Saying Goodbye

Every goodbye begins with hello.

Our hello came at a newspaper conference in 1985. A new manager at 24 years young, I trembled as I entered the meeting room full of strangers. There were several reasons why I sat next to Laura that day. Maybe it was her striking resemblance to Meryl Streep. Perhaps it was her gigantic inviting smile. Or maybe it was fate. But more likely it was because she spotted me sweating nervously as I hugged my notebook and called out "Come sit here next to me!" as if we had been forever friends. And from that day on we were.

Living in different states, we saw each other rarely. But our friendship did not suffer as we built a strong bridge of letters, phone calls and emails to span the distance. Ten years older, Laura was like a big sister to me, offering encouragement and support, and ending every communication with a heartfelt "love you". Laura had a smile with the power to transform everyone around her. It was the physical embodiment of her inner strength- formidable and unbreakable, even when presented with the unspeakable diagnosis of terminal cancer. She announced the news just once, then promptly gave the disease the cold shoulder, refusing to give it more energy than she thought it deserved. Fifteen years ago she was given less than five years to live and live them she did.

She met and married the love of her life. She traveled to her beloved Ireland and was inspired to create Laura’s Irish Cottage in Connecticut. She adopted a puppy, who she outlived, then adopted another. Her doctor’s optimistic estimate of five years soon stretched to 10 years, and with the word ‘cancer’ passing her lips so rarely I almost forgot she was sick. She planted a tree and watched it grow. She planted a perennial garden and waited anxiously for the next year’s blossoms. She made plans for days, weeks and even years ahead not because she refused to believe she was dying, but because she preferred to believe she would live.

Despite her brave front, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the elephant in the room that was her disease. When she was too weak to climb the stairs in her home, they installed a chair lift which she joked was used to transport her aging dog with arthritis. On another visit I noticed a wheelchair ramp, which she said was installed to make it easier for her to transport her groceries into the house. And during one visit when she sported a wig for the first time, she apologized for being too lazy to do her hair, and laughed a hearty laugh when her husband walked into the room and asked her if that was a cat sitting on her head. She loved to talk about anything and everything, as long as it had nothing to do with cancer. When asked how she felt, she’d say "God is keeping me around for a reason. He’ll let me know when its time." Her faith and optimism were contagious. Perhaps too much so, as my visits became less frequent as I too came to believe Laura would outlive all of us.

A few weeks ago, I sent an email to make plans to visit in June, not realizing she was planning her own funeral at the same time. In defiant optimism, Laura ordered a summer nightgown from the Land’s End website "just in case".

Laura passed away on April 24, fifteen years after being told she "might" have five years to live. And live she did- every minute, every hour, every day. And there is no better tribute I can pay to my friend than to try to do the same.