I quickly dispelled any myth my mom had told him. She probably had folks thinking Michelle Obama and I were girls and hanging out at the White House was a regular thing for me. “I don’t know about big things but then again, leave it to Mom to put her spin on things.”
Mom turned around not missing a beat. “What spin? I’m proud of everything you do.”
My dad was ready to leave, but told me and Robby to continue catching up while they left to make their brunch reservation at nearby Post & Beam restaurant.
“I’m right behind you; I’ll see you there.”
Robby said goodbye, adding that he would see them next week. Then, he turned back to me. “I don’t need to know the details of why you returned, but it’s good to have you back on the west coast,” he said in a sincere manner.
I told him I didn’t realize how much I missed home and before I could continue, he had a lightbulb moment.
“Hey listen, since you’re in town maybe you can come support the annual Young Women’s Role Model Conference we’re hosting next Saturday.”
I remembered that annual conference from growing up in that church and it was good to know it was still going strong. I told him I would love to come and he took me by surprise when he shared that one of their speakers had to cancel. “Look at God. I’m thinking, a woman as dynamic as you, could come impart a little wisdom to our young sisters, Pilar.”
I didn’t mind volunteering my time and Robby was thrilled adding, “The girls need to see positive role models from the community.” He explained that Lisa was spearheading the event and that he would have her get in touch with me with the details. He gave me another hug. “Good to see you, Pilar.”
“It’s really good to see you, Rob—,” I corrected myself, “Pastor Robby. I’m proud of you.”
“Aw, thanks, Big Sis. God is good.”
“Yes, He is. All the time,” I responded before I left.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Yesterday’s message on the four types of love got my full attention. I began to understand the different facets of love and how when combined, we gain greater comprehension of the four-letter word that is so often misunderstood and mishandled.
I began typing my latest blog entry on the four types of love: Philea, Storge, Eros and Agape. To recognize these types of love is to understand true love. We often miss the mark because we only focus on one type but to understand the meaning of love is to acknowledge all four. No longer will I use the word “love” frivolously. Today, I challenge us all to master the four types of love mentioned and watch how our love lives change, for the good.
As I pressed the publish button on my blog post, the phone rang. Sunny was on the line asking if I could give her a ride to an appointment. This girl had always had my back and driving Miss Sunny to wherever she needed to go was far from a problem for me.
“I’ll see you in half an hour, girl,” I told her as I ended the call only to have my attention diverted back to the computer screen. Apparently my challenge to master the four types of love resonated with my blog followers because responses immediately started flowing in with comments like: “Agreed”, “I’m all in”, “Let love rule!”
Sisterly love or as Robby explained, Philea, was in full effect as I waited outside of Sunny’s condo. Known for being fashionably late, my intuition led me to call to tell her I was downstairs in the car waiting, when in all actuality I was still two blocks away. My timing was perfect as I arrived just as Sunny exited her condo dressed in a casual-chic jogging suit with strappy heeled sandals. “Hey, girl. Thanks for picking me up, especially on such short notice,” she said as she slid into the passenger seat. She explained that her car was still in the shop and wouldn’t be ready until the morning.
“Where am I driving you to this afternoon, Miss Daisy?” I asked as I pulled out into traffic. “I’m going for my cocktail,”
Sunny responded while powdering her nose as she looked in the sun visor mirror. “Sunny, I know you are not trying to go out drinking in the middle of the day. I’ve got things to do.”
Without batting an eyelash that she was now applying mascara to, she clarified “It’s my cocktail time at Santa Monica Medical.”
Did they have a midday happy hour I don’t know about? I thought as I joked, “Leave it to you to get the scoop on where to meet some eligible doctors.”
Sunny smiled and gently broke it to me that she was going for her last chemo treatment.
Suddenly, I felt like the wind had been punched out of me. I had a tight grip on the steering wheel hoping I heard her wrong. “I’m sorry, for your last chemo what?” I asked in complete disbelief.
“Don’t flip out, girl. I need you to drive... safely.”
My heart skipped several beats as I quickly pulled the car over to the curb. “Sunny, you’re my girl. How is it that you have cancer and I don’t know about it?”
Her answer was simple. “Because, I didn’t tell you about it. Look, thankfully I found a small lump on the side of my right breast early enough. After one doctor told me it was just a cyst, because of my family history, I got a second opinion and it turned out it was an early stage of cancer.”
She was so calm about it. I had lost several family members to cancer and I couldn’t help but fear for my friend.
She explained that after Dr. Sorenson misdiagnosed the lump, her new doctor got her started on a short round of chemotherapy to, as she put it, “Knock that sucker out.”
I reached over to give my friend a hug trying to choke back my tears. “Oh girl, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own pathetic little world, planning a wedding that didn’t happen and all the drama that followed. Here I am crying on the phone, on your shoulder and you were going through this. I wish you had said something so I could’ve prayed for you.”
Sunny did not allow herself to get sucked into my emotion. She handed me a nearby “In-and-Out” napkin to dry my tears, looked me in the eye. “Well as my friend, I hope that’s not the only reason you would pray for me. Girl, I pray for you all the time. For your mind, body and soul, and I leave all the details up to God. He knows what’s up with you better than I do.”
I thanked her but felt embarrassed. Lord knows I didn’t mean her illness was the only reason I would pray for her.
“Pilar, I know you meant that sincerely, but I’ve learned to keep my prayer requests between me and the Lord. Too many people use prayer as an excuse to gossip and put all of your business in the street.”
“Sunny, I am so sorry.”
She wasn’t having it. “Stop it. That’s why I didn’t tell folks. You mention the “c” word and people start feeling sorry for you, talking to you differently and half-way writing your obituary. Girl, I don’t give power to that word. As a matter of fact, I call it Larry.”
Okay, how did we go from cancer to Larry?
Before I could actually ask her, she offered an explanation. “Remember that old song, “Float, float on... cancer, and my name is Larry.”
“Yes. Wait, Sunny you named the cancer Larry?” I asked. “Yep, and Larry’s about to float, float on out of here with his tired ass! C’mon girl, drive,” she commanded.
As I resumed driving, I mumbled to myself, “I don’t know what to say.”
Clearly, she heard me and immediately set me straight. “Yes, you do. Don’t start tripping because of my minor affliction, Pilar. Hell, we all have some sort of ailment. You’re healing from a broken heart and I am kissing Larry bye-bye!”
“Well, with your it’s got-to-go positive attitude, Larry’s got to go,” I told her.
“Bye, Larry!” she shouted as we did our girlfriend fist bump. Sunny always had flawless hair, whether it was permed, pressed, braided or weave so I had to ask her about how she dealt with losing it.
Sunny whipped her current hair around her shoulders and told me, “I didn’t lose it, it lost me. As soon as I saw my hair was starting to shed, I asked a good friend of mine, who happens to b
e a barber, to come over with his clippers. I had him give me the same haircut he was rockin’... bald!”
I tried to joke, “Well, thankfully you don’t have a hook head!” She laughed and told me that a lot people just thought she was doing the “big chop” and letting her hair go natural.
“Including Miss Naturalista herself, Karma.” “So, Karma doesn’t know?” I asked.
“Are you kidding me? Girl, you know Karma is not good with shocking news like this. That child missed a day of work grieving over President Fitzgerald’s shooting on the second season of Scandal. I’m like, Karma... it’s a TV show!”
Our mutual laughter helped ease the moment, then Sunny confided that only her mom, sister, favorite auntie and doctor knew and now I was added to the list. “That’s the way I want to keep it, cool?” she asked.
“You got it, Sunny.”
Back on the subject of hair, she was quick to let me know, “There’s a teeny weeny afro under my wig, but how fabulous is this girl? I call her, Felicity.” It was Sunny who, back in the day explained the origin of how naming a wig gives you a real sense of personal connection to it, which clearly explained why she brought four different girls/wigs with her to Canada.
I thought it was to protect her real hair from the wintery elements, but my friend was finding comfort and style during a personally difficult time. As we approached a stop light, I looked at Miss Sunny and agreed with her that Felicity was indeed, fierce. She reminded me, “With or without Larry, Sunny has never had a problem rockin’ cute hair. Wig, weave, braids... I’m always gonna be cute.”
“That is true,” I agreed. “I love you, Sunny D. You’re my she-ro.” As the light turned green our ride continued and so did her lecture. “She-ro? Why, ‘cause I’m a survivor? Please. Honey, we’re everywhere.”
“No,” I responded. “Because you are my only friend fabulous enough to wear heels with her jogging suit.”
“Well, I don’t know why they call this a jogging suit. Nobody is running and sweating in this cute ensemble.” We laughed, but then, she got serious. “Pilar, life is short and tomorrow is not promised to any of us. So, you might as well rock some cute shoes while you can today. Don’t waste your pretty.”
There was no argument from me. At that moment, she glanced at my fingernails and told me I needed a manicure, pronto. It wasn’t until she pointed it out that I noticed the chipped paint on one of my nails. “If you’re feeling up to it after your cocktail, maybe I’ll treat us both to one.” Sunny explained that mani/pedi’s were off limits during chemo treatments because nail shops are not always as clean as they look. Her doctor suggested she buy her own nail supplies to use at home or at the nail salon if she really wanted to be pampered, to limit the risk of infection. Since I didn’t want anything jeopardizing my friend’s health, I promised her we’d go to a great spot where she could enjoy a relaxing gloved foot and leg massage while I got a quick nail polish change.
“My girl Pilar. I’m so glad my friend is back in town,” she said as she squeezed my hand.
We arrived at the medical center which overlooked the ocean. I found a great four-hour metered parking spot and proceeded to exit with Sunny. She looked at me curiously asking where I was going.
“I’m going inside with you.”
“No, you’re not,” she sharply responded. “What you are going to do is go across the street to the park and enjoy this beautiful day and amazing view of the ocean.”
I knew she was trying to be brave and strong and since this was her last treatment, perhaps she was, but I wanted to at least come sit with her.
“Absolutely not, Pilar,” she insisted. “I’m a big girl and besides, there’s a cute little doctor in there I’m trying to holla at. So, go, write, do your little bloggy thing. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
Cute doctor inside, duly noted. Sunny strolled into the building as I took my friend’s advice and headed across the street. I sat on a bench with a perfect view of the Pacific Ocean. I sat for a moment watching people walking dogs, dogs walking people, a man jogging with an Iguana on his shoulder, and of course watching the rhythmic waves of the ocean. I pulled out my iPad and started the next Blog. BLOG ENTRY: We often take our friendships for granted. In life, if you’re blessed to have people in your immediate circle, who truly know you, good, bad, flaws and all and they still love you? Cherish those friends. Hold them in high esteem. I never knew friendship had its own category of love and today “Philea” took on a whole new meaning and was clearly defined for me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I kept my word and treated Sunny to a relaxing foot massage while I got a quick manicure at an organic nail salon on Main Street not far from the medical center. After getting her home to rest from her chemo treatment, I decided to stop by my parent’s just to say hello. After ringing the doorbell several times, I decided to check the yard before using my key.
My instincts were right as I entered the side gate of the house that led right to their large backyard. I yelled out, “Mom!”
I received a hearty, “Hey baby, I’m down here!” and in the sprawling backyard where I used to play as a child, I found my mother, Ramona, working in her garden. I traveled downstairs to the lower level of the yard. Mom looked so cute in her gardening gear and big farmer’s hat. “What are you doing, Mrs. Green Thumb?” I yelled out to her.
“I’m tending to my little garden back here. Honey, I don’t need to give my whole paycheck to Wholefoods, I have my own organic produce section.”
I knew my mother had begun to dabble with gardening as a hobby, but I had no idea to what extent. She had a full-fledged, bountiful garden growing in her urban oasis.
I commended her impressive skills and she proceeded to give me the grand tour.
“Let me show you around. Now over here are my tomatoes, right down there are the cucumbers. I’ve got string beans sprouting like crazy and as you can see, I have a mixture of mustard and collard greens growing magnificently.”
“Mom, it’s so funny to see Principal Davenport out here doing the farmer thing.”
She gently wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist.
“With you and your brother gone from this big old house, I realized how I never had the time to really enjoy this place. Even though I retired from the school, my part-time consulting keeps me part-time busy, but I wanted a hobby.”
“I would’ve never guessed this as your hobby,” I told her. She was quick to remind me, “Hey, I’m still a country girl at heart and I know how to get my hands dirty. Come down here for a minute.”
The fact that I was wearing white jeans didn’t concern her one bit. I kneeled down and joined my mother who told me to put my hands in the soil.
“Mom, I just got my nails done.”
“Put ‘em in the dirt, girl!” she insisted as she massaged the dirt between her fingers.
I started squishing the dirt alongside her. As I watched the combination of deep, brown soil rubbing against my freshly painted, pink nails in rhythmic motion, mom sounded like a Zen master, softly asking, “Doesn’t that feel good? Becoming one with the earth?”
I couldn’t even lie. It did feel good. “Reminds me of how me and my friends would spend hours out here making mud pies.” “Yes, and one time you had the bright idea to bring those things in my kitchen thinking you were actually going to bake them in the oven!”
I laughed as I told her I remembered that day. “You should, it took me a week to get that smell out. Everything I baked smelled like dirt,” she reminded me.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love you more, kiddo. What’s new with you?” she asked as she started turning the soil with an old hand shovel.
I skipped the details of my day with Sunny and kept it light. “Not much, just trying to get back to life here in California. I’ve got a few interviews lined up and my blog is helping me pay a few small bills.”
In my younger years, I used to feel like my parents were never listen
ing to me and that my teenage angst and drama caused them to often tune me out. The turning point came when my mom came home from work one day to find me curled up on the couch crying my eyeballs out. I told her about my boyfriend who informed me that he couldn’t take me to the school’s winter formal because he couldn’t get off from work.
“He works at Pizza Shack, part-time! How hard is it to get the day off from a stupid, part-time job, Mom?”
“It’s all about priorities, sweetie. If Leland… Lorenzo, hell, whatever the boy’s name is, made this important date a priority, he would’ve talked to his manager weeks ahead of time to schedule the night off.”
His name was Lance, but she was right. He was my first boyfriend, mainly at school and although he was nice and cool, things changed when he saved up his money to buy a used Nissan Sentra and worked whenever he could to pour every dime of his paycheck into that car. I noticed how “nice and cool” Lance, the same guy who would make it a priority to write me two-page love letters, make personalized mixed tapes that declared his love for me. Those tapes were epic with song titles such as Heavy D’s I Got Nuthin’ But Love For You, L.L. Cool J’s I Need Love and Slick Rick’s Teenage Love and he would often surprise me by leaving a piece of cafeteria coffee cake neatly wrapped up in a napkin in my locker with a love note written on college ruled notebook paper. Suddenly, he lost the “nice” and just became “cool.”
A Good Thing Page 9