The Present

As a 35-year friend battles serious health issues, sometimes all you can do is be there

My friend is curled up on the bed, her once robust body under layers of blankets and quilts that warm the skin now serving as the only insulation for her bones.

“What are you reading?” she asks as I type this. “I never could read things on my phone.”

She nods off again. A few moments later, another burst of questions: “What are you working on? Still doing the writing and photography?”

I keep my answers short, sometimes opting for a simple “yes” or “no” when I have volumes to say.

Volume — in this case meaning both “amount” and “sound level” — is no longer a priority. Sitting next to her, being present in this moment, is what matters.

Talk, talk, talk

The Sunday to Monday trip to South Carolina was not in my plans. I traveled to Texas last week to work on a freelance magazine story. I thought I would be back in Virginia pacing troughs in my basement while trying to crack the code of long-form journalism yet again.

Journalism is how we met. I was working at an ill-fated job for a large metropolitan daily when she relocated to Texas from North Carolina, a rising star in her chosen field of religion writing.

We started talking, discovering a shared nocturnal lifestyle and a mutual appreciation of late-night storytelling as we pondered our individual fates and sought to solve the problems of the universe. We found that we had similar dark, barbed senses of humor and loving hearts.

Over the past 35 years, we both have been divorced, remarried, and relocated. I’ve helped raise four kids, been laid off and started a business; after an acclaimed journalism career, she moved into academia and then retired following a significant health scare. We worked together on occasion, most significantly on a series of stories marking the genesis of what became Brown v. Board of Education.

We saw each other through the death of parents and, more tragically, the passing of her second husband, a seismic shock to her universe from which she truly has never recovered.

For years, we talked deep into the night.

‘Sooner rather than later’

Sitting in the room where she was moved a couple of weeks ago, I look at how it was decorated lovingly by her brother, who lives in Los Angeles. Despite her limited mobility, the ever-present piles — the writers I know exfoliate stuff, much to the chagrin of our significant others — remain scattered around the room.

Clutter drives some people crazy. For her, and for me to a certain extent, it’s a visual representation of the chaos that exists inside our minds. 

The past few years have been chaotic for her. A cancer diagnosis, followed by surgery and a horrible radiation/chemo experience, left her fragile mentally as well as physically. Isolated from her friends and her far-flung extended family, first by cancer and its effects and then by the tendrils of Covid, she fell into an extended depression that became deeper and deeper.

Conversations between us went from hours to minutes and then became virtually nonexistent. Other longtime friends and a family member had similar stories.

But in recent weeks, there were signs of hope. Although physically worn down, mentally she was back. The flat affect, which had replaced the rat-a-tat-tat cadence we knew and loved and missed, was no longer present. She was starting, in some short bursts, to become engaged again.

A full exam was required before she could move into her new place. More tumors were found. The weight loss has been sudden and dramatic. More tests are planned, but the call came last week from her cousin that said, “If you want to see her, I’d come sooner rather than later.”

‘Refuse to give up yet’

Time feels fractured in moments like this. Seconds become minutes; minutes become hours. Being present requires deep wells of patience, an understanding of the moment’s significance, both to yourself and to the other person. 

I ask if she needs me to get her something to drink or eat. It’s getting close to my departure time, where a story on trauma, grief, and a slowly recovering community awaits back in Virginia. “Don’t leave to get anything. Stay here,” she says. 

And then, as her eyes close, she adds: “I figure you haven’t got much more time.”

She falls back to sleep, each breath deeper than the last. She’s been in bed for some time, only getting up to go to the bathroom or to shower, both of which require assistance.

At one point, eyes closed, she mumbles, “Refuse to give up yet.” I’m not sure if she’s directing it at me or at herself. Seconds (minutes?) pass, then she looks into my eyes, smiles, and gives a half wink before falling back asleep.

A few moments later she looks at me again and repeats herself: “Refuse to give up yet.”

Then out of the blue comes a random anecdote about her second husband, the love of her life. When they were engaged, she mentioned setting up a gift registry. He responded: “We can’t tell people what to give us for our wedding!”

She laughs. Even in her weakened state, there’s a spark in her eyes. Then: “Oh, God, I miss him every day.”

She falls back asleep. A few moments later, she says, “I feel so … bad.” Once again, I’m not sure if it is directed at me or the universe as a whole.

‘I love you’

The day before my father died, he pulled each of us over to his hospital bed and gave us a short wave, pressing his fingers toward the palm of his hand before he slipped into a coma.

Nothing like that happened this weekend. Despite the seemingly insurmountable odds, there is not an established timeframe. And her mental outlook is the best it has been in some time. Will can be a wondrous thing. 

I told her regularly — religiously — on this trip: “I love you.” It’s something we’ve said to each other countless times over three plus decades, as we’ve become an integral part of each other’s extended family.

Every time she responded with a half-smile and an “I love you too.”

For that, I am eternally grateful.

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Update:

This essay was originally published on Tuesday, September 27. On Wednesday, my friend Cecile went to the hospital for the additional tests and went into cardiac arrest. She died on Thursday, September 29 at the age of 67. Below is a picture of Cecile with my four kids during a beach trip to the Isle of Palms in 2003.

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Addendum

Earlier this summer, while working on another magazine story, I learned that another friend and mentor had passed away. During my first year in school public relations, I was fortunate to meet Nora Carr, one of the best and most respected professionals in the business. Over the next 25 years, we worked together on various projects and became close.

Nora, who died following a heart attack in June at the too-young age of 63, was chief of staff for North Carolina’s Guilford County Schools for 13 years and served two stints as the head of communications for Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools. She also was a past president of the National School Public Relations Association.

When I became editor of American School Board Journal in 2007, I asked Nora to write a communications column for the magazine. We also worked on a small book together — Telling Your Story: A Communications Guide for School Boards — that was one of the National School Boards Association’s biggest sellers for several years.

Nora and I served as sounding boards for each other, and I was always struck by how she was always thoughtful, compassionate, and inclusive. Most important, she fiercely defended and protected youth who were overlooked and underserved.

In June 2021, just before Nora left Guilford County to work for the Z. Smith Reynolds Foundation, I interviewed her for ASBJ. You can read the article here.