A Time to Live
She is a survivor. I've only known a few in my life and she, with her tapered cut and intense gaze, her every word chosen with depth, sat in her living room in pain. I had brought groceries; mainly fruits she requested. And soda. Two packs. I know nothing of cutting up kiwis but I do my best and from where I stand in her kitchen to her on her couch, we begin to chat.
Without giving too much detail, she had just endured the removal of three potentially cancerous tumors from her breasts. She will need monitoring but she awoke cancer-free. In our conversation we laughed about how surgery of any kind will erase shame from you - all you know is you have a need and covering up isn't always at the forefront. I cut up more fruit and I listen to her speak. We're about a year and a half apart; her on the gleaming side of 30. Then she asks me:
"How are you?"
As if I have space in the conversation. As if how I'm feeling can even hold a candle. We talk about missed texts and the phenomenon of answering them only in our heads, how funny parents are and how baskets of chocolate can cure anything. But she brings it back to me.
"Are you okay?"
Again I don't understand how I matter. And even though we go into detail about my recent episodes of depression and anxiety and how having both feels like reaching for solace at top speed while remaining flat on the floor, she gives me notes of hope. She tells me of her dark moments after her initial diagnosis, thoughts of how could this happen. Right now. While I still have time to live. She tells me of her looking around her house from the couch, wanting to do everything and nothing all at once. Where to go, will it matter, who will understand. Her eyes raised when she told me the story of another survivor who told her it's time to live right where she is. And I thought about all the time wasted waiting for the "perfect moments". Procrastinating and getting by on the thoughts but no action. Faith without works is dead. She looked up and said she's going to live now. Not simply because of this brush with sickness, but because there's no better time.
Her pain meds start to kick in and we talk about work. Being creatives in spaces where we are both adored and misunderstood. Where we are brave yet a nuisance. I have denounced corporate America while she still owns it. And we exist on the plane of innovative consciousness. She tells me to keep going and I tell her I admire her assertiveness. She tells me stories of when she stood up and staked her claim and spoke her truth and I listen in awe. She’s still here. In bandages from a fight she didn’t ask to undertake but fought beautifully; skillfully. Without complaint. She’s still here. I pass her a soda and kiss the top of her head, energized yet wanting to leave her comfortable without the need of keeping me company. I tell her thank you and I love you. I’m inspired. Now, to live.
Dedicated to a friend/survivor.
