Memoir, Cancer, And Tent Camping: My Friend Connie

When a friend or family member is diagnosed with cancer, the effects ripple through the community. If we and our friend are relatively young, we may feel shock but also a sense of insulation. We have not yet begun to consider our own mortality, or the likelihood of losing our peers to accident or one disease or another. It hasn’t happened to us yet and the odds are still in our favor, particularly if we don’t smoke or drive drunk, we exercise and eat many leafy green vegetables. As the years and the decades go by, most of us will see an increase in morbidity if not mortality in our friends. They – and we – may develop osteoarthritis or Type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, all those common ailments of aging.  Some of us will get cancer.

When my best friend Bonnie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer about 5 years ago, she was the closest friend I had who had cancer. Since then, other friends have been diagnosed and some have died; Bonnie died in October (peacefully, at home). One of the things Bonnie did way back when was find support groups for women with cancer. Maybe it’s a holdover from the consciousness-raising groups of the 1970s, but it’s practically a reflex: whatever is going on in your life, you grab a bunch of women to talk it through. Do men do this, too? If so, it’s a secret from me.

It turned out that a cluster of women who were at college with us at the same time and who still lived in the area wandered through these groups at one time or another, or were otherwise associated with this community. Some have also died, some aren’t doing too well the last I heard, and some are thriving. One of these is my friend Constance Emerson Crooker.

Connie and I weren’t close in college, but it was a small school and everybody pretty much knew one another in passing. She wasn’t an avid folk dancer or a Biology major like me, but she and Bonnie stayed in touch so I’d hear about her from time to time. Connie was one of those who stepped up to the plate in Bonnie’s final weeks, and I was not only grateful for the extra and very competent pair of hands but for the chance to get to know her better.

A Literary Midwife's Gift of Love

My friend Mary Rosenblum calls herself a "literary midwife." She's not only an amazing writer but has taught writing for many years and now offers a variety of editorial and publishing services, and a cool newsletter, The New Writer's Interface.

We talk about keeping a balance in our lives between work, love, and play. Sometimes they all come together, with love at the center. Mary tells a story of how she edited and published a collection of charming stories her neighbor wrote about a cat:

Norm stopped me on the street a few weeks ago. “I hear you help writers publish books,” he said hesitantly. “My wife wrote this children’s picture book a long time ago. People said she should publish it but she never did.” I was already gathering up the gentle excuses; too many clients, not enough time, I don’t really work with children’s picture books…  I didn't want to take his money to edit the 'best seller' I was willing to bet he expected. 

“She’s really depressed,” he went on. “She hasn’t smiled since she went in [the nursing home].  I don't care what it costs to publish it,  I’m hoping this will cheer her up, give her something to feel good about.”

My little tower of excuses came tumbling down. “Uh, sure.” I did not gulp. “Let me come take a look at it.”

Books can mean so many things, including ways of telling the stories of our hearts, remembering our lives, honoring those we love.

Read the whole story here.