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indigo_rose99I first met Celeste 22 years ago. She was the assistant director of the program I was joining as a student during my first year of college. She seemed very energetic, practical and very healthy. She was not fat or thin, but very solid. I admired her thick salt and pepper hair, which made her seem rather ageless.
We did not interact much in a personal way during my first few years of college. Even after she took over the directorship during my third year and became very unpopular with my yearmates. I remember talking to her, but I don't remember disliking her with the energy that they shared.
In the late 90's, we had a program reunion. I found Celeste to be shrunken somehow. Less solid. She asked me about my mother. Oddly, she looked almost shattered when I told her my mother had died several years earlier. I was usually the one who reacted that way to discussions of my mother. Later, I was told that Celeste had cancer and was going through treatment.
In 2006, we had another reunion. I would not have recognized Celeste if someone hadn't pointed her out to me. From shrinking to completely fragile. I was stunned. It was hard for me to imagine this transition from a person who had always seemed so... solid to me.
Three weeks ago I got an email from a classmate. Celeste is failing fast. The message was... if you have anything to say, say it now. Email only. She is not up to phone calls.
It took me a week to find something to say. What do you say to someone who watched you transition in some of the most critical years of your life? And yet be sympathetic, polite, and not pushy.
Today I got a response. It is upbeat. She said... It has been 10 years since she was diagnosed, and 7 years of chemo. Can you imagine? SEVEN YEARS. I watched my mother go through just a few months of chemo. I truly cannot imagine seven years.
This is what I imagine bravery sounds like.
We did not interact much in a personal way during my first few years of college. Even after she took over the directorship during my third year and became very unpopular with my yearmates. I remember talking to her, but I don't remember disliking her with the energy that they shared.
In the late 90's, we had a program reunion. I found Celeste to be shrunken somehow. Less solid. She asked me about my mother. Oddly, she looked almost shattered when I told her my mother had died several years earlier. I was usually the one who reacted that way to discussions of my mother. Later, I was told that Celeste had cancer and was going through treatment.
In 2006, we had another reunion. I would not have recognized Celeste if someone hadn't pointed her out to me. From shrinking to completely fragile. I was stunned. It was hard for me to imagine this transition from a person who had always seemed so... solid to me.
Three weeks ago I got an email from a classmate. Celeste is failing fast. The message was... if you have anything to say, say it now. Email only. She is not up to phone calls.
It took me a week to find something to say. What do you say to someone who watched you transition in some of the most critical years of your life? And yet be sympathetic, polite, and not pushy.
Today I got a response. It is upbeat. She said... It has been 10 years since she was diagnosed, and 7 years of chemo. Can you imagine? SEVEN YEARS. I watched my mother go through just a few months of chemo. I truly cannot imagine seven years.
This is what I imagine bravery sounds like.
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Date: 2008-04-26 04:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-27 01:13 pm (UTC)