In high school, I randomly went on a trip to Europe. I say randomly because I was 16 and didn’t have a sense of self much less a sense of adventure. My dad was the son of a rear admiral whose career took his family all over the world. As an international commercial pilot himself, he taught me to imagine beyond the invisible boundaries of my young life. He’d bring back coins stamped with strange people and symbols. I deposited the coins in a tiny clay pot I made in school, but not before I’d locate it’s point of origin in my Rand McNally Atlas.
I was ‘selected’ to go on this student ambassador trip to Europe. I’m pretty sure that ‘selection’ had something to do with research on my parents’ tax return, but it didn’t stop my dad from being excited about the opportunity for me to travel and he never really got excited over much. I’m not sure why I decided to go, but it was probably more to make my dad happy than anything else.
Looking back, this trip was perfect for young deviants. We were left to our own devices with only Chuck, Carol, and Vern leading 30 some teenagers through Great Britain and Ireland. Chuck was creepy, Carol could have cared less, and Vern…I don’t actually remember anything about Vern. Anyway, the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll that could have happened either didn’t or I was too naive to notice.
A few days in, Ali and I connected over our shared love of peaches. One late night talking on the ferry from London to Wales and we were inseparable for the rest of the trip. There were some cool people on that trip and looking back, I wish I would have taken the time to know. Like Leah. Today, Leah and I are Facebook ‘friends’. ‘Friends’ like we talked about commiserating over beer about her mom’s brain cancer and my mom’s mental illness and her brother-in-law’s terminal gastrointestinal cancer and my BFF’s melanoma, but we’ve never actually made it happen.
Last week, her brother-in-law died. He lived 2.5 years longer than the experts told him he would. And during that time, he shared with any group that asked a powerful message about living. He was scheduled to speak at a fundraising event for me in the fall – if he made it that long. As a result of that commitment-with-an-asterisk, I watched his CaringBridge page closely.
I slipped into a funk when I learned he entered hospice just days before the cancer overtook him and I cried the day he died. I knew I wasn’t crying about his death, but it took a moment to find the root of the upset. The average life expectancy for someone withe metastatic melanoma is 16 months. This felt like a foreshadow of what it will be like for S when the cancer overtakes her.
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