#ive had this screenshot in my gallery for ages

[lordartsy]

yay~

[jessicadanforth]

We met in high school standing by the day student mailboxes. I was enthralled by her cheetah backpack and her I don’t give a fuck attitude; this girl who knew everything about English Literature, who spoke French and played varsity squash. She told me that she had Cystic Fibrosis at a Dave Matthews concert when we were 16 years old. We were teenagers and drinking Bud Lights wearing perfectly curated pay-attention-to-me outfits and I had no idea what that was. That next week, I was seeing a therapist to talk about my parent's recent separation, and I asked her about CF. When the therapist’s eyes welled with tears, I knew that it was serious. We celebrated Caitlin’s 21st birthday party under a white tent in her backyard. The doctors didn't think that she would live to 20.

But Caitlin played lacrosse and she went to George Washington University, she traveled to Paris, worked at an art gallery and created a belt company. Intermittently, she would receive IV antibiotics via a PICC line. I would visit her in the hospital but, even there, she had a way of not making it about her. Her wrists were covered with bracelets and her hair was perfect and she wanted to know about you.

She was my best friend and our friendship strengthened by the year. When I lived in Kenya, we spoke daily. When I moved to San Francisco she sent me floral patterned plates. We incessantly sent each other Shopbop links with “do you like this?” and “thoughts?” in the subject line. We sent each other lists of our fears; things that we would never admit to anyone else. A Leo, she was fiercely loyal and infinitely protective.

A lung transplant was always on the horizon. But it was scary, and because of a rare bacteria she cultured - cenocepacia - no one in Boston would agree to take her case. Finally, when she was on oxygen 24/7, she was listed in Pittsburgh and uprooted her life. She lived in an apartment with her boyfriend and her parents. It was the nicest building in Pittsburgh with an easy layout for her to navigate with the long tubing which held the oxygen to which she was always connected.

Still, we talked daily. Not once or twice, but throughout the day.

And suddenly, we were 31 and 32 and I was diagnosed with breast cancer. She knew more about medicine than most and she researched everything. I sent her all of my labs, my side effects, my questions. She was a well-curated vault of medical knowledge and would have been an incredible doctor. I sent her screenshot after screenshot when a new drug was added to my regiment or I was deciding to taper off of something.

We talked about everything, but when were both sick, our conversations took on a new level of depth. We talked about death and about reincarnation; we talked about our purpose. On the evening of her 33rd birthday, we talked for hours and hours. I had just had another surgery and was tethered to my bed. She feared that her purpose here on this earth was to teach lessons to others. “No. No,” I said because I needed her here with me. The idea that she was here only to teach others was too much to bear. Our conversation continued and - after much back and forth - we decided that the tangible things that you need in this life are plane tickets and medical insurance. Freedom and stability.  

When she was 11, she had part of her right lung removed and had a scar from the incision. I had matching clam-shell scars from my recent surgeries. We spent hours talking about the things that we would do when we were both healthy again. First, a trip within the US. Somewhere with access to the best hospitals. And then Russia because she wanted to see Red Square.

And now, I can't stop thinking about our conversation that occurred in the very late hours of July 31, 2016. About how - perhaps - her purpose here was to teach others lessons. They say that, when you are in the midst of a situation, it is hard to gain perspective. It’s virtually impossible to see the meaning in a shitty situation.

Her void feels more prominent by the day. “Give yourself time,” seems to be the therapists’ response of choice, but time isn’t doing the trick. When I can’t sleep, I find myself Googling, “what to do when your best friend dies” hoping that some piece of advice or some expertly placed words will resonate and help to quell the sickness within my heart.

Recently, I was admitted to UCSF and ended up staying for five nights. I was sitting on a bed in the ICU. Four different people had tried to start an IV. Caitlin always told me to be my own advocate and ask for a specific person when they were having trouble finding a vein, but I couldn’t remember who that person was. There were twelve failed attempts on my left hand alone. It was 11pm on a Friday night and I sat cross-legged on the hospital bed refusing to exchange my clothes for a hospital gown because I just wanted to go home. My roommates were all laced with wires and tubing and the incessant beeping wouldn’t stop. There was a code blue. I had left Van Jones at 10pm and went straight to the hospital with the injustices of our broken prison system still swirling in my head. Caitlin - on the east coast - would have been waking up momentarily to take her 3am beta blocker and I could have texted her. She would have responded immediately and known exactly what to do; who I should have asked for. Tears came as they drew labs and blood cultures and an array of other tests. Twenty attempts later, the rapid response team ended up being the ones to finally start the IV. The technician was probably my age with a scruffy woodsman beard and twinkly eyes and he said that I was the bravest IV patient that he had ever seen which made me cry even more because I felt so numb.

My most recent and completely unexpected surgery happened at the very end of June. I was in the north of Spain, just south of the France border, when my chest split open. Instead of seeking refuge in a Barcelona hospital, I immediately flew back to California. It was a Saturday night. I landed and my team was waiting for me in the emergency room at UCSF.  As there was a shortage of space, they had a room for me on the lung transplant floor. I stepped off of the elevator and looked at my surgeon. Without any exchange of words, she knew that I couldn't be there.

My 11th surgery is scheduled for November 30th. Lately, my chest feels like a metaphor for the world - one area is stitched up and begins to heal while another goes astray. It’s like herding cats or this which Caitlin would have loved.