A Story of Friendship in the Time of Death

by Marilyn

Friends come from surprising places. If you keep your heart open to opportunity, a new friend can slip right in at the darndest times and touch you in a way no other can.

Five years ago I was on my morning walk when a very little, white, fluffy dog began to follow me. I wasn't even sure it was a dog because it was so microscopic--about the size of a mature guinea pig but with longer legs. I had been memorizing something out loud and believe the little thing was attracted to the sound of my voice. I tried to shoo it away, tried to pawn it off to a passing family, even tried to put it back where I had guessed its master's home was, but nothing deterred that itty bitty critter from my destiny.

My daughter, Marcy, was seven at the time and squealed when she first saw the teeny dog. We had just moved to LA, and she was still a little homesick, so the begging began. She put the little thing in a little basket and called it "Little Fluff". I reminded her that it wasn't ours and she could keep it only until I found its owner. She cuddled with Little Fluff all night.

The next morning I walked the same route as the day before and, as I had hoped, I found a "Lost Dog" sign on a telephone poll. The notice told me the dog was a Maltese named Blossom. I ran home and called the number that was posted. "Hello?" a shaky voice answered. Had this person been crying?

"I believe I have your dog."

"Oh my God. Oh my God! You have her? You have Blossom? Is she okay?" She definitely was crying.

"She's fine. She slept with my daughter all night."

"Thank God." She continued to weep. I was feeling so sorry for her. She had been up all night in fear that something awful had happened. The relief of the good news made her sob all the more.

I had formed a clear picture of the woman on the other end of the receiver. I was sure she was in her late sixties, lonely, liked to wear coats with fluffy fur collars, drove a pale pink Cadillac convertible and painted her lipstick way up over her lips. A moment later, Catherine was at my door. She was in her mid-thirties, had wonderful, bouncy red hair, wore no lipstick at all and was quite tiny herself. She carried a purse made especially for little dogs and Blossom jumped right in, grateful to be reunited with her "mother". Behind the ever-thankful Catherine, stood her tall, good looking boyfriend, Scott. It seemed as if maybe Scott had had an equally traumatic night. Perhaps this event gave Scott his first peek into the intensely maternal character of his then new girlfriend.

We hit it off right away. They stayed for coffee and right then and there, each of us taking a turn at holding Blossom almost ritualistically, we began our journey into friendship.

I ran right out and bought Marcy a little, white fluffball which she named Sadie. We had Scott, Catherine and Blossom over for barbecues, went out to dinner, to the flea market, exchanged Christmas presents and even planned to vacation together. We quickly considered Scott and Catherine to be a part of our inner circle of friends.

The next year we received an invitation to their exquisite wedding . . . Scott in his kilt and Catherine in antique white satin, two elegant redheads glowing with love for just about everyone in the room. No, I believe that day even the waiters were included in their embrace. Then it was off to honeymoon in Italy where they continued that wedding high for almost a month. I was so happy for them. Their life seemed blessed; Scott came home to a new writing job for NYPD Blue and Catherine was pregnant.

One afternoon I got a call from a stunned Catherine, her voice exposing a tinge of disappointment, explaining that she had just come back from the doctor where it was revealed to her that she was carrying a baby boy. She had been thoroughly convinced that this baby would be a girl and couldn't hide the let-down. She never even conceived (pardon the pun) that there could be anything else. Catherine rattled off all the reasons why she thought it should have been a girl and when she finished, I knew why she had called me. Having two male creatures myself, I told her all the wonderful things about little boys. By the time we got off the phone, she was ready for one of those adventurous, wiggly, jump-right-into-the-puddles, precious beings.

Once she knew the sex of the baby, it was time to decorate! She was going for a farm motif. A person could drop by any time of the day and find Catherine fauxing walls and painting baby furniture. I came by one afternoon to see the progress of the baby's room only to find Scott and Catherine having a difference of opinion about the color on one of the dressers. I was fascinated about how much enthusiasm Scott had for all the little preparation details. He pointed out how safe the crib was and showed me a little football jersey, all the while holding Blossom so as not to encourage jealousy. The house was vibrating with love and anticipation.

After throwing out their poetic list of girls names, they decided rather quickly on Shane.

Ask any mother and she'll tell you that the number one curse of pregnancy is hemorrhoids. And as little, tiny Catherine grew, so did those pesky 'roids. She could barely walk near the end, poor thing.

Three days later, I got the anticipated call from a mutual friend Laura, "Catherine had the baby."

I shrieked, "Oh my God! When? How is she? How's Scott? How's the baby?"

To my horror she said in a somber voice, "Not good."

I held my breath, my heart started pounding hard as I stood motionless in disbelief. Through her tears, Laura explained that the baby couldn't breathe on his own and that he was paralyzed from his little nose down. My family noticed that I was crying and gave me the "what's wrong?" signal. Not ready to say it, I ignored them and continued to listen to Laura describe the perfect birth and then the moment of shock. Laura and I tried to think of ways we could help them, but we were totally powerless. We both were hanging on the hope that there was some expert right there at Cedars Sinai who knew just what to do.

"Maybe Scott and Catherine would have a paralyzed child, but they have so much love in them to give, if anyone could handle it, they could."

"That's right! Of course, we'd be there to help. And, who knows, maybe it's even better than that. Maybe we'll hear tomorrow that there's an operation that they've done thousands of times on babies just like Shane and have a real high success rate."

That's all you can do at first, you know. Just rely on the hope that there's someone out there who could fix it. In the beginning, you are not capable of thinking about the alternative. You shut that thought out as fast as it comes in. Then you pray.

Each time I got a call from Laura, the news was worse, "Shane has a rare genetic disease that's not curable."

"The baby can't live on his own."

"They have to take him off life support, but Scott and Catherine can't decide on which day to do it."

My heart broke with each call.

My thoughts and prayers were with Scott and Catherine. I also needed to recognize that I was losing a baby, too. I was already in love with Shane and all that a newborn promises. I had been waiting for my turn to babysit, to hold him and smell the babyness in his neck, to spoil him with the latest stuff, to giggle at his made-up words, to smile at his description of his first grade teacher. I thought I could satisfy my "baby fix" withShane.

Almost two weeks after his birth, Scott called to invite my husband and me to see Shane before his death. I felt extremely honored and a little nervous. Pain of losing a beloved child is one of the hardest things to see registered on a friend's face. I'm sorry to say I've seen it twice before.

It was a quiet ride over the hill to the hospital. Richard and I walked pensively down the corridors toward their room. I saw Catherine first and flew to her while Richard did the same with Scott. I wanted so badly to console her and all I could do was cry with her. Big, bellowing sobs. We stood there huggingfor a long, tender time. I could feel the warm protrusion of her belly where Shane had been protected all those months. Her breasts were full of milk. The pump next to her bed screamed the word "emptiness". I noticed that the frame of her body seemed even smaller than I had remembered.

I don't think I had ever heard a man cry in the tormented way Scott was. I wiped his tears with my hand, but there was so much more.

Those few moments right there in that hospital room were one of the most intimate occasions of my life. It's easy to be a friend when it's all about parties and vacations and even long, revealingt alks. The other side of true friendship comes with once in a lifetime moments like those we shared that sad day. I didn't think it could be possible, but my love for both of them multiplied.

We followed them to the intensive care unit where little Shane lay breathing with the help of his machine. This is where I saw an amazing change come over both Scott and Catherine. The melancholy faces disappeared once they entered the room. During their short time with their precious newborn, they were very proud parents.They were joyful and delighted. The nurse helped Catherine hold him in a rocking chair with a portable breathing apparatus. She cooed and sang and told him how much she loved him. Scott took pictures and pointed out all Shane's likenesses to his mom and dad. He looked beautiful in Catherine's arms, she looked beautiful holding him.

The next time I saw them was at the funeral. The same people I had seen at their wedding not even a year before were now gathered for another reason. This ceremony was as elegant and beautiful as as the one before. Shane had been cherished and honored.

At the grave site I was standing next to Richard, and Marcy was in front of me, engulfed in my protective arms. The look of anguish on Scott and Catherine's faces was so compelling. I whispered in my daughter's ear, "See their look? See the pain on their faces? I'm sorry, honey, but we all have to experience it at some point in our lives. There's no getting out of it. It's the natural way of things."

That's the harsh truth of it. Death is part of the life cycle and I wanted my daughter to know about it because I think somehow it's easier if we know it's the way things naturally are.

Then I said to her, "Look around and see all the friends they have. That's the best you can ask for in times like these."And that's the sweet truth of it. The healing we receive from friendship is also an intricate part of nature's cycle.