The Good Goodbye

By Tracie Adams

I’m positive the assistant manager of the ice-skating rink was not expecting the response he got. He puffed out his argyle sweater-clad chest and squared off his petite, round shoulders as if trying to scare off a bear. His animated behavior only served to heighten the humor of the scene, so my friend and I responded by skating right past him, ignoring the bulging veins in his neck as he shouted at us, “Seriously! I’m kicking you out of here! You can’t do that! Those buckets are only for children!” In hindsight, we should have known better than to behave the way we did that day. We laughed hysterically as she pushed me around the ice, sitting on a bucket that was indeed meant for little children, and when that manager tried to chase us down, we literally could not control our laughter. Our joy was uncontainable. 

Over twenty years of friendship, there were so many scenes like this one—different times, settings, people, but always the unrestrained joy that characterized the nature of our relationship. When our families gathered, there would surely be big fun. As homeschoolers, we spent all our time learning and living life together. The long cold winters passed quicker than we ever thought they would. Kids would skin knees in the creek sleigh riding down that big hill while she and I sat inside by the fire for hours, drinking coffee and sharing dreams and real fears about all the tomorrows we prayed we would never have to face. And of course, there was that one winter I wanted to kill myself and she showed up on my doorstep with a baggie full of gingersnaps and a Cool Whip container with her homemade pumpkin fluff. My eyes flooded with tears at the sight of her standing in my living room, nearly blind from the tumor that had wrapped itself around her brain, bald from the chemo, and yet there she was saving my life. 

“I know you feel like killing yourself, but please don’t. I’m going first, ok?” She said it so nonchalantly as she sat me down on the sofa and hugged me. It was settled. I wasn’t killing myself that day. 

Spring would bring all the busyness of church projects, which we spent weeks helping each other complete. I cherish those long hours in her kitchen, asking all the hard questions over a pot of coffee, daring to share those secret places of our hearts where shame lived in the shadows. The trophy deer heads that hung on the walls of her living room were witnesses to many of my tears over the years, as I sunk deeply into the familiar comfort of her worn brown shag carpet during weekly Bible study. I can still hear the warmth in her voice as she would say something perfectly encouraging, wise, and comforting. She was like that. She knew when to listen and when to tell me what I needed, not what I wanted to hear. And she made me laugh— a lot. Did I mention that? 

In Virginia, we are blessed with four very distinct seasons, each with its own revered qualities, and undoubtedly everyone has a favorite. Mine is Autumn, with all the pumpkin picking and big redneck bonfires we have out here in our little piece of the world. If you have never been to a bonfire in the country, you have missed out. We pile on all our trash and yard clippings and anything we can find from the barn until we have constructed our own little tower of Babel. Sometimes for fun, we throw diesel fuel on it, so it burns faster and hotter, and we all walk away looking like Moses who just saw the burning bush. Burned forever in my memories are images of these bonfires with my friend. Kids running wild like something from Lord of the Flies, swinging charred sticks pulled from the embers, laughing and singing songs we knew by heart. 

For my friend, Summer was the best season of all because it meant one thing:  water— swimming pools, rivers, lakes, beaches, creeks, it didn’t matter as long as she was getting wet. After a long day of picking blackberries and making ice cream or— I hate to even admit it— slaughtering chickens and plucking them, we would jump in her swimming pool or maybe head down to the river by our house to climb on the rocks and wade in the cool water. Our young children splashed in the waves at the beach and made countless trips around the lazy river, linking their floats together and spending hours talking about their own dreams and futures, just like we did. The kids would dive into the deep end of the pool, while she and I would dive into our deepest doubts and highest praises, and sometimes it was only about why her lilies weren’t blooming well or what God was thinking when He created the gnats. 

That last summer we were talking about deeper things, of course. I will always remember the day I took her to get a pedicure. We had good conversation about our grown kids that day. She had stopped wearing the wigs and scarves by that point, mostly because of the discomfort of the magnet helmet device, which was designed to shrink the glioblastoma tumor in her brain. While the nail tech painted my friend’s toenails bright fuchsia, she happily and proudly chatted away about her son’s new business and her other sons moving home to be close to her. 

When I pulled into her driveway, she was hesitant to get out of the car. I felt the air pressure change or something. Despite the gloriously happy day we just had, the shiny lacquered toes as evidence, nothing would ever be the same again.

“So, the MRI wasn’t good.” She looked right into my eyes.

“What does that mean?” I didn’t want her to answer, but I knew she needed to. I tried not to make any weird faces while I literally squeezed my eyes as hard as I could to control the tears from flowing.

“I mean, this glioblastoma is wicked. It wants to kill me. And it’s working. I’m dying.” She did not cry. Not then. That came later. We just sat in silence for a few minutes, and then she said, “I’m not afraid. I’m ready. They’re not, but I am.”  

That last summer passed much too quickly. We spent time on her deck watching the birds at her feeders, lamenting about all the trees she wished she had planted and boasting about her peonies. I would bring her favorite foods, homemade beef stew or salsa over nachos, and it brought me such joy to feed her one spoonful after another and hear her groan with delight. When she would thank me, I would remind her of the million ways she served me over the years, like when I came home from the hospital to fresh sheets on my bed, and when I gave birth at home and she took care of my other children and brought me homemade lasagna, and let’s not forget that time she saved me from killing myself.  It was an honor to feed her, fold her laundry, and hold her hand. Walking her home to be with Jesus was not something I needed thanks for. She was the one friend who had ever known the real me and loved me anyway. 

One day in early June, before she lost her speech and started the very rapid decline that followed, we spent an afternoon by her pool. Dipping our toes in the cool clear water, we sat side by side, soaking up the summer sun and watching it glisten like diamonds on the surface of the water. We listened to a favorite song “Gratitude” on my phone. We sang along, “So I’ll throw up my hands and praise you again and again. All that I have is this hallelujah, hallelujah.”  Her son brought her a gardenia to tuck behind her ear. The fragrance and the silence filled the air. Suddenly, she started crying. 

“What is it, friend? What’s hurting you the most?” I asked her, reaching for her hand.

“I won’t be a grandma. I wanted that. I wanted that more than anything,” she said through tears that dripped into the water, disappearing forever.

I held her as she cried, and we made a plan. I offered to buy baby gifts—blankets and stuffed elephants (because they never forget)—for each of her four grown children, and I would wrap and save these for when they each have their first child someday. It was a good day. I will forever be grateful for all the conversation that happened. It was a gift. We laid it all out there, nothing left unsaid. We both knew it was goodbye. And the fact that it happened by the water, the place she loved the most, made it extra special. 

A few days later when I saw her again, she could not speak at all. I brought the baby gifts to her so she could hug them. She tucked them all around her, tears covering the little stuffed elephants. I reminded her that elephants never forget before she drifted off to a deep sleep. 

It was a Thursday when I said my final words to her. She had been unresponsive all day, but I was sure she heard me when I told her how much her friendship had meant to me, how she had impacted my walk with Jesus more than anyone else on earth. “Save me a mansion across the street in heaven so we can always be neighbors,” I said as I kissed the top of her smooth scalp. 

 Walking out to my car, I glanced back at her pool and remembered the good goodbye that we had said just a few weeks ago. I thanked God for it on the short drive home across the street. 

Tracie Adams is a writer and teacher in rural Virginia. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in BULL, Does It Have Pockets, Cleaver Magazine, Bodega, Anodyne, Discretionary Love, The Write Launch, Bright Flash Literary Review, and others. Read her work at www.tracieadamswrites.com and follow her on Twitter @1funnyfarmAdams.