Del.icio.us
Digg
Reddit
Facebook
StumbleUpon
An Inspiring Anniversary
On Southwest Caye, we make small accommodations. Carol has less tolerance for the heat; she sleeps a lot and is slow to wake in the morning. There is persistent pressure in her chest, and now and then I see her touching her sternum, looking thoughtful. With cancer, every sensation is a symptom. But, as always, we take off our shoes and never put them on again. Carol makes friends with Ninja, a little terrier mix, and he comes to our cabin at daybreak to talk dog talk with her. I read trashy mysteries; Carol takes her Margaret Atwood novel to lie negligently in the sun. She finds a machete one day and tries to harvest coconuts. We notice the palm trees around our cabin are filled with grackles; in the mangrove, we spy a small green heron. The big sky changes constantly: heaped clouds and rainbows, rainsqualls and stars.
Sitting in the overheated shade one day, she tells me, "Today is the third anniversary of my diagnosis." We are quiet for a moment. "I thought I might never leave the hospital," she continues. "I just wanted to enjoy the little things—what was out the window. When no one was around, I would putter around the room. I actually felt peaceful." We have never spoken of this before; usually we are more glancing, touching the difficult areas as delicately as you would a sore tooth.
Morning and afternoon, we walk to the dock and climb into the dive boat for a quick, bouncy ride through wind-driven swells. We get into our gear and roll into the clear water, sinking down like peas in honey. I can forget a surprising number of worries underwater. We take our time, pointing out a cowfish and two huge crabs shuffling back and forth in front of a crevice like gunfighters at high noon. The diving goes mostly as usual, but one day Carol feels something off in her regulator and signals me. I ask if she wants to surface, but she says no. We swim close together for the rest of the dive. I have needed her help underwater before; I am glad to be able to return it. There is new vulnerability in her, to match mine. She now knows what fear feels like.
In the evenings, we spend time at the tiny bar on the pier, watching the sun set and telling fish stories. One of the young couples on the island wonders if we are sisters. We laugh and say no, old friends. "Friends for 34 years," I say. I can see by their faces that they don't really understand that kind of time. We have been friends longer than they have been alive.
Carol walks along the sand each morning. "The morning light," she says, and doesn't need to say more. Her appetite for the sky, the edge of the sea, for the world, is constant and steady; she walks along the wrack with solid grace, looking down, looking up, back and forth.
One afternoon, Carol and I kayak out to the shallow reef. I'm pathetic in a kayak, clumsy and slow. Carol patiently rudders in the back. We tie up to a buoy and snorkel for a while. I find two Caribbean reef squid hanging in the sun-dappled shallows like mottled bread loaves with big silver eyes. She finds the biggest scorpion fish we have ever seen.
As we head back, we talk about summer camp. She was in Camp Fire Girls, I was in the Girl Scouts, and we both cherish those years. We talk about the special friends we made and how they eventually slid away. The sky is hot and blue, and ahead of us, the tiny island lies flat on the sea. I feel buoyant, almost weightless on the waves.
"Were you ever homesick?" she asks. "I never understood what that was about."
Between dives, we talk about where to go next. I make lists while she dozes. Our plans are more theoretical now, and the big trip to the South Pacific we hoped to one day take seems a long way off. Cancer has become part of our friendship. Some things have changed, but the biggest difference is common to every long-lasting friendship—the visceral reminder that our bodies are temporary gifts. Not knowing what comes next, having no idea at all what comes next, means anything is possible. Perhaps I will be hit by a truck, or my heart will stop, or there will be a shadow on my next mammogram. Life is dangerous.
We take our last dive of the trip. We glide slowly over the grand architecture of the reef. When we reach the wall and the deep blue water, we swim away. I try to turn a cartwheel, then a somersault. Carol lies on her side, an odalisque in a wet suit. Then, at the same time, we spread our arms out, like wings, and pretend to fly.
Advertisement 
Your Comments
See all
...
Post your comment