Just 12 hours after I posted this, the news broke that Elizabeth Edwards lost her battle with cancer. Because my hopes for her included one last holiday season with her family, I'm leaving the piece below as it was originally written. Rest in peace, Elizabeth.
The news that Elizabeth Edwards is nearing the end of her life after years of fighting breast cancer and weathering a series of personal crises is hitting me harder than I expected.
I'm a long-term ovarian cancer survivor, diagnosed relatively young. My mother died of liver cancer and came to live in my home for the last few weeks of her life. I lost two high school friends to cancer -- one to non-Hodgkins lymphoma, the other to colon cancer. All these have been difficult to bear.
But Elizabeth Edwards' story upsets me because of my friend Dana.
Like Elizabeth, Dana was a beautiful woman inside and out, as passionate about helping kids as a school guidance counselor as she was about raising her own three sons. We met when we were both pregnant with our first child. I was first to give birth but she followed me two weeks later, ending up in the same bed in the same room in the same hospital. Our respective second children were born 4 months apart. She had boys -- I had girls.
Like Elizabeth, Dana met and married an attractive, charismatic man. Like John Edwards, he was unfaithful.
Like Elizabeth, she separated after staying with him far longer than any of us thought was good for her . She struggled to be an upbeat and positive single parent while her husband, a professional musician, traveled across the country and around the globe and was rarely available to share in childrearing.
Nobody -- least of all Dana -- thought that the sudden onslaught of nausea and vomiting that hit her hard one day was anything more than a stomach bug. I'll always remember that day and her frantic phone call asking if I could come over and watch her three young boys because she was feeling so badly. And I'll always feel my answer in the pit of my stomach. I'm sorry, I told her. One of my daughters was sick and I couldn't help out.
That first day was followed by intermittent bouts of illness. When she finally did see a doctor, no one expected that in her mid-40s, she'd be diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. When she was told the news that she only had 5-7 months to live, she wouldn't allow those numbers to dictate how much time she had left. "I can't leave Max, " she insisted. "He's too little." At two-and-a-half, her youngest son would probably not remember her if she passed away. And she was reluctant to send him off to a father who saw the boys infrequently at best.
So she vowed to stay with him until he was 5 years old. And against all odds, she beat the illness back for years. Just like Elizabeth.
Dana moved to the coast of Maine to be near family and Massachusetts General Hospital where she received chemotherapy. She learned to take joy in the simple things, like a sunny day, a good test grade from her sons, and collecting seashells on the beach. Once a year for two years, she and I and our friend Leanne -- moms who'd gone through pregnancy and raised our babies together -- sent our oldest children off to summer camp so we could spend one precious week together in August.
That first summer Dana was still well enough to act as if nothing was wrong. One hot cloudless day we took a ferry out of the city of Portland into Casco Bay on a day trip to one of the small islands off the coast. With a picnic lunch in hand and Dana's youngest son home with a babysitter, we were three carefree friends enjoying the kind of time together we could never get enough of.
We sat on the beach, swam, talked, built sandcastles, shelled, and collected rocks. Dana in particular kept gathering up smooth flat rocks and stacking them on top of each other. The simple act of building seemed to bring peace to her, and she talked about wanting to photograph them and how it was a ritual, an act that had personal meaning.
When I came home from my visit that year, I had a bag of shells and assorted beach debris -- bits of net, rope, driftwood -- that ended up in a box down in the basement. But the stones I'd collected I stacked into small pyramids throughout the house. The most stable and striking stack of stones sat on the windowsill above my kitchen sink, reminding me of Dana each time they caught my eye.
By the second year's visit, Dana was visibly tired. We spent more time just sitting in the sunshine in her backyard, or in front of her living room fireplace where she'd build a fire to chase away the constant chill that had settled into her bones. One special night we dressed up and went to the Old Town section of Portland for dinner out. Candlelight, linens, and a bottle of wine added to the ambiance, but it was our closeness that made the moment unforgettable as did the knowledge that we might not have too many more moments like this.
Later that night, Leanne and I awoke to the sound of Dana vomiting in the bathroom. It turned out that she hadn't been able to eat solid meals for weeks, but she didn't want to disappoint us and not dine out together.
That was the kind of person Dana was -- putting the needs of everybody else ahead of her own.
One night in December, as I was getting ready to host a big holiday party at my home, Dana called from out of the blue. She sounded dreamy and vague and talked about our last visit together. When I asked how she was doing and she replied, "Alex is staying here now," my heart lurched. I found it hard to breathe.
I knew that this would be our last conversation.
Her husband had returned to take care of her and the boys in the end. All she'd ever wanted was for him to be there for her...to put her first before his career. For him to make that sacrifice meant that only days, not weeks, were left. I was scared, and babbled something stupid.
"Dana," I said, "I wish I could give you one evening of health and wellness by switching places with you. I wish I could take this burden off you, even if just for one night."
She was quiet for a moment, and then replied, "Do you really? Think about what you're saying." And I did.
I had been the first one to give birth and the first one to have cancer. I had always been the one to go first. But my cancer had been cured and I knew I'd live to see my children reach adulthood.
This time, she was going first.
And the desire to trade places, whether for a moment or a lifetime, was something she had let go of long ago. Looking back in regret would only undermine her desire for a good transition from this world to what lies beyond.
Yet Dana had accomplished what she'd set out to do. She'd kept her promise to not leave Max too soon. Her little guy had just turned 5, and she lived to see it, just as she'd hoped.
Was I truly willing to step into her shoes and feel what it was like for a mother who would never see her boys grow any older? Who would never know the fine young men they'd turn out to be? Could I stand to be that mother whose flame would go out of their lives, leaving them in darkness and grief?
I can't remember what I said, but even in the hazy confusion of pain medication and the deep weariness of someone who longs to finally go home, Dana knew what sacrifices were realistic and which ones were impossible.
She knew the end was near and this was her way of letting me know. Not with tears and goodbyes, but by simply reaching out and remembering what we had shared together. Pregnancy and birth. Babies and toddlers. Marriage and infidelity. Friendship and hope. Life and death.
Like Elizabeth, the holiday season was not only a countdown to the last days of the year but the last days of Dana's life on earth.
Just after the new year, Alex called to say that she had passed away quietly and peacefully, surrounded by her family and her sons.
In the years since the world lost Dana, her sons have grown and her husband has remarried. We've lost touch and I hesitate to reconnect, thinking that by holding fast to the memory of their mother, I might bring more pain than joy into their lives. Once in a while I type their names into Facebook. When their photos pop up, I'm amazed to see how much they've grown and how much they resemble their mother. With eyes open or closed, faces laughing or solemn, Dana is in their eyes, their smiles, their expressions.
They survived the worst thing that could happen to a child. And they seem to be okay. Dana would be proud of them.
Unlike Elizabeth, Dana didn't have social media, Facebook, an online blog to retain her thoughts and memories or serve as a repository of all that she loved and all that she'd miss.
Yesterday, when Elizabeth Edwards wrote on her Facebook Wall, "The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered. We know that," she reminded me that when we reach the point at which those days are clearly finite and drawing to a close, the count no longer matters to us. She knows this too: " I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful."
A summer day spent on a beach with two close female friends may be special in and of itself. But we're unable to retain a sense of the magic of that individual day when we see it as just one of many in a long line of bright, beautiful, shining days ahead of us, the days hanging like pearls on a strand, the years dangling like multiple strands on a necklace. It's only when we take that one pearl out of context and suspend it on its own chain that we see how rare, how lustrous, and how small a thing it is.
After Dana died, my rock piles kept tumbling down. "Things fall apart; the center cannot hold," wrote W.B. Yeats in the aftermath of World War I. Unlike Yeats, I raged against what had happened.
And so, unwilling to trust in the caprices of gravity, I glued my kitchen windowsill rock pile together as if to flaunt its permanence in the face of impermanence. It still sits there, years later, just like the grief which still sits in my heart. The rock pile is a cairn frozen in time but the grief occasionally wells up and spills over when something nudges loose thoughts of Dana. The rocks may mark her memory, but her memory continues to score my heart.
What would Dana have written on her Facebook page if social media had been around during her lifetime? It's a question I never considered until Elizabeth Edwards posted her final thoughts: "It isn't possible to put into words the love and gratitude I feel towards everyone who has and continues to support and inspire me every day. To you I simply say: you know."
Like Randy Pausch's Last Lecture, Elizabeth's words will live on in perpetuity. What Dana thought, no one will ever know. But in the shapes of polished stacked rock and brittle seashells stored in boxes, in the cold spray of ocean waves and the winds that carry the salty tang of the sea inland, Dana endures.
She went first, a path I wish she didn't have to trail-blaze. Yet when the time comes -- when I know my days are numbered and I can see the end -- I trust that she'll guide me past fear and pain and show me the way.
Photo of Elizabeth Edwards © Sara D. Davis/Getty Images
All other images © Linda Lowen for About.com
Comments
Oh, Linda. That was beautiful.
Beautiful . . . a reminder of what really is important!!
Beautiful!
Linda,
Thank you for the beautiful way you expressed all that was so deep inside. It truly warmed my heart to remember Dana and how she beat the odds in order to put her boys first. She was an amazing mother and friend. Your tribute would make her smile and it is one that I will continue to treasure. Well done!
I’m not a Buddhist, but reading this touches a negative reflex for me, realizing that some empasize permanence as part of identity. Attachment is exactly why death is feared rather than partnered as something as extraordinary as birth. I’m also not a Christian, but this article cites a very Western, Christian theme in Yeat’s “The Second Coming”: the center can not hold because of the falcon no longer listens to the falconer (to the Creator). The answer may possibly be right there: heed a spiritual path and don’t fret whether or not you leave footprints. Someone else will step on them anyway – that’s why it’s a path.
Poke Salad, I’m actually a failed Buddhist, but I think you’re missing the point. I don’t mourn her death as much as I mourn her incompleteness. Her footprints were already being erased in her lifetime by an estranged husband who’d moved on without her. Her sons spent those final two years with a mother transformed by illness. The memories they have are of a woman whose health was failing, not the robust single mom that she was. They now have another woman — their father’s new wife — who has been their mother for years now.
A slow death by cancer robs one of identity and any sense of self. You cease to be much of anything but the disease that overtakes you, at least in the eyes of the medical community and the friends who find it hard to be by your side because your “path” reminds them that they too are mortal.
My mother lived with liver cancer for two years. My best friend lived as an HIV positive man for over 15 years. My high school friend lived with colon cancer for two years. I know something about loss of identity, lack of permanence, and being erased every single day you are alive.
For one year of my own cancer treatment, I stood in that place of unknowing, losing parts of myself, gripping fast to the me that existed under the blanket term “patient.” I am whole and well now, but I did for a time walk in that valley of shadow and I have no shame in saying that I wasn’t ready to go gently into that good night. I fought hard to endure.
This has less to do with Christianity, Buddhism, or faith than nature, biology, and DNA. We struggle, survive, claw our way out from under disaster and endure because we are hard-wired to carry some aspect of ourselves forward, long past our own small span of time on this earth.
Your comments are deeply hurtful to me. We are human, and each of us has an ego. There is nothing wrong with our hope that we endure, even if only in memory, after our physical selves are dust.
beautifully expressed, linda. my heart is heavy for all of us, especially for mothers leaving children and those children left behind.
Just announced – Elizabeth Edwards has passed away. My heart is heavy and my thoughts go out to her family, children and friends.
Beautifully written, heartfelt. The best kind of writing there is.
My thoughts and condolences are with Elizabeth’s friends and family.
What a wonderful tribute to a friend……You mentioned that you had lost contact with her sons..I found myself hoping that you would have shared your memories with them…You were truly blessed to have someone like her come into your life…
Mrs Edwards was a role model for all Americans I have nothing but admiration for her. She was a class act and a beautiful person with a beautiful heart.I for one will miss you ,you were a Great American woman and exemplified courage.God Bless You and your Family.
Linda … what a beautiful tribute to two beautiful women. You are blessed with the gift of words.
Dana’s sons may welcome hearing from you. As their father has remarried, he has probably “moved on,” as the cliche goes. She is probably rarely mentioned, if ever, in the home, especially with a stepmother on the scene. Her sons might want to know more about their mother, and her life, and how she fought to be with them, but have no one to ask. You could give them a lot of her history, if they’re open to it.
The death of Elizabeth Edwards has hit my husband of 40 years and I very hard. We lost the “love of our life” in 1994 to AIDS. For years I have been telling him how much I love when he speaks of our son, Philip. Unfortunately, it has always been hard for him to do. In watching Ms. Sawyer quote Ms. Edwards my husband and I came to a very deep understanding. What I have been trying to say in words not only to my husband but also our family and friends Elizabeth said so simply. The contents of her words were for us not to mourn the passing of someone but to speak about them and for others to remember that they lived. My dream and hope as Philip’s Mother is for all that knew him to remember that he “lived” almost to his 23 birthday and that in those years he truly loved life and those in his life.
Linda, Thank you for you deeply moving tribute to two wonderful women. I am amazed at all the loss you have experienced in you life so far. I thought of how I lost my mother when I was young (10 yrs,)and it certainly is the defining event of my life. Also, as someone who has lost a mother in childhood, I think your friend’s sons would love to hear from you. You may think they don’t remember but you may be surprised what children remember and there is no “moving on”from this loss, just a “living with” when it comes to parent loss in childhood. Tell them of things you remember of their mom and them as little children and they will cherish those rememberences forever. I remember seein home movies of my mom at the beach after she died and I was so happy to see her fit and healthy (something I had never seen in her before).Sometimes children want to talk about it but no one will listen because they think it is too painful for them. But it may be necessary. Again, thanks for your column on women’s issues and thanks for your encouragement to women everywhere.
I can’t remember ever reading such an incredibly moving tri bute. it brought me to tears. My very best friend is facing an uncertain future with an illness. you reminded me just how incredibly special she is to me. the thought of loosing her is something I don’t want to see, but like you, I will always have those many happy times we’ve shared.I have learned that your time is the most precious thing you can give someone, gifts get old and sometimes end up in the bottom of your closet, but your time shared makes for a lifetime of beautiful memories. Thank you so much.
Your expressions would touch every women as many women is suffering like her. If you bear with me I would like to add that we must fight for ending this suffering more forcefully as I see it is the root cause of all injustice in our family, society, state and humanity.
As a Kidney Cancer survivor the news of Elizabeth hit me hard,,reading your wonderful tribute to your friend Dana and Elizabeth is a beautiful gift to the memory of two extraordinary ladies…may they be enjoying time together..somewhere beyond this place…where pain no longer exists of any kind!
This is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written. What an incredible gift you were in Dana’s life, and she in yours. I knew I loved reading your words before, and now I know why. You have a shining spirit and a sincerity rarely found in on-line media. I am grateful to have the opportunity to read your words. Thank you.
Wow, thank you for sharing that incredible story. It was a gift.
My heart is heavy from hearing the news of Elizabeth Edward’s death. Her suffering in the final years of her life makes this news especially hard to bear. Your tribute to 2 strong and amazing women is absolutely beautiful.
Thank you for sharing. Lovely.
so beautiful and so touching. sorry for your loss but believe that she awaits you in the next life. blessing to you and may her memories continue to warm your heart.
Thank you for sharing your feelings Linda. I take this time to tell you that I love you my friend. We need tell our loved ones that they are cherished and express it frequently.
Linda
“We struggle, survive, claw our way out from under disaster and endure because we are hard-wired to carry some aspect of ourselves forward, long past our own small span of time on this earth.”
How beautifully written – and so true! You are an extraordinary writer – the ability to express your magnificent heart is inspiring.
I am sorry for your loss(es) and admire your willingness to continue to be a heart-centered woman.
Kimberly
Linda, Your story covers it all. The emotions, decisions, relationships. How much we endure – survive – and succumb. May Dana and Elizabeth always live on in the hearts of their loved ones. – Pam
Linda, your tribute to Dana reminds me of the movie with Bette Midler. . .BEACHES???
I want to applaud your loving tributes as well as your response to Poke Salad’s insensitive and arrogant remarks.
We all need to have more empathy and understanding to the process of saying farewell to a treasured person in our lives. So, thank you ~ bless you ~ for sharing such intimate and personal thoughts and feelings. You have enriched our lives substantially with your courage and open heart.
Caroline
Just beautiful!
Thanks God for allowing us to have a friendship with people that leave a mark in our path. I was amazed with your desire of taking your friend’s place for a moment, that really impacted my life.
“The young may die, the old must, but we all will” What a reality. Do not take one day for granted. Not even a minute.
That was a beautiful post and moving tribute to a best friend. I had a brain tumor and survived, yet my childhood best friend had brain cancer and died. For so many years we turned the same ages in the same month and then suddenly, with my 46th birthday, I was alone.
I can’t make sense out of it but at least writing does honor their memory.