BoomerGirl Diary

Her name was Monica Dumyahn, and she was my friend. I regret that i didn't go to see her during the 2 1/2 months when she was still at home in the dark throes of her illness. I wanted to hug her, to tell her how much I valued our friendship, to let her know that I wanted to help out with her children as much as I could. But I was reluctant to impose on her family during such a stressful time, and the few times that I did call, I was told that Monica was either resting or too weak to talk to me. I just did not realize until too late how swiftly her condition was deteriorating.

The day before she died, though, I was privileged to be allowed to go to St. John's Hospice and talk to Monica, hold her hand (and kiss it), and tell her that I loved her. With Monica drifting in and out of consciousness, I was able to say things that would have sounded stilted or awkward except in a room where death hovered.

"You made a difference in my life. I won't forget you." I couldn't be sure that she heard me. There was already a great chasm that divided us. Her hands were so cold.

It was strange to see those hands so still. Usually they were busy doing things for and with her two small children. It was also strange not to see her children there in the room beside her. But Monica was by herself in that sterile white hospital bed and it was clear that she was dying. As she herself said, "This is going very fast for me."

Monica was a true friend, one who shared my hopes and dreams as well as my fears and sorrows. I'm afraid that I took her for granted, just assuming that she'd always be there for me, at my convenience. Oh, Monica, did I ever have a lot to learn! And I learned my lesson the hard way, with a great deal of pain.

The day before she died she did not even remotely resemble my dear friend in the physical sense. Her body had been put through such tortures by her illness and medical treatments that I only caught a faint glimpse of the old Monica when once she smiled. The old Monica didn't often wear makeup or stylish clothes, but she had an inner beauty that always shone through.

By the time I saw her in the hospice, she was unable even to swallow and was consuming a heavy dosage of painkillers by I.V., so it was extraordinarily difficult for her to speak. Her words were often slurred and nearly inaudible. Yet she managed at times to do what she'd always been the best at, saying just the right thing. Her fervent "miss you" touched me so deeply that I answered, "Oh, Monica, I miss you, too!" as tears splashed down my face.

She was the only one of my friends who smoked. Her nicotine habit coupled with my predisposition for asthma necessitated that we meet outdoors with our children at various local parks whenever possible or at that perennial preschoolers' hangout, Showbiz Pizza Place, when the weather was bad. We took our children to Scampy's for ice cream and to Lincoln Memorial Garden for nature walks. I have never met a mother who cared as deeply for her children as did Monica. As she so succinctly put it, "I'm just nuts about my kids." Her children were the focal point of her existence and she revolved around them like an ever-present sun, giving them as much warmth, time, love and attention as she possibly could.

There were so many things that I admired about her — her kindness, her never-failing sense of humor, her compassion for mentally handicapped children and adults, and her refreshing frankness. She was totally without artifice or pretense and she appreciated honesty in other people, too. One day at the park Monica was pushing my then-3-year-old daughter Alyssa on a swing when Alyssa began to slide off. To my consternation, Monica just stepped back and didn't try to stop Alyssa's fall. I rushed to pick up my screaming child (who was shaken and slightly bruised, but otherwise unhurt) off the ground and confronted Monica. "I'm really mad at you!" Instead of retaliating with heated words, Monica did a surprising thing. She smiled and thanked me for telling her how angry I was. Then she proceeded to explain exactly why she'd behaved in that fashion, that she'd felt (based on previous experience) that any interference on her part might have worsened Alyssa's injury. As I listened to her calm, reasonable explanation, all my resentment gradually ebbed away and I was left with an even greater respect for my friend.

We only got together every month or two with our children (her son and daughter and Alyssa got along famously, which greatly enhanced our relationship) but more often our friendship was sustained by our long, involved telephone conversations, sandwiched between Brownie meetings, Funshop sessions, trips to pediatricians' offices and nursery school field trips. We didn't have time to waste on small talk. And since we both were not very interested in being perfect models of domesticity, we didn't ever once trade recipes or laundry tips. We talked about the things that all close women friends talk about: our families, our gut feelings, the sometimes messy fabric of our lives. Monica was the type of person who not only was willing to share her innermost feelings with a friend, she was also a very good listener — a rare combination indeed. She never judged. She specialized in being supportive and understanding.

And then last summer our phone conversations took an unexpected turn. Monica began experiencing agonizing lower back pain in July. Several doctors and innumerable medical tests and X-rays during the next few months failed to diagnose the reason for her pain. She began to cry frequently when she talked to me; this was most unlike her. She feared that her pain signified the existence of something quite sinister, despite the doctors' assurances that she had nothing more than "a pinched nerve." Physical therapy treatments and strong painkilling medications failed to relieve her suffering.

Monica's religious faith was always strong. She begged me to pray for her.

I sent her a get-well card in the early fall, but, like one of her doctors, I kept secretly wondering if perhaps she was overreacting. Monica had never been really sick; perhaps she was growing unduly alarmed about her symptoms because she'd never experienced such severe pain before. I myself had had neuritis in the past and knew that the pain from it could be excruciating so I tried to reassure her that her doctors had probably made the correct diagnosis. Now I feel that I really could have been more sympathetic when she sobbed, "But, Nancy, what if I've got something really terrible?!" At night, she confided, she "got kind of crazy," imagining the worst.

A person's death is so often accompanied by a nagging sense of guilt felt by the survivors. I remember how Monica asked me in late October to call her so that we could take our children to the Jaycees' Haunted House together. I did try calling her on the last day that the haunted house was open — but I tried only once, and then, when no one answered her phone, I went ahead and took my daughter by myself. As it turned out, Monica had been attending Sunday morning church services when I tried to call. Her voice sounded very disappointed (although she never once reproached me) when she asked me about it later. And that would have been the last time that I would have gotten the chance to see "the old Monica" before she slipped away under a sea of medication at the hospice.

Ten days before Christmas Eve, exploratory surgery exposed the massive tumor that had hidden itself so skillfully from the doctors' probing and confirmed Monica's worst fears. She had a devastating — and deadly — form of cancer. It could not be totally removed by either surgery or chemotherapy. It would take her away from her husband, her cherished small children, and her friends within 2 1/2 months.

It was a beautiful, sunshiny, almost-spring day when she died. Monica and I should have been picnicking in the park with our kids, letting the sun warm our faces, and talking about everything and nothing in particular.

The day before Monica died, as I was getting ready to leave the hospice room, after saying good-bye and "take care" (such inadequate words!) to a friend who had always been such a comfort to me, I heard Monica say, as clearly and sweetly as if her mind were not dulled by morphine and her spirit were not vanquished by the imminent prospect of death, "Thank you for coming." That was her last gift to me, very fitting last words from someone who had spent so much time during the past few years trying to ease my journey over life's rocky paths.

I was only privileged to know her for three years. She touched countless other lives in her 40 years on Earth. She cared about people and she let them know it. As a former special education teacher, she left a positive impression on many of her students. She was a patient teacher. I myself learned many things from our friendship, but surely the last lesson she inadvertently taught me was the hardest one of all.

If you have a friend whom you really treasure, be sure to let them know. Tell them so. Do it now. Today.

— This piece was previously published in the State Journal-Register (Springfield, Ill.).