Remembering Debra

I was thinking about the friends that I have lost recently. I want to always keep them in my heart and in my mind. I feel if I remember them in some small way, I am honoring their lives. They were so different, from me and from each other, yet so similar how we lived our lives with breast cancer. In the next few days I will dedicate my entries to three courageous, amazing women that I had the privilege of meeting: Debra, Kristi, and Jenn.

Debra, who died in June 2004, was someone I had met through my oncologists office. We met in 2002 while she was having her last treatment for her first diagnosis. I was having my usual weekly treament for metastatic cancer. She was so excited that it was her last time having to be subjected to the chemo and it's nasty side effects. I was happy for her and recalled my last chemo, or what I thought was my last chemo. Despite being sad for me, I was genuinely happy for her. She was talking about getting married and I told her I was married right after chemo too. She asked me about my hair growth and I told her not to worry it will be fine. We exchanged some more small talk and then the question came. "How many more treatments do you have, Lisa?". Do I tell or don't I? Should I be honest, or should I sugar coat? I decided to be honest. I had to since I couldn't think of a plausible lie as to what I am doing there. I tell her I am a "lifer", someone who will be in and out of these chairs for the rest of her life. Her face changes. I can see the fear in her eyes. Luckliy, at this point I am on my way out the door. I don't have to stick around and tell her the nasty details. I leave the office and I feel bad. Very bad that I just turned someone who was so happy into someone with fear and uncertainty. I hate this disease!

A few months later I talk to a survivor friend of mine. She tells me about her friend Debra. I am not putting it together yet, and she reminds me she went to the same doctor as me. Now I know who we are talking about. She tells me she has had a recurrence, to her nodes, just as I did. Wow, life is weird. Her nodes in her chest were affected, mine were under my arm, still the coincidence is there. I don't hear anything further, except after her treatment of more chemo, she is moving to Paris.

Then, in May of 2004, I am at my doctor's office when a young woman walks in with her family. I take notice right away, since there are so few young women at the office. I look closely and I recognize her, it's Deb. She is smaller than I remember and looks very tired. Then she starts coughing, a lot. I approach her and she remembers me. We also mention we have a mutual friend, Sue. We talk and just as survivors often do, we begin rehashing our entire diagnoses, treatments, and prognoses. We get lost in the conversation, which encompasses the time we are waiting to be seen by the doctor. One of us gets called in.
I meet up with her again in the "green room" where we all get our cocktails. We sit next to each other while getting treated. She is very depressed and not at all in the fighting mindset. I tell her to get on some anti-depressants, they helped me, they can certainly help her. We make a pact to come back each week and support each other. While it's comforting to have a woman just like you to lean on, the reality is at some point one or both of us won't be able to keep that pact.
Weeks go by and I keep missing Deb at her treatments. I ask about her every time. One of the doctors thanks me for talking to her. Seems I have helped her get that fighting spirit back. I am glad I could do something to help.
A few more weeks go by and I am checking in at the doctor's office. The receptionist, Andrea tells me Deb is there. FINALLY, I get to see her and we can have treatment together. But I read her and I can see something is wrong. I ask how she is. I get an answer, "Not good, not good at all". What does that mean? Andrea says she has to prepare me. PREPARE ME FOR WHAT???? She isn't going to make it very much longer. WHAT? This has got to be a joke. A sick joke. I understand what she is saying, but my body grows numb. My dad is with me and he is hating this. He doesn't want me to go back there. But, I have to.
I was there for my first chemo infusion of Doxil. Before getting there, I am ruminating over the prospects of yet another chemo. Now, it's all about Deb. I couldn't care less what they put in my IV. I am focused on her. What will she look like? What am I walking into? What do I say?
After what seemed like an eternity, I get called in. My dad is giving me the look. The look says he wants to throw a blanket over me and carry me out. He knows I have to go and see her.
She is in the furthest exam room. I make it to the door and I see her mom. She is holding Deb's hand. Deb is resting on an exam table. Her mom looks at me and I am about to lose it. I keep it together, not knowing what to say and afraid to open my mouth and let the tears flow. I tell her when Deb wakes up to come and get me.
I get to the "green room" and her mom comes in. Deb's awake and wants to see me. Dad, I HAVE TO GO. As I get closer to the room I can hear her coughing. She is struggling for air, and I am uncomfortable for her and for me. Her oxygen is at full blast. She is resting for the first 2 minutes I am there. We make small talk. There is an elephant in the room and no one wants to recognize it. She is dying. Deb tells me she is ready for it to be over. She can't do this anymore. I tell her it's OK. Her sister and mother are outside the room but I know they can hear me. I asked God at that moment, what do I say, how can I comfort her? The only thing I can say is "This world is hell, and we are the lucky ones that get to leave and go somewhere better". Of course I don't remember the exact words, but that was the jist. I am hopeful that is the truth. This can't be all there is. It just can't. There is too much sorrow, disease, war, famine, anger, hate, prejudice....(I can go on), for this world to be all there is. I know there has to be something more, something better, something beautiful, something eternal. And Deb went there the next morning.
In retrospect I am glad I shared that moment with her. While it was one of the hardest things I have done, I needed to be there. I only hope I was a comfort to her and her family. I remember her, even though we briefly knew each other, as a friend and as a sister in this disease.