Her parents were younger than mine and college-educated. Mr. Ingram was a teacher at Perry High School, and Mrs. Ingram was a school secretary, which meant that Denise grew up solidly middle-class, unlike my working-class family. Denise lived in the Creekwood subdivision, a new development across town, where higher-earning black families in Perry built two-story homes and had a neighborhood swimming pool. In my neighborhood, Old Field, the homes were smaller and rather simple. Most of my neighbors worked as cooks or construction laborers or in nearby factories. From the outside looking in, Denise was more likely destined for success. Her relatives, parents and neighbors were primarily professionals and most of mine were not. But our lives took different turns after high school.
By senior year I had developed a strong sense of my ambitions. I had big dreams to go to the University of Georgia, to work in television and maybe one day move to a major city like Chicago or New York. Some of my classmates thought I was pretty cocky. Denise was shyer than I was and, although smart and talented, was less certain about her plans. She chose a slightly smaller college with a little less prestige just south of Perry.
Once we went our separate ways, Denise and I didn’t talk as much. For the first time in years, hers wasn’t the first number I called when I had a problem. I suppose it happens to so many of us after high school, as we venture out into the wider world. But we stayed in touch and saw each other during holidays and summers. Eventually I moved out of Georgia, and after getting her degree in marketing, Denise worked in Washington for a congressman. Later, she landed a staff position at the Social Security Administration and a few other government agencies but never seemed to have a fire in her belly about her work.
Whenever an assignment brought me to Washington, we’d get together, but we definitely weren’t as close as we had once been. Still, I always felt like we remained best friends forever.
Then one fall, when we would both celebrate our thirty-third birthdays, Denise gave me some disconcerting news. She had always been a gifted singer, but she was no longer able to sing at weddings or in the church choir because she had sarcoidosis, an autoimmune disease. In Denise’s case it was attacking her lungs and causing emphysema-like symptoms.
Eventually she decided to follow her doctor’s advice to seek a warmer climate, which might make her feel better. But her condition worsened, and a few years later she moved back to Perry, into her old bedroom at her parents’ house—something no adult child wants to do unless they have to.
By this time Denise and I were in our forties. She had once been filled with such joy and love for music. She even sang “The Lord’s Prayer” at our wedding, bringing Al and me to tears. But a debilitating disease was robbing my childhood pal of her passion and most everything else she loved too. Whenever I came home to see Mom and Dad, I made it a point to call and invite myself over. Sometimes Denise would wave me off, saying she hadn’t gotten dressed or was too tired for a visitor. She had become more and more reclusive because her illness was tough to bear. Mrs. Ingram loved it when I persisted and pushed my way in for a visit anyway. She would give me a secret wink whenever I sat next to Denise on the sofa, watching TV or regaling her with stories about my travels.
I loved Denise so much, and I encouraged her to seek out the best medical care, possibly a lung transplant. But she was reluctant on all fronts. She felt uncomfortable about taking risks, even if it might possibly save her life. She prayed for healing but was at peace with whatever the future would bring. But I was frustrated because I was convinced that Denise felt defeated by her disease. Much to the dismay of her parents and brother and sister, she wasn’t interested in a long, brave fight.
Each time I came home to Perry, I would call and try to see Denise for a cheer-up visit. She became very thin, and her breathing was labored. It pained me to see her so weak and diminished. The sicker Denise got, the less she wanted people to see her in such a fragile state. By now Denise rarely went out in public, fearing germs and looks of pity over her frail condition. I pleaded with her to go to a movie with me or, even better, to visit me in New York. I assured her that I had seen people all over New York City eating in the finest restaurants carrying a little oxygen tank and bag. “It’s the must-have fashion accessory of the season!” I’d say, trying to bring a little levity to the situation, with the hope of lifting her spirits. It didn’t work. Even so, I insisted on seeing her whenever I was in Perry, if only to sit with her and reminisce, tell stories and be together for a few hours.
“You really think you can avoid me?” I’d ask. “Well, it’s not going to work! I am going to be right here for you, because I am your friend and I am going to be here and help you get through this,” I’d say.
If she wasn’t going to fight for herself, I’d fight for her. I’d be her cheerleader. That’s what best friends are for!
Then one day I got that call.
That same dreaded one I got when my dad was dying.
This time, however, I would catch the next plane. Denise was in intensive care at a Florida hospital that specializes in autoimmune diseases.
Something inside told me that I needed to be there. Denise needed another voice there to tell her not to give up.
At first I convinced myself that this would be like any other visit, that I would see Denise and cheer her up. When I got to the hospital, her brother, Hervia, quickly shattered that fantasy. With a stricken face, he pulled me aside in the lobby and cautioned me that I needed to be strong. He warned me that his sister was unconscious and that I should prepare myself before going into the room.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, so I took a deep breath and walked through the door. Denise was lying in bed, as if she were asleep. She had a slack mouth and a frozen, almost scared expression on her face. There were tubes running down her throat and wires connecting her to an oxygen machine and a heart-rate monitor. It took my breath away to see my friend like this—so frail and fragile.
Mrs. Ingram was asleep on the sofa, and I didn’t want to wake her.
I took Denise’s hand and held it tight. And I could’ve sworn she squeezed my hand back.
When her mother awoke, she explained that the doctors had induced a light comatose state so Denise could get some respite from the constant coughing. Her body needed a rest. Mrs. Ingram spoke quietly and confidently about her daughter coming home. I wanted to share her hopes, but I feared that Denise was in a fight for her life. Even so, I had no idea this would be our last visit.
With the beeps of the heart monitor and other machines purring in the background, I talked to Denise, rubbed her head, and smoothed back her hair with my brush. My mind was flooded with memories of our blissful childhood and happy times together. I struggled to hold back my tears, keeping things light, hoping that somewhere deep inside, Denise sensed my presence. With the ventilator pumping oxygen into her, she lay still and peaceful, a knitted blanket draped over her thin legs. My heart was cracking. I stayed for a couple of hours, until the nurses said visiting hours were over.
I had taken a hotel room on the grounds of the hospital so I would be close just in case anything happened. Emotionally drained and physically exhausted, I walked through the darkness and into my hotel feeling anxious and eager for a hot shower and a bed. I was slipping into my nightgown when the phone suddenly rang. Hervia was on the line and said I should come over—right away.
“It’s not good,” he said.
I threw on my sweats and a T-shirt and dashed back to the hospital and straight up to Denise’s room. Mr. and Mrs. Ingram looked stricken as the doctor told them gently that they should consider disconnecting the life support to see if Denise could breathe on her own. Denise had asked long ago not to be left on life support. The Ingrams tried to remain hopeful, but somehow I knew what the outcome would be.
My heart was in my throat.
I couldn’t speak—and worse, I felt out of place, like an intruder in a private
family meeting. But at the same time I also felt privileged to be part of the family during this critical moment.
I will never forget that night for as long as I live.
Holding my breath, I stepped back from Denise’s bed and watched the doctor disconnect the breathing tube.
We all held hands and took a deep, nervous breath. Mrs. Ingram, a deeply religious woman, began to pray for her daughter in a tiny voice, pleading, “Dear God, lift her up and give her strength.” We watched the monitor as her heart rate slowed. Mrs. Ingram gently reached for the heirloom blanket at the foot of her bed and placed it across her body.
Seconds later, the machine went flatline.
My friend was gone.
Mrs. Ingram softly wept and gently kissed her daughter. She stared at her for a long time, then finally stepped into the hallway, where she let out a plaintive howl, the kind of heart-stopping cry a mother makes after losing a child. She had held it together for so long, but now that her first baby was gone, she had to let it out.
I just stood frozen in disbelief, tears running down my cheeks, feeling almost out of body. I grabbed Denise’s still warm hands and bent over to kiss her. “Good-bye, my precious friend,” I whispered. I turned to her brother and hugged him tightly.
“Thank you for being here,” he said as he placed his arms around my shoulders. “It meant a lot to us, and I know it meant a lot to Denise.”
Denise will always hold the place as my best friend in life. Although she pushed me away toward the end, I know she held on to our bond as tightly as I did. I understand that it must’ve been painful to face her loved ones when she was losing her grip. She no doubt wanted to make the difficult decision to move on without causing me pain. But I also believe that she wanted me with her once she was on her way. I often think how strange it was that Denise held on until I arrived, then passed away just hours later. In my heart I truly believe that she waited for me, just as we had waited for each other at school or on the phone so many times when we were growing up. My childhood twin allowed me to be at her side as she made her final journey from this life.
As tragic as it was to lose Denise, to watch her die so young, I’m thankful she was surrounded by the people she loved and that I was able to see her out of the world. God had cradled her and taken her away. Although it was heartbreaking, I cherish my memory of being at Denise’s bedside as a reminder of the power of friendship. Whether old, battered or strained, true friendship never dies.
My best friend—my childhood double—was gone. I never expected to say good-bye to her so soon, and I certainly never thought I’d witness her walk into the arms of God.
Though I wanted her to fight, Denise clearly knew how much she could bear. A strong-willed woman of deep, unshakable faith, she had grown weary in her struggle to live. I think she knew it was time to surrender and find her final peace.
A few days later, when I spoke at Denise’s funeral, I realized that it was her birthday. “How ironic to say good-bye to my friend on the same day she was brought into this world,” I thought. I guess that is the true circle of life.
I always imagined that we would grow old together, calling each other up, laughing and gossiping about our lives. But God had another plan.
A year after Denise passed, her mother reached out to me during one of my visits back home. She said, “Deborah, if you could come by the house, I have something I’d like to give you.”
Truth be told, it had been hard for me to stay in touch with her since Denise’s death. It was just so painful, and I missed my friend very much. But when I got her message, of course I stopped in for a visit.
Mrs. Ingram had finally gone through Denise’s things and had come across some wrapped presents. One had my name on it.
It took me a minute to open it. My hands trembled as I bore the paper away.
I opened a small box to find a white ceramic cross decorated with magnolias and dogwoods. The card read, simply, To my friend Deborah.
As I held the cross in my hands, tears fell from my eyes. It was as if Denise and I were together again. In this bittersweet moment I felt the meaning of true friendship. No matter how near or far, we will always be connected in each other’s hearts. When I tell this story to my children, I want them to understand the meaning of the expression “friends to the end.”
AL
The World’s Greatest Puppy!
I am going on record that I did not want a dog. Not that I am antidog. I had a dog from the time I was ten years old until well into my thirties. But a couple of things happened.
1. I moved to Manhattan. The thought of following behind an animal, bending down and picking up its poop was not the way I wanted to spend my evenings.
2. With children who were past the point of poopy diapers, who could dress and feed themselves, why would I bring what amounts to a perennial two-year-old into my home?
3. I developed an allergy to dog hair late in life. And Nicky and Leila are allergic as well.
Of course, as the kids got older, they saw the cute little Yorkies, pugs and Labs walking around Manhattan, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I would hear, “Daaaaad! Can we have a dog? Pleeeeeaase?” accompanied by a look not unlike the kids in those paintings with the huge eyes and the little pouty lower lip.
When that day finally came, they trotted out all the reasons why they should have a dog: companionship, responsibility, an antidote for loneliness; all their friends have a dog—why not us? We’re old enough. We’ll take it out, we’ll walk it, clean up after it. Pleeeeasseee? This despite the fact that Nicky was actually afraid of dogs! He was following his sister’s lead.
These children think their mother and I were dropped on this planet, fully formed, without having run the same scams, arguments and promises on our parents.
Who are you kidding?
My brothers and sisters and I had used the exact same arguments. And this was at a time when your dog didn’t live in your house. In my neighborhood, unless there was bad weather, your dog stayed outside. It didn’t eat gourmet dog food; it had table scraps. And sadly, if your pooch got sick, the vet told you when it was time to say good-bye. There were no diagnoses of cancer, kidney disease or arthritis. No vet in my time or neighborhood would think to suggest chemo, dialysis or hip replacement.
When you took your dog for a walk, it pooped and you left it there as long as it wasn’t on someone’s lawn.
I steadfastly refused to even think about getting a dog until Nicky and Leila were old enough to take said dog outside by themselves and walk same said dog and pick up its poop and deposit said poop in the corner trash receptacle.
End of story.
By early 2012, though, the cacophony had grown to an incessant drone. Deborah and I talked about it and decided they were old enough to help take care of a dog. Friends suggested we have the kids sign a contract accepting their responsibility.
Are you kidding?
Major League Baseball players break multimillion-dollar contracts more often than you and I change underwear. Do you really think some unenforceable pact is going to keep the kids walking the dog or cleaning up after it?
And what if they don’t?
Are we really giving the dog back?
Not likely, so scratch the contract idea.
But we hatched a plan.
Leila was already researching the breed of dog she thought might be perfect for our family. I told them I would talk to Jill Rappaport, our Today show animal advocate. We insisted on a rescue or shelter dog, and Jill is the best at hooking people up with the right rescue/shelter folks. When I called Jill, she was ecstatic. She said to give her some time, but she would find the right dog for our family.
We all had our wish list. The kids wanted a puppy, they wanted it to be a girl, and they wanted something small and hypoallergenic, obviously, and it had to be the world’s greates
t puppy! Okay, I added that part, but I figure, since we’re putting in our order . . .
Week after week, the kids were on me. “When is the puppy coming?”
About six weeks went by and then came the call we’d all been waiting for. Jill wanted to know if we would be available to meet with Bill Smith, director of a well-known animal-rescue shelter, at the end of the week. He had a puppy he’d like us to meet.
I must admit, I was suddenly nervous. This was a big, honkin’ deal. Once this happened, there was no going back.
Plus, I started doing the math.
Both Leila and Nicky would be out of the house at college in eight years. Deborah would be stuck with an incontinent, irascible poop machine that would most likely be a flatulence factory. And then there would be the dog.
Under a cone of silence, Deborah and I planned the meeting for the early afternoon before the kids got home from school. This way, if things didn’t go well, no harm, no foul. They’d be none the wiser. (I always feel that when you say that, you have to twiddle your tie and look into the camera like Oliver Hardy.)
Jill and Bill showed up to our home and brought in not one but two crates. As soon as we met I could see that Bill was a man of incredible dedication to rescuing dogs and finding good homes for them. He has a kind demeanor and gentle manner, but I could see him as a staunch defender of these animals.
“GAME ON!” I thought.
We decided to meet a future member of our family in the backyard. Bill left the crates inside the door, reaching into one and walking out back with us. There in his hand was a beautiful light brown ball of fluff. We all sat down on the stone patio, and he let this little guy down on the ground. The puppy looked around curiously, and he was so very cute that I could see falling in love with him. He seemed easygoing and chill; this guy would clearly fit into our home, I thought.
Been There, Done That Page 22
