We had arranged to meet at the local bookstore which happened to be equidistant from our respective homes. I insisted to make the trip into her town, but she wouldn't have it. She didn't want to be treated any different. It was settled we would meet half way.
I was warned that she didn't look the same. She had lost a few pounds and clumps of hair. She asked again if I wished to meet and why not just cancel? Perhaps I had something better to do or more interesting people to meet this beautiful fall morning. She was good at being invisible, not wanted.
I was both anxious and excited. I rehearsed topics. I reminded myself not to ask, she'll share if she wants. I tried to rid the nagging thought, this might be our final meeting. Life is unfair they tell you, but I know God certainly isn't.
Have you ever bought a gift for a dying person?
She mentioned in our email exchange, her memory was slipping. Sometimes she forgot bills that needed to be paid, chemo appointments and her nieces' birthdays. I found a beautiful in-season journal that was small enough to fit in a bag and large enough to write extensive notes for memory.
She loved the gift but insisted I shouldn't have bothered. She was upset her sister bought a book she'd already read. She felt insulted.
She wasn't making sense. Anger was obvious on her face: "It's started in my lungs, then to my brains and now my abdomen."
"Want to grab hot chocolate from the cafe?" was my response. I didn't want to know the prognosis. I knew. The barista forgot whip cream on my hot chocolate. I was upset. Almost in tears.
I talked about my travels, my life, my friends, my interests, my shopping, my food, my future. But not the 'C' word for 90 minutes.
We concluded our meeting with promises to keep in touch, an embrace and maybe a joke. Relief rushed through my veins.
"I'll see you there" she squeezed my hand.
I nodded and whispered InshAllah.
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