR WHEN YOUR BFF IS DIAGNOSED WITH CANCER

by Alexus P.
FRIEND FIRST, CANCER PATIENT SECOND

If your friend is diagnosed with cancer, what do you do?  Run away? Stop being friends? Cry?  Get hysterical?  NO!  The very first thing you do is get dibs on her closet (if she is a fashionista - which MY friend is) and any furniture you want that her husband hates.  No kidding, that's the first thing you do.  You must establish your right to these things - even before you know what kind of cancer she has, if it is treatable or any other pertinent information.  Establish that you get first pick of every and anything.  You might even be able to go so far as to march right into her closet and make selections while she lies in the bed, too sick to move, protest or fight you off.  Do it before she can get out of bed and lock the door effectively keeping you out.  In fact, if you're smarter than I am, you'll probably have your friend make you a key to her house so you can march right in and help yourself - maybe while she is out having chemo and her husband and children are gone.  Geez, why didn't I think of this earlier? 

Don't forget things like shoes, handbags, jewelry, and her newly acquired wigs.  She's never going to wear those wigs anyway - they are much too scratchy and uncomfortable with a bald head and you have all that hair to keep the wig from actually touching your scalp.

Next on the list - make sure that someone will notify you upon your friend's death so you don't have to read it in the newspaper.  The sooner you know, the sooner you can start wearing her clothes.  Now, some people might look down on you saying you're an opportunist.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Depends on just how good of a friend you were!  I mean, if after you finished picking over her closet, if you held a bowl for her to puke in and then gave her a cool cloth for her forehead or sat with her while she was ill;  colored pictures with her when she only had enough strength to do lame things, then you might be okay.  I never did any of those things.... so maybe I'm an opportunist.

Seriously though, just because your friend has been diagnosed with cancer, the friendship doesn't end.  Not if it's real.  This is the time when your friendship is tested.  In my case, I have tried to be supportive and understanding while watching my best friend decline.  I've worried from a distance because we don't live close to each other.  I've waited for news on blog posts, status updates and tweets.  I've prayed and I've cried.  I try not to think about the time when my friend will no longer be only a phone call or a text away.  The one thing I will never do, is forget our friendship - this is something I will cherish a lifetime.

For now, my friend has a reprieve and we can both breath a little easier while we wait (hopefully 20+ years) for the other shoe to drop.... and hopefully it will be, at the very least, a Christian Louboutin.  We both deserve that!

In the words of Bruno Mars:

Oh uh-huh
If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea
I'll sail the world to find you
If you ever find yourself lost in the dark and you can't see
I'll be the light to guide you

Find out what we're made of
When we are called to help our friends in need

You can count on me like 1, 2, 3
I'll be there
And I know when I need it
I can count on you like 4, 3, 2
You'll be there
'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah
Ooooooh, oooohhh yeah, yeah

If you're tossin' and you're turnin'
And you just can't fall asleep
I'll sing a song beside you
And if you ever forget how much you really mean to me
Every day I will remind you

Oooh
Find out what we're made of
When we are called to help our friends in need

You can count on me like 1, 2, 3
I'll be there
And I know when I need it
I can count on you like 4, 3, 2
You'll be there
'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah
Ooooooh, oooohhh yeah, yeah

You'll always have my shoulder when you cry
I'll never let go, never say goodbye
You know...

You can count on me like 1, 2, 3
I'll be there
And I know when I need it
I can count on you like 4, 3, 2
You'll be there
'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah
Ooooooh, oooohhh

You can count on me [AND] I can count on you.  

FYI:  She did abscond with my wigs, some of my bags and I agree she has dibs on any of my clothes she wants. More importantly, she did sit with me and color with my Spectrum Noir markers - and I didn't even know she thought it was lame!

But you know what she left out?  Dibs on my husband.  Maybe we talk a little tooooo much.

About 1990

2014