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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
Earlier this year, on a dreary West Coast Friday, my friend witnessed a life-changing event of mine. As I stood on a pier above the Fraser River, I repeated my marriage vows and became a wife.
For over two decades, my friend and I have witnessed each other’s growth and evolution into the people we are today. From up close and afar, we have that time-bound bond that just doesn’t seem to break.
Through childhood, adolescence and now adulthood, we’ve provided one another with the encouragement to overcome the thickest of challenges and found the deepest forms of connection in fleeting moments.
Growing up, it felt like nearly every weekend I would sleep over at their family home. We’d stay up late playing computer games, watch movies in the rec room, walk to the corner store to get ice cream and come up with creative projects. Typical teenager stuff.
But, this year of our friendship was anything but typical.
While I was putting together plans for what would be one of my brightest celebrations, my friend was experiencing their darkest moments fighting an aggressive, rare form of cancer.
As much as my heart wanted to flutter with excitement for my next chapter, it was also aching with despair not knowing what my friend’s next phase of life would hold.
I found out about the strange lump in their side the day of my first wedding dress fitting. It had been many months since we had seen each other and we were catching up in my apartment after the outing. They had recently gone to see the doctor who said, “Things are probably fine. You’re young, you’re healthy. But let’s send you to a specialist just to be sure.”
That was the news that came from specialist after specialist until the diagnosis.
There was never a question about the extent of the support I’d be giving. The answer was always as much as I could.
I’ve helped older family members who’ve fought cancer before, but this was something new. Cancer was never a word used in context with someone I saw as an equal. An equal in age, health and in almost all statistical senses.
It was quiet the first time I took my friend to the chemo clinic. Though our words were few, I did my best to understand. I saw my friend clutching their stomach and wincing at every bump in the road. I listened to the nurses ask about the nausea and sleepless nights. I watched the machines dripping chemicals into their body.
I wasn’t holding my breath, but I was constantly holding back tears.
But, with each trip to the chemo clinic, the topic of conversation shifted to my friend asking me about wedding planning. I was caught off guard. Surely there were more important things to discuss?
I was hesitant about how much to say. I wasn’t sure if it was a good distraction to talk about my big project or if it would create a sense of despair knowing how life had taken us on completely different paths.
But, it wasn’t either of those things. My friend just wanted to be there for me, too.
On paper, it may have seemed like our worlds were distant, but they weren’t. Because I was there through their journey, they were going to be there through mine.
Over the next few months, I saw my friend more than I had in the previous years combined. But it was like muscle memory. Weekly visits to the family home, watching TV in the rec room. Even during the weeks I didn’t help with trips to the clinic, we’d see each other.
After months of treatment, my friend felt well enough to go for a drive out of the city. It was a great day stopping at a cute café, seeing a waterfall and learning about some local history.
As we drove home, they shared some news. Their cancer marker, a chemical found in the blood, was now at healthy levels. It was said not in celebration, but just as a neutral fact. We were all learning to never be too hopeful.
But I knew was something big. Things were truly turning around. Luckily for me, this news came during a sunny break in the drive. It’s a lot harder to hold back tears of joy. As relief set in, I put on my sunglasses.
My friend’s health hasn’t necessarily been smooth sailing since this moment. A few weeks later we found ourselves spending a part of my bachelorette weekend in urgent care. But, despite all the scares, life has slowly gotten back to normal.
I haven’t seen my friend for weeks. The last time was at my wedding on the dance floor – perfectly accessorized, arms in the air, smiling from ear to ear. They were officially cancer-free, and I was married. A new but different chapter for both of us.
What a year to witness.
Amanda Schrack lives in New Westminster, B.C.
