When Girlfriends Break Hearts

by Savannah Page

  I actually considered seeing a therapist but the price tag of Pamela’s recommended shrink made me consider otherwise. I visited the Father at a nearby Catholic church I attended now and then, mostly out of the “Creastor” tradition and in small efforts to please my parents, who made sure they went to Mass at least once a month, for good measure. I entered into a small, and seriously pitiful, confession and that made me feel even worse. No amount of “Hail Marys” was going to fix this demise.

  I downloaded a couple of “make you feel better” reads onto my Kindle—two self-help books that involved getting over heartbreak, and a Nicholas Sparks book. Unfortunately, these didn’t seem to be doing the trick, either. Accepting apologies and moving toward forgiveness was the general recommendation of the authors, and that’s not what I wanted to hear. And Nicholas Sparks just made me cry, and I wasn’t exactly in search of a good tear-jerker. I had enough of that with my life.

  Yoga was the closest thing to relief I could find. It was a great way for me to escape from the pain, at least temporarily. Did I realize I was only shoveling all my emotion into yoga, and that some point it’d all come hurtling back? Actually, I sort of did. But I didn’t care. For now it was working, it was healthy for the mind and body, and it ensured that I got myself out of the house and away doing something other than work, sleeping, crying, and no doubt complaining to Claire about how much life sucked.

  I was certain Claire was slowly becoming drained and at some point her empathy would turn into apathy. The clock was ticking. But I figured I’d leave everything that yoga couldn’t take care of to good old Father Time and try to shove my problems behind me. Time would heal—that was a given—and this adage had been proven time and time again throughout the course of hate-and-love history. I despised how slowly it moved, though.

  Yet I knew that eventually an appropriate amount of time would pass and I’d forget all about Brandon. And I’d get used to life without Robin as “one of the girls,” and Lara, too. All I had to do was wait. Right? Wait patiently, as recommended. In the meantime, I’d shuffle through the pain with batches of homemade cupcakes with my best friend and cycles of yoga sessions.

  ***

  I was surprisingly chipper as I walked into yoga class. Work had gone well and all of our goals at the kitchen had been reached in a timely manner—the work week seemed to be shaping up rather nicely. Oliver and I were really hitting a great rhythm together. We whipped up and iced batch after batch of red velvet and key lime cupcakes, and I even managed some time to test out a new strawberry-kiwi icing I wanted to make.

  As far as the goings-on on the home front, I hadn’t heard from Lara since the face-to-face blowout a couple of days before, and right now I felt great. I didn’t feel badly about what I had said. It actually felt rather liberating to tell her precisely how I felt. And I hoped Robin, when Lara relayed everything, felt like a horrible person and friend all over again.

  There were a few small moments when I did feel grim about the prospect of no longer having Lara in my life. Losing Robin was tough, not to mention Brandon, but adding another close friend to the list was a bit of a blow. Lara had always been a dear friend. We had been through a lot together and I loved her, just like I loved Robin.

  Lara was the girl that I—all of us, in fact—could turn to when we needed some motherly advice or encouragement. She was the friend that was always there. Right up there with Claire. I could trust her implicitly. That whole camp counselor role in college stuck with her over the years…or maybe that’s because first impressions always resonate deepest, and Lara completely fit the bill of a caring and compassionate “mom-type.”

  If there was one thing Lara perfected it was reliability. You could always turn to her in a pinch, which is probably why (aside from their very close bond) Robin confided in her about the affair right away. She had strong character and a kind and open heart; and the value she placed on true friendship and the importance of close friends was of excellent merit. When I needed to whine about how I would never see my business dreams come true, she was there to forward me helpful “tips to opening a small business” links online. When Claire and I wanted to crash her place so we could hang out like old times, Lara’s door was always open. When Emily needed a favor while she was out of town, Lara could always be counted on. When Jackie needed some extra cash or a ride home from some guy’s place, Lara never hesitated. When Robin needed Lara’s trust, she was right there to keep her secret.

  In the seven years Lara and I had known each other, never had injustice or hurt been inflicted like this. We were great friends for seven years because nothing like this impeded our relationship. Now that everything had happened I didn’t see a reason to continue a friendship. Besides, how could something new and true be built on something broken? These thoughts made me feel forlorn, especially when I recalled the happy memories among us…all us girls together…and then between Brandon and me. Thinking about the good times sank me into a small pit of the despair that I had become well-acquainted with. But then I’d think back on why I no longer wished for the three of these traitors to be in my life and my sadness turned, yet again, to anger. And then I’d push the anger aside and say to myself, Time will heal. Moving on! It was such a vicious, vicious cycle.

  ***

  When I entered the yoga studio that rainy evening, heading toward the rack of mats to prepare for class, I caught the silence and general discomfort that loomed in the air. The aura was definitely not that of yoga or Pilates, and it definitely was far from the atmosphere of meditation class.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered to a fellow classmate, Sarah.

  Sarah shook her head, eyes wide. “I don’t know,” she whispered back. “Pamela started crying and we’re all wondering what’s going on. She’s in the restroom.”

  I checked the wall clock. It read five minutes to class time. Crying aside, this was highly unlike Pamela. She was a timely lady and could always be found on her mat or in the studio a good ten minutes before class commenced, giggling and chatting away with the students.

  “Is she okay?” I asked. “I mean, did something happen here?”

  Sarah didn’t have any more answers; like the rest of the class.

  A few minutes later, Pamela emerged from the bathroom and entered the studio.

  “Hi, ladies,” she said in a small voice. She had a tissue in her hand and dabbed at her nose. “Sorry about that.” She took her place near her mat at the front, but didn’t assume her usual position to begin class. Instead, she stood a few paces in front of her mat, and made a quick hand motion for us to gather around. Confused, looking to and from one another, we ambled forth.

  Pamela brought the tissue to her nose again. As I neared, cautiously and concerned, I noticed fresh tear drops cascade down her soft, lightly wrinkled cheeks. She brought her tissue up to her eyes and wiped at them.

  “Pamela, dear,” one of the older ladies said, putting a comforting hand on her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  Pamela reached into her pants pocket for another tissue. Immediately I started to tear up. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

  Pamela sniffled back the tears…wiped at them on her cheeks…blotted at her eyes…but they kept coming. She let out a soft whine, like that of a small child in pain. She spoke softly, carefully, and her words stung. They stung more than the terrifying words that Brandon had said to me, more than the deceitful words of Robin, and more than those of Lara.

  “I have cancer,” she breathed.

  Silence.

  Not a single word.

  Not a single breath.

  Goosebumps prickled my arms. My legs. My fingers and toes felt numb.

  “I have cancer,” I heard her repeat through what seemed like an ocean of deafening silence.

  I finally, slowly, registered that a life was being lost. A life that was so precious and so beautiful was going to be taken.

  The silence broke with tears, with cries, with words of comfort, with questions, w
ith denial, with moans, with the words, “I have four weeks, six at most.”

  It couldn’t be true. Pamela, a healthy, vibrant, youthful, beautiful woman with the compassionate heart and warmest soul could not have cancer.

  How can this be? I…I…I don’t believe this…this can’t be true. No…no…it isn’t true. It just isn’t….

  “Pamela, how? Why?” Indistinct voices sounded.

  “When did you find out?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Did you get a second opinion? A third?”

  “How is this possible?”

  No…this just can’t be. It simply cannot be true.

  But the devastated look on Pamela’s face and the chorus of cries and condolences affirmed what I did not want to believe. Pamela had cancer and it would very soon take her life.

  Throughout the entire hour that we comforted Pamela while she shared her tragic news, I felt larger pieces by larger pieces of my life—my world as I knew it—crumble away. I realized at that point that I had absolutely no control over my life and the motions of the universe. I assumed control and hope were lost when I discovered that Brandon had cheated on me, but hearing Pamela’s news, hearing that a good soul—a good person—would lose their life, made me realize that the world and its events were bigger than me. Much bigger. My own problems suddenly seemed so much smaller and less significant.

  As best she could, Pamela explained that she was completely unaware that anything of the sort could have been progressing for years. She had experienced particularly painful stomach cramping for the past few weeks, and during a routine physical and mammogram she was delivered the news by her doctor. She said that when he told her he had bad news, she instantly thought of cancer.

  When the doctor confirmed it, she, in her ever-positive and ever-encouraging way, assumed it was breast cancer and that she could beat it. She knew plenty of women who had unfortunately been faced with the horrendous news of breast cancer, all of whom were proud survivors, and two of whom were students of hers. She only hoped that she had caught it quickly enough. But then her doctor had told her that she had pancreatic cancer—a cancer that had, regrettably, gone undetected for years and was now terminal.

  We gave comforting words and embraces as best we could through tears, but Pamela’s news had affected all of us as if we each had been told by our own doctors that we, ourselves, had just weeks left on Earth.

  This wasn’t really happening, was it? It couldn’t be real. Pamela was not going anywhere. Right? She couldn’t leave. There was not going to be a discussion about how she’d go through treatments or how she’d spend the last weeks of her life. There was not going to be talk of who would take her place at the studio and how all of us students should continue with our exercise classes.

  But as I surveyed the room, all of the women in tears, comforting hands on Pamela, I knew it was true. There was going to be a discussion about the cancer treatments she would undergo; there was going to be a discussion about how the last weeks of her life would be spent. There was talk of who would take her place in the studio, and there was already encouragement that we continue our classes. It was all happening. It was all very real. So terribly real.

  Through tears that chilled and words that cut, Pamela told us of her plans. She was brave despite the news she had just shared…despite the news that her doctor had given her less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Pamela would no longer be leading classes. Her energy needed to be conserved, particularly over her last weeks, when the pain of the cancer would intensify exponentially, diminishing her strength. Eventually the high and frequent doses of morphine and sedatives would render Pamela’s body and mind too weak to do anything more than walk to the restroom, or take a meal upright in bed for longer than thirty minutes at a stretch. But the relief it provided would be worth the side effects like the loss of mobility. Pancreatic cancer was one, if not the, most progressive of cancers. Due to its ability to go undetected for a great length of time, it would often be discovered at a point too late to fight.

  For the next four to six weeks, or, as Pamela told her us through her sweet, yet forced, giggle, “many weeks or months or maybe years,” she would be spending her time at home with her three children, her grandchildren, and other dear family members and close friends. She invited us to visit with her at her home.

  In her remaining time, Pamela would finish perfecting the English-style garden she’d been working on for years. She wouldn’t expend the energy planting, but she would be finishing the sketches and plans she had made.

  “I have the most beautiful back bay window that shows off the garden exquisitely,” she said. “When it’s warm I can sit out on the patio and watch the new plants go in. And when it’s cold I can take up a seat in my seating area by the bay window. The sun shines in so beautifully. It’ll be a dream! If I can’t plant the garden myself, then I want to watch it come alive.”

  Her strength and positive attitude astounded me. She was the epitome of a wise, kind, good, and positive soul.

  Pamela hoped to have the garden finished in four weeks, which should be the perfect time for some flowers to bloom and others to be planted. Then she wanted to host a garden party, complete with tea, wind chimes, big umbrellas, fancy hats for the ladies, maybe even bow ties for the gentlemen, and of course my “famous” carrot and zucchini cupcakes with cream cheese icing—Pamela’s favorite.

  “I know I probably won’t be very lucid,” she said through tears and a stifled laugh. “But I would so love for you to see the garden that I’ve always wanted. It’s been a dream of mine for so long. It’d mean a lot if you could all come for a celebration. An unveiling!”

  She smiled, her face lighting up at the talk of her grand party. Was she masking her fear or seeking denial? Perhaps, but as we all agreed to join in the festivities of her garden party we all were grabbing at straws, trying to bite back the painful reality that one of our dearest friends and mentors was leaving. It was one of those realities that you know you will have to face at some point down the road, but one you try to avoid or conceal with laughter, however forced.

  “And it could be a kind of farewell party, too,” she said, bringing her tissue up to her eyes.

  “Pamela, no,” we all sounded.

  She waved her hands about, dismissing the sympathy.

  “We’re having the party,” she stated firmly. “And you’re all invited. It’ll be a grand time! You think you can make those cupcakes that you make so well, Sophie? It won’t be a burden?” She gave me a small smile.

  I took in a quick and sudden breath, trying to keep back any more tears. “Absolutely,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around the small, beautiful woman whom I looked up to and revered as one of the brightest stars in the universe. “Absolutely. Not a burden at all, Pamela. Not…at…all….”

  The sun long set and the sky dark, our “class” was over and we eventually filed away. As we did, Pamela gathered her belongings. She began winding up her resistance band, then slipped it into the colorful cloth exercise bag that had more than likely been a find in Bali during her period of training. She rolled up the mat that she had habitually laid out in the studio and put it away with the rest of the mats for the last time.

  I watched her as she wrapped her soft beige scarf around her petite neck. She was absolutely stunning. Courage and compassion radiated from her every pore. Pamela was everything that I was not. She was everything that I wanted to be. Her kindness and patience and understanding were purely inspiring. Even bearing this painful news, she remained the same kind woman: compassionate and sweet. She maintained a courage that I know could never be replicated on my part. She was, at that moment, at that moment of deep sorrow and loss, truly the most inspiring woman in the world.

  I walked with her to the studio door, in the company of four other women who wanted to close the day—and the studio—with Pamela. For one last time.

  “Well, you ladies best get home to those husbands and lives o
f your own,” Pamela said in her usual cheerful manner, opening up the front door. The air was chilly and the familiar pour of the Seattle rain was still coming down. “Oh poop, it’s still raining. Well, that’s spring for you.” She patted me on the back, ushering me ahead and out.

  Crowded together under the awning, sheltering ourselves from the rain, we watched Pamela lock up the studio. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to drive away from the studio knowing that it would be the last time Pamela would be on the other side of the door, welcoming me with open arms and a bright smile. I didn’t want to believe that she was going to have to say goodbye to life. And I didn’t want to say goodbye to her.

  Pamela pulled an umbrella from her purse and propped it open, and myself and a few others followed in suit.

  We walked with her to her car, then kissed her and embraced her and wished her safe travels. And we made sure to let her know that we’d be knocking on her door very soon to visit.

  “Oh please do!” she said, smiling, her eyes glassy and filling with another round of tears. “Now you ladies get home. I’ll be in touch about that garden party.”

  Some of us rushed for our own cars, trying to seek shelter from the rain. I, however, remained standing near Pamela’s parking space as she drove off into the wet and dark night. Before she made a left onto the exiting street she waved a hand out her window.

  I knew, at that very moment, that that image of Pamela driving off into the night, waving goodbye to her students—her friends—and her studio for the last time would be one of the forever-remaining memories I would have of her. It would be that last memory when Pamela was the Pamela I would always know and always love. The woman she was, and would always be, before the cancer would claim her life. I would remember how dark and cold the night was, yet how beautifully the city lights bounced off the wet, crystal-like street and reflected back into the darkness. I would remember the flow of Pamela’s linen sleeve as she reached it out to wave her final goodbye to the life she had beautifully led, and inspired, at our studio and in our group of women.