It was 8:15 a.m. and the waiting room of Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston was already bustling with activity. Nurses came and went through the double doors leading to the treatment area as patients – some moving more slowly than others – were triaged and prepared for the day. It was a Thursday – the middle of my workweek and Dana-Farber was the last place I thought I’d be.
I will be the first to admit that throughout my 20-something years, I’ve lived in relative comfort with little to disrupt my happy little world. A little over a month ago, however, I got a phone call from a dear friend, who broke the news that she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Almost immediately, I went into reporter-mode, questioning her as to what kind, what stage, and what treatment options were available. Once I got the facts, I told her if she needed anything, all she had to do was ask.
Since I moved to Western Mass four years ago, Debbi has been like a mother to me. Whenever I found myself in a situation where all I wanted was a hug from my own mom (who lives nearly two hours away), Debbi was there to offer comfort and wisdom. It was she who took me to the hospital for an ultrasound last year following a minor surgical procedure. I didn’t want to go alone and since my mom wasn’t around, she volunteered her time. When the tables were turned, and I found out she had cancer, I didn’t hesitate to offer her the same in return, at least to the best of my ability.
Both of her children (who are about the same age as I) live out of state, and are unable to be here to help her through her treatments. My logic was simple: If it was my mom and I wasn’t able to care for her myself, I’d hope someone else would do it for me.
Last month, I accompanied Debbi to Boston for her second of what I can only imagine will be many chemotherapy treatments. It was a long day for both of us, and afterwards, Debbi thanked me profusely for not only offering to go with her, but for actually following through.
While I appreciate her thankfulness, I was caught off guard when she gave me the heartfelt commendation recently. It didn’t take much effort on my part to accompany her, and during her treatment, I was able to get a little reading and writing done. With the obvious exception of spending a majority of the day in the hospital (which was nothing at all like what "Grey's Anatomy" would like you to believe), it was just like spending time with any other friend.
Last week, almost a month after my foray into Boston with Debbi, I was watching a TV interview with an author whose new book I recently read. In the book, “Promises to Keep,” Jane Green wrote about the way cancer touches people’s lives, using her own experience with her friend as her inspiration for the novel’s characters. During the interview, the author describes how she had offered to help her friend during her illness, and followed through by doing such mundane (yet important!) things as cooking meals for the family, etc.
It was a five-minute interview, but it made me stop and think.
In the grand scheme of things, I lead a good life. I have a home and a job, not to mention friends whom I love and a family who would do anything for me if necessary. I’ve had my fair share of angst-ridden phone calls home during which I’ve complained about truly trivial matters, and yet my family and friends have listened with sympathetic ears while I got my worries off my chest.
With Debbi’s cancer diagnosis came a paradigm shift. I have always strived to be a good friend and a good person, but I think I could be better. During the last year, through my own experience and now with my experience with Debbi, I’ve learned not to take for granted the people who step up to the plate when it counts. Those are the people who matter.
When it comes to friendships, it’s more important to show than tell; doing something for another is better than simply saying you’ll do it. The author being interviewed on TV last week said it succinctly, but she said it perfectly: “Remember to show the people you love that you love them.”
Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register newspaper.
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