Dear Kim,

I've been reading through my journal from July, trying to piece together an account of my initial biopsy, so I can publish it here. I'm still working on the biopsy story, but I found something else that I want to share.

This is an email that I started writing to my friend K. in Oakland. I never sent it because it got a lot more emotional and involved than I'd meant it to be. I really just wanted to recommend a book, share a soup site and tell her I love her. But it turned into a long letter telling her, and my other long-time friends, how much I needed them in the weeks after my diagnosis.

Here is what I wrote.

Dear Kim

Good writing has been my savior lately. When I am too freaked out about my mysterious upcoming surgery, it's great to just dissapear into another world of someone else's making.

One of my favorites this week was The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime.

My other favorite was your blog.
I hadn't checked it out in months and months, so I was able to spend several hours today reading up on your life and thoughts and looking at your sweet beautiful children.

Then my mom and I got into a whole discussion about the world of blogs, and spent some time surfing them. She found this one and saved it in my "favorites" file. It made me think of your monthly get togethers and I thought you might enjoy it too.

http://soup-aholic.blogspot.com/

I was reading your entry about old friends and realized I have known you since the spring of 1994. Fourteen years!

I can't think what I feel luckier about...the fact that we are still in touch, or the fact that I got to meet you and be your friend in the first place. I guess I'm double lucky!

This is one of those times when I want to say something really profound and meaningful, but it is so true and repeated that is just sounds trite. How do you explain...without sounding cliche...that new friends are good but old friends are better?

Losing my job and car along with my illusion of youth, beauty and perfect health all in one day left me feeling like the rug had been yanked out from under me. I feel like I don't know who I am or what I want or what I deserve or what I dare hope for. I don't know what my body will look or feel like from week to week. I don't know how I will earn a living or even what my day to day schedule will be. I fear I may have to move, live with strangers, lose my house, do work I hate.

Admist all this confusion and despair, I have been bombarded with kindness and caring from every side. Dear and lovely people that I have met and become close to since I moved to California have shocked me with their openness and generosity. Their offers of support feel like a rain of glittering blessings.

As incredibly lovely as this is, it is also dissorienting. Where did this benevolent storm come from? In a way, it produces almost as much anxiety as the painful medical procedures, legal interviews and vehicular disasters. Blessings and curses shower down from sources unseen and I'm just dodging and catching to the best of my ability. I hope that I deserve the blessings and that I'll get to keep them. I pray I don't derserve the struggles and that they'll be over soon.

It brings up the question...which is worse; the bad things that are happening or the feeling that I somehow deserve them or have brought them on myself? I don't know if they can be compared, but I know this for sure; the nasty surprises are far more bearable if I can keep a solid hold on the idea that I am really and truely not a bad person, not a total failure and not a complete fuck-up.

When new friends call and tell me they love me and that they'll be there if I need them, I'm thrilled and terrified. I cherish their sweetness. I re-read their e-mails and replay their voicemails with a measure of tenderness, graditude and amazement that I had previously reserved for passionate love-letters. But I worry too...will they take it back when they find out how wretched I am? Will they withdraw their offers of car-rides and guest rooms, groceries and laptops when they see how little I am helping myself? What if they knew the truth?

I sleep until I can't sleep anymore. I eat until I can't eat any more. I ignore phone calls and don't do any research. I complain about my doctors. I loose my temper and storm out of their offices. I don't shower. I don't dress. I pick my scabs and ignore my toothbrush. Certainly this is not a person they would reach out to help. They'll realize their mistake soon enough.

But when old friends call and tell me that they love me and that they'll be there if I need them it goes straight to my heart. When they tell me I'm going to be okay, I have to believe them. They've known me for 10 years or more. They've surely seen me at my stupidest, cruelest, tackiest and most careless. That they still love me means that somewhere deep down, I must really be okay.

And if I'm really okay, then I will probably continue to be okay. Even if my breast is removed, I'll be okay. Even if I have to go back to waitressing, I'll be okay. Even if I never have another date and spend the rest of my life single, I'll be okay. Even if I never make another friend, I'll be okay.

Kim, Heather, Raven, Karen, Ann, Thank you so much for helping me notice that the ground was still under my feet after the rug was gone.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

I hesitated to publish this, because I don't want my newer friends to feel like I don't absolutely worship and adore them. But, newer friends, you know who you are and you know how much I love you, don't you? If you don't, please call and ask and I will tell you!

Kim's blog reallly is wonderful. Maybe she will leave a comment here with the address? I don't think she'd mind if I shared it...but I would hate to make a mistake about that. Please, Kim...can we have your blog address?