Geri Malter
A Chance Meeting, Friendship, and Letting Go
One of my first requests after my 1983 diagnosis with retroperitoneal liposarcoma was, "Can I speak to someone else with the same cancer?" This proved to be an elusive request, though I knew I couldn't be the only patient with this disease. I didn't find what I was seeking until a chance meeting with Lynne some 11 years later.
We were both attending a 1994 conference in Washington, D.C., sponsored by the National Coalition of Cancer Survivorship. By a stroke of good fortune, I found myself sitting beside Lynne, an attractive woman a few years younger than myself from New York City. As we waited for the start of a workshop on doctor-patient communication, she began to tell me of her many years of struggle with a recurring abdominal tumor. There was no end in sight, and she anticipated many more surgeries. Her frustration sounded like mine. My ears perked up when she described feelings of loneliness as she dealt with an uncommon chronic cancer. She, too, expressed a desire to meet another with the same diagnosis. The bond between us was immediate when we realized that we were fighting the same disease. We spoke at length and exchanged phone numbers, promising to keep in touch as we parted that day with hugs and smiles. Our friendship continued for years. She shared her deepest thoughts with me in a way she hadn't with anyone else. She hesitated to discuss her cancer experience with friends and colleagues, fearing it would affect her personal life and profession as a free-lance writer. Her loving husband was her main source of support. Our regular phone conversations and e-mail messages included reports that ranged from recent visits with her doctors at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center to her anxiety about frequent CT scans.
Some of our marathon talks were positive and hopeful with words of disease stability, but others were discouraging with plans for yet another surgery. When she received news of advancing disease, she would say to me, "This is not good." With my encouragement, she consulted the Dana-Farber/Brigham and Women's Cancer Center sarcoma team, as I had done with her team at Memorial Sloan-Kettering. We both felt comfortable with the medical care we were receiving. There were moments when we could lift each other's spirits and hopes. Then there were times when we were both saddened by our reports, and all we could do was share our fears and shed a few tears over the phone lines.
When either one of us was fortunate enough to take a break and vacation far from home in some "exotic" location, each quietly prayed that the other would return safely. As time went on, the distant vacations for both of us became too difficult, so we both stayed closer to home and our doctors. We shared this disappointment, as we both acknowledged advancing disease.
Last year, Lynne's disease worsened, and I could hear it in her words and weakening voice. Hospice starting attending to her daily needs, and her days of free-lance writing had come to an end. I realized that our friendship too, as we knew it, would soon end.
Earlier this year, Lynne died at home with her husband at her side. Just before she fell into her final sleep, she whispered her familiar expression, "This is not good." I cried when I heard those words. She was the first person I had met with my cancer, and we had supported each other through many ups and downs. I know that she is still looking down at me, sending encouragement so I might continue my fight. I continue to receive e-mail messages from her husband, who feels my connection with her as he wishes for me more good days than bad ones.
Close relationships between cancer patients can be remarkably supportive, but the reality is that one person in the relationship might die. Losing my friend was difficult enough, but after going through this end-of-life experience with her, it was also impossible for me to avoid considering my own potential experience. For now, my memories of Lynne live on as I smile at the memory of that chance meeting at a cancer conference in Washington, D.C., seven years ago.
