Life Without Janet

Janet died in April of 2010. She lived long enough to see her daughter give birth to her first grandchild, her son marry, and her 57th birthday.  She lived 2 1/2 years past the initial prognosis given by her doctors when the brain tumor was discovered. She used to say she was my "longest" friend.

I was six and she was eight when we met. Her brother and I were bickering over whose bike had the right to the sidewalk, when she bounced up the street, her long braids swinging down her back. Taking Billy's bike in one hand, she pulled him aside, introduced herself, the sidewalk war was averted, and our friendship forged.

We were polar opposites - she was calm and somewhat introverted, I was (and am), ruthlessly outspoken. Our friendship survived the very different paths our lives took.

Janet was a lyrical writer, much as Anne Morrow Lindbergh, her journals and notes poetic. She had three children's books published through her church - sweet stories of the simple pleasures of attending Sunday Service and baptism. After the tumor was discovered, she wrote short stories for her new granddaughter. She had ideas for several books she hoped to write after her youngest son graduated.

We had planned to go to Hong Kong when my daughter turned 15. Janet always said I made her fall in love with Hong Kong because of the letters I wrote to her while I was waiting to travel to Nanchang to adopt my daughter. Janet was the first person I called after I finally held my longed-for child in my arms.

My daughter has the perfect mix of Janet's pragmatism and grace, with a spark of my take-no-prisoners humor. I often tell my daughter, an old soul, that she reminds me of her "Aunt" Janet.

Janet and I had long, gut-wrenching conversations about life, love, and death. And still, there were many moments of laughter. She wished for her hair to grow back, and mourned the fact she could no longer play the piano. I wished for time, all the while knowing that was a wish that wasn't to be granted.

Always, when the fear of dying got the better of her, she would call and beg me to promise I would always be there for her. Though we knew we weren't going to see each other again, we talked every day, sometimes two or three times a day. I knew what she was asking. And I told her I would never leave her - we were on this journey together.

As the tumor crowded her brain, she lost the ability to walk, and her vision was fading. Her husband, a remarkable man (his strength and care of Janet cannot be overstated), would hold the phone to Janet's ear. I could do nothing, except tell her I loved her.

I remember our last conversation. Her speech was failing, and I knew that I would never hear her voice again. That day, her husband didn't hold the phone to Janet's ear. Her daughter, a nurse, told me her mother probably only had a few days left to live.

Shortly before she slipped into unconciousness, Janet chose a picture she had stitched, and dictated a small note to her daughter. She wanted me to have the picture and her final words to me. She died, without pain, two days later.

The week after Janet's death, her husband sent me the picture and Janet's note. The picture hangs just inside the front door, for all to see.

It's in the early morning that I think of Janet. The house is quiet, my daughter is sleeping, the sun is just about to come up. The first cup of coffee is gratefully sipped and enjoyed.

There is, and always will be, a hole in my life and heart, since Janet has died. Despite her death, the blessing of having such a friend fills me. Though I didn't like the way the journey ended, I am thankful, daily, for the 48 years that Janet was in my life.

"I won't be here," Janet once said, "But you have a lot of living left to do. You're going to go on, and raise your little girl. You'll have a wonderful life. Promise me you'll keep writing."

So I write, on this beautiful summer morning, of Janet.