In June 2019, we quickly went from being two strangers, sitting at opposite ends of the tables for a “Breasties” coffee meet up where we only knew each other by name, to becoming close friends, thanks to Michelle, who introduced us.
On Wednesday, September 11, 2019, I went to the hospital with chest pain, two days before my last treatment. A few hours later, scans revealed my cancer had spread to my sternum, rib and spine. When I got home, I immediately called Michelle. She was prepping dinner for her family, but she took the time to listen and to introduce us via text.
We texted, then talked for hours that night. You cried with me, you listened to me, you reassured me, you validated my feelings, and you sat on the phone with me in silence, until I eventually fell asleep. The next morning, you picked me up with a latte in hand, knowing I would have had a short and restless sleep, and we went to Michelle’s.
We sat around her fire pit, now with a spiked coffee in hand. We must have been there for about 5 hours, initially all talking about our cancer experiences, our families, our hobbies, how we wanted to spend what was left of our time on earth, including the values and legacy we wanted to leave with our very young kids. I will never forget that day, with you and Michelle propping me up at what is likely my darkest day of my life.
It was that day that I found out that you hated hearing all the information I had gathered up. You didn’t like that level of detail, so I tried not to do that around you. We were “de novo ogliometastatic” breast cancer twins, something that less than 3% of the population share. Yes, I purposefully put a cancer stat in my eulogy despite knowing you hate stats. The reason I’ve added it is because I’d like to think it shows how we were, and will continue to be, kindred spirits. It’s a stat few people can say they share; I couldn’t have been more blessed than to share this fact with you.
I loved our larger “Breasties” group chat, where a core group of us who have become quite close, talked about how we could use our side effects to our advantage. One day at the Lazy Loaf & Kettle, we plotted bank heist. We had so much going for us; we were all bald, nor did we have body hair or fingerprints. There was no way they’d catch us because of our DNA! It was almost a perfect plan…
…until we realized our brain fog be our downfall. What if our driver forgot the escape route? It was simply top risky, so we opted against it. I don’t think I ever think ever laughed so much during treatments, and we had some epic belly laughs that day!
Then there were our “Tub Talks” where we sat in our baths – and let me clarify to those reading this eulogy to Robin – that we were in our own baths, in our respective homes. Chris would bring Robin drinks and my husband at the time do the same for me. We’d sit for hours in the tub, talking, and apologizing to each other regularly as we would need to refill it with hot water. And then there was the time I accidentally FaceTimed you instead of calling. You, being you, brilliantly answered the call. After laughing a lot with our phone cameras pointed to the ceiling, we decided to work with it. Within a few minutes, we propped our phones in such a way that we could only see our heads. Those were our Tub Talks. They were so special, and I will cherish them forever.
When I visited you for the last time last on September 10, you woke up with the shift change. I know you didn’t initially recognize me, so I reminded you of my name and mentioned our Tub Talks. Instantly, you remembered who I was. You repeatedly mentioned how much they meant to you too.
As I was preparing to leave, you cheerfully told me you’d call me for a Tub Talk on Friday, to which I responded “I’d love that!” You then told me you loved me, which we have been saying to each other for several years now. I told you I loved you very much too. Leaving your room at hospice felt different that day. My heart was heavy left, and I knew in those would be our last words to each other. They were the most perfect words we could have had that day.
I received a message from your family while I was heading up to Radium Hot Springs, so I learned about your death once I was back into cell service. I had a knot in my stomach, and despite knowing this time would come, I still couldn’t believe it. I know how much Radium Hot Springs meant to you, so I took some time to absorb the beauty the Kootenays has to offer. After my kids went to bed, I poured myself a stiff martini, and had a “Tub Talk” in my head in your honour. It wasn’t the same.
I miss you my friend. I love you.
Being a single mom with terminal cancer is terrifying and doesn’t pay. At all. Zero. Nada.
My kids’ music lessons cost ~$375 / month (for both kids). You can buy them a month’s worth of lessons, chip in for coffee or groceries, on settle on something somewhere in between.