Friends

I continue to be pleasantly surprised during my conversations with a grandpa I’ve been getting to know.  He had a stroke several months ago, but is pretty lucid still, and he loves to talk, so we just visit.  I have a book I bring with me that has like 3,000 question prompts. I ask him all sorts of random things, and he’s such a good sport. He never remembers who I am and always wants to know what my research is for.  I’m mindful of his energy and offer to give him an out by asking if he’s tired and needs to rest, but he always wants to keep talking, which amuses me.  But what really gets me is how alike we are.  Everything from roller coasters (they scare us to death), musicals (I pulled up a whole list on my phone and we talked about them all), what value we think is the most important in society (honesty), what class we hated most in school (p.e.), proudest accomplishment (our families), favorite season (fall), to what he likes to do fo fun (hike in national parks and good conversation—what?!).  I have just been fascinated during the weeks that we’ve gotten to know each other how similar we are despite our age difference (he’s got to be around 80), gender, religions (he was a pastor at some point), time period of growing up, educational and employment backgrounds and obvious life experience.  I honestly feel like I relate better with him than most of the people in my life.

I feel this way with a couple of other unsuspecting relationships.  At face value we’re nothing alike.  But the more I spend time with and get to know this handful of varied women, I’m seeing that I have way more in common with and see the world much more like they do than the usual suspects in my life.  They like to garden and make bread and other food from scratch and use lots of vegetables and store their little food items in jars and enjoy doing puzzles and engaging in good conversation.  Camping, nature, frugality, pets and animals, not concerned about germs or high fashion or how their lives appear to others, on and on.  I had no idea I would come to love these women so much.  We were all thrown together in a pot, just interesting that the ones I thought I’d have more of a connection with, not really.  And these I assumed would just be superficial friends have wiggled their way into my heart by just being themselves and by us getting to know each other.

I was fascinated with my reaction the other day at a group gathering.  Usually I’m pretty comfortable with whatever these days, but this was a smallish gathering of like 10, and about half of the women were new to me.  I recognized that old sinking shy feeling from jr. high and got my food and retreated to a hide out on the couch with my old stand-bys instead of gathering at the table with the newbies.  They were so colorful and fashionable and young and talkative and comfortable with each other; the foods they brought were delicious and pretty and so out of my element.  I felt old and frumpy and grayish, not wanting to expend the energy to engage.  But we gathered to discuss in the living room as a group and after an hour or so, I relented and relaxed.  I couldn’t help myself.  They were great.  Yes, they were still confident and self-assured, but they were so warm and accepting and easy to be with.  We laughed together, obviously we all have a love for reading and ideas and discussing, they were just genuine and lovely. I silently asked for forgiveness for misjudging them and for closing myself off.  I think I already love them.  I don’t know why I felt resistant to new friends.  We can always use a friend, and it is so enriching to have a variety of women in our lives.  A valuable and humbling reminder/lesson.

I have found this to be true with nearly every single person I’ve encountered.  Yes, some I connect better with, even though sometimes at face value you wouldn’t think we would given our apparent differences.  But I have never truly gotten to known a person without developing a love for her.  Once I know her stories, what her passions and worries are, how she grew up, what her life has been like, it’s not even a question, I always feel love and compassion.  Though I’d like to get to the point where I feel that way without the benefit of having heard her story.  I think the older we get, the better we are at assuming everyone has had a rough time and is going through hard stuff; in that case, the older we get, the better we should be at loving.  All I can say is that I’m better at it than I used to be. :)

A young friend and I were just sitting in my living room one late afternoon this week and she asked about friends, confessing that she finds navigating friendships to be hard and that sometimes she feels like just giving up. So I asked her what she wanted from a friend and expected from her friendships.  And then she asked me the same thing.  I thought I’d have a quick and easy answer.  Not at all.  After thinking for a minute, I told her that, honestly, I feel like I can love anyone.  But when it comes to people I can actually trust, the list is super short.

I had to think a little more and was kind of surprised that what I wanted from a friend boiled down to just a handful of items.  Trustworthy tops the list obviously.  Respect for differences is huge too. But then dependability—like they’ll follow through when we plan something, that they’ll show up in a supportive way.  And a little give and take helps too so it’s not all just me and so I know they’re interested and invested.  But honestly I’m good with it being a little more lopsided, I have loads of time and energy to devote to girlfriends so it definitely doesn’t have to be equal. And I certainly don’t need to be called, texted, or coddled all the time.  I don’t need gifts or for people to do things for me or to go shopping with girlfriends. I’m happy with lunch every now and then, good conversation on our couches every so often. I’m good with weeks or months or even years going by; if I’m confident in our friendship, then I don’t require a whole lot of maintenance.  I will be a loyal friend forever, and I will give a million chances.  But I can also take a hint. :)

I realized, as I was talking with this little sister friend of mine, that the main thing I value in a true friend is connection, how open we can be with our hearts, how safe I feel.  And that’s where trust really comes in to play.  I am open to a fault—about things that I don’t care that everyone knows about.  But I am very guarded about the things closest to my heart and am very, very selective about who I share these things with.  I know it’s not really a gold standard, but I have noticed that I feel closest and most connected with my friends I can both laugh heartily with and cry with.  I have had experiences where I’ve just met a woman and within five minutes we’re sharing an intimate moment and one or both of us is tearing up.  And others I’ve known for years and years and I would never consider us to be close at all.  I think it’s vulnerability, opening our hearts, being authentic and real and genuine and imperfect and admitting we have no idea, this is what I’m looking for in a close friend.  This friend was asking why it’s so hard for women to do this, and I suggested that so many of us are afraid to look like we’re floundering or that we don’t have it all together.  Or maybe some just aren’t into that kind of sharing.  Or don’t want to invest the time; they have their families.  Or, as she offered, maybe we’re not the kind of person she wants as a friend, fair enough.  She also said she just knows she will be disappointed by some of her friends and she’s good with that.  Interesting observation and discussion.

Like I said, I believe with all my heart that we can love (most?) everyone.  It obviously gets easier as we get to know people for real, and it’s especially nice when we find common ground—which is inevitable the more we really talk and share.  I’ve found there are potential friendships everywhere, sometimes in the most unlikely places and people—we just have to get beyond what we think we see.  But, from my experience, I just feel that to have really deep, close friendships, we have to expose ourselves, to open our hearts, to respectfully share our innermost feelings, to be safe and kind and trustworthy.  I don’t think it’s a lot to ask from a friend.  But it might be a lot to ask from ourselves.  Which is where we need to start if we want that kind of friend.

Celebrating

So I guess it was five years ago this week that my cancer was removed.  I see friends posting these occasions with pink ribbon banners like it’s a birthday party.  And rightly so, now that I think about it, marking a second-chance at life, a rebirth.  Definitely.

I was just at my oncologist’s office this past Friday, and she wants to see me every three months instead of every six. She scheduled a pelvic ultrasound.  After five years on Tamoxifen, uterine cancer risk goes up; and, given my circumstances, she wants to be aggressively careful. The only ultrasounds I’ve had have been to see our babies, so this was only anxiety-inducing and not nearly as fun.  But it was sobering to think about why I was lying on her table.

I remember bits and pieces about those early days.  I lifted weights hours before my surgery, knowing it’d be my last time for a few weeks, and I washed with my special surgical soap.  I was blissfully calm in the little pre-op room, fully intact and unaware of how permanently the next few hours would change my body.  I remember waking myself up from anesthesia by snorting and seeing Kim and Tom beside me.  I remember putting on my lipstick the next morning and sitting up to write some notes.  I remember hobbling around the airport to get my mom and shopping with everyone for six hours a few days later with drains dangling from so many parts of my body.  I remember how sore it was to move about on the couch as I tried to sleep, how I missed being with Todd in our bed, how I hated missing fall, and of course how chopped up I looked.  Funny how I forget so many things these days and yet parts of that experience from five years ago are etched so clearly in my mind.

And so while I know most women celebrate their pink anniversaries, the actual day just came and went without me even noticing it. And maybe because I still struggle with survivors guilt and the low-threat nature of my case that I feel like I don’t have the same right as others to claim it.

And yet it’s not like I can really relegate it to the back of my mind because I’m still living with it.  Within four days, I had three appointments related to it.  I’m still getting deep-tissue massage a couple times a month to deal with the scar tissue from the surgeries.  I’m still stretching my chest and back with my weights and big bouncy ball.  I still wake up from my sleep from pain when I turn from my stomach to my back.  I still try to hide from Todd and myself all the time and am so sad that things have changed.  I still mourn the loss of what used to be, and I continue to feel ugly and broken.  But yes, also alive and well.  And so, as much as possible, I really do put it in the back of my mind.  But my massage appointments come around pretty fast.  And every May and November I find myself in that familiar office downtown getting my breasts patted down by my oncologist, who assesses my lymph nodes and asks probing questions to be sure.  I take the little while pill with my others every night and refill my prescription at Target every month, so it’s still part of my life even as I try to pretend it isn’t.

And maybe it’s because it’s just one of a million things I’ve “survived” over the course of my life that I view it so nonchalantly.  Do I keep track of them all and declare each day of the year a celebration for every hardship I’ve overcome?  Good grief, I can’t even keep track of birthdays.

Is cancer the heaviest trial?  I think for many people, yes, probably.  But maybe only maybe.  What about a broken heart?  Who says that doesn’t have the potential to kill a person?  What about loss of a love or loved one or a dream or a life you thought you were meant to live? Admittedly, I’ve barely had any really hard things in life.  But not one of us isn’t jostled around and bruised just by playing in the game.

So while I’m beyond grateful for the five more years I’ve been granted, I simply don’t see November 4th as one of my most life-changing anniversaries.  I guess if I had to celebrate a cancer anniversary, I’d choose whatever day it was that we found out.  And more specifically, I’d choose the few minutes in our tiny bathroom when we just hugged and cried.  Because it was then that our lives really did change.  That was when I told Todd that it would all work out.  Even if I died or went bald.  This is the day I knew my faith—our faith—was solid.  I told Todd that if God thought our family needed to grow and this was the way He wanted us to learn and be stronger, then I could accept that.  I admitted I still secretly hoped it didn’t have to go that way, but I also told him I would be ok with it.  That is still one of my most tender memories of the whole ordeal.  And while I would never think of celebrating it, it is probably my most cherished.

I wonder if we all have days like this that are more worthy of celebration than the anniversary of something as big as a surgery to declare us cancer-free.  Making it through a surgery does not always mean that the cancers in our lives are gone and that we are guaranteed to live.  Because living is more than simply breathing and existing from day to day.  And the cancers we harbor in our hearts are far more debilitating and deadly than those that can weaken our shells.

Can’t we, instead, decide to feel victorious all along the way, with every step of progress we make?  Doesn’t it feel better to celebrate someone’s life and all she taught you and the love you shared rather than her death and your loss?  Wouldn’t you rather not worry about the actual day of your divorce and instead focus on the person you’ve become since?  It just seems more positive and uplifting to focus on the good that’s come of a sad or hard experience instead of letting a past date haunt us or define us.

I wonder if there are days far more meaningful than even our wedding days, for instance.  Maybe it’s several years in and you realize you’re more committed and in love than you were even all dressed up and fancy, oblivious to the hard times to come.  Maybe it’s the day you decided to stay instead of giving up, the day you decided to truly give your whole heart to your spouse, knowing what marriage entails and how hard it will likely continue to be. While I’m sort of amazed at how fast time has gone when our wedding anniversary comes around each year, honestly I feel like celebrating more every time Todd and I make amends and connect again after a tense upset.  I love the ordinary days when I’m aware of how far we’ve come and how much we’ve gone through and how close we’ve grown.  Those ordinary days feel triumphal.

People ask about our funny little house all the time. I suppose we could have a special dinner every year to commemorate the day we closed on it, but honestly we feel a deeper sense of accomplishment with each finished project along the way.  And what I celebrate even more is when someone tells me she feels comfortable here, that it feels like home, or that it just feels good.  No flooring or painting job comes close.  So no, the closing date means nothing; what our home has come to mean to us and how it’s been used makes me happier than even thinking about the day when we will finally own it outright 100 years from now.

Even birthdays are less significant than what happens between them.  I feel a lot of pressure to celebrate birthdays in an expectant way, and I’m always secretly glad when they pass.  And obviously it’s important that we acknowledge these occasions, for sure.  But I derive much more joy and feel even more celebratory in those ordinary times when we’ve come through the other end of a trial, when a child starts to say he loves us for real, when we see evidence of the person they’re becoming, when we overcome a misunderstanding, when I note what it really means to be a year older and wiser.  Those are the times when I feel victorious as a family and a person and like throwing a party.

While obviously I’m all in when it comes to acknowledging special days and wins, I think there is merit in noticing the small successes that happen in everyday life, in between the anniversaries.  I also don’t like being tethered to events, especially the sad ones.  I’d rather center my heart on what’s happened since and focus on the growth that it encouraged.

And so, yes, it’s a milestone, no doubt.  Five years is five years without finding more cancer.  And five years is five more years with my people.  I’m not saying it’s not.  But if all we do is commemorate a day and realize we aren’t different—and better—versions of ourselves because of it, what are we celebrating anyway?