6 minute read
Courageous is Spelled MARIAM
RUTH MEDLIN
“I have cancer.”
That’s how Mariam started a long voicemail message to me, with those three words. Her voice was calm and unwavering. She downplayed the devastation that she must have been feeling, instead she focused on what this news would do to me, her best friend. “I know you’re going to be upset,” she said. “Please don’t worry because I am not going to.” She said that until she had met with an oncologist there wasn’t much more to say or do and that she’d be back in touch in a couple of days. I sat on the side of my bed and cried. My face was wet with salty tears that would not stop flowing down my cheeks. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” I kept repeating to myself. What would I do without my best friend?
Life-changing events bring out the worst in some, the best in others. Mariam chose to take this unwelcome news and turn it into a lesson in courage. Several days went by before I worked up the courage to visit her. As I drove up to the house, my courage was failing me at this moment. How was I going to act and re-act? I did not know the answer to that. I just knew that I had a lot of questions, but how much did Mariam want to tell me?
We sat in her living room facing each other on twin red leather sofas. I was silent, afraid that if I spoke, I would start to cry. Mariam explained where the cancer was and what she planned to do about treatment. Cancer. The words chemo, radiation, and surgery drifted unspoken through the air like sharks circling their prey. Finally, I burst out crying and asked, “aren’t you afraid?” Mariam calmly got up from her sofa and came to sit beside me, a box of tissues in her hand. She said nothing, waiting until my crying subsided, then she said, “No, I’m not afraid. I have one of the best oncologists in the state. These days cancer is treatable and beatable. I know that I have a great shot at having a winning outcome. For now, it’s about forming a team of advocates, medical professionals, friends, and family to get a jump start on this. I need you on my team.”
A team was formed. Mariam was the epitome of courageousness, leading the team much of the time. She sent individual cards and letters to us. Her focus was not on herself, but on how she could help others. She directed, orchestrated, and cheered us on. To keep us task-oriented, she handed out assignments. “Can you pick me up after my infusion treatment next Friday?” or “Would you take John (her husband) out to lunch? He’s really isolating these days and could use a good meal and some witty repartee.” She knew that assignments gave us purpose and kept us in her orbit. She rarely spoke of her treatment protocol or her prognosis. She seldom missed work and she was up for travel weekends to the coast.
Because of her courageous outlook, most of the time I honestly forgot that she was sick. She did not look or act sick. But as her treatments became more aggressive, she started to lose her hair, so she got a wig and had her hairdresser shape and style it. The wig was a courageous move because her signature hair style was a very short pixie cut and that was difficult to re-create in a wig. Occasionally, if someone commented on her hair, she would take her hand and smooth down the back of her hair and say, “Do you like it? I just thought it was time for a change!” And that was that. I believe most people did not know about Mariam’s courageous battle with cancer.
Her team was a close-knit troop, and we would close ranks to protect her when we could. We were in awe of her stoicism, and we marveled at her stamina. She took on the relocation of her company starting with a capital campaign to raise funds for the move, to the purchase of the land, and to the building of new offices. She was a force to be reckoned with. She kept getting stronger and stronger in her drive to get her staff relocated. Talk about courage and fortitude. She made bold financial inroads with movers and shakers, sometimes inviting or cajoling them into joining in her effort to raise enough funding for what we would come to call Mariam’s building. In May, she completed her mission and moved her staff over a weekend into their new digs, opening for business as usual on Monday morning.
Everything was going right along until it wasn’t. Mariam’s cancer had spread and metastasized onto her liver and bones. She called a team meeting to make us aware of this latest development. She said something like, “…while this is an unexpected twist in my cancer journey, it is something that I can deal with. So, have courage my friends. We will continue to march forward. I feel fine and I fully expect to continue with my life and my career.” She was our leader, the general shoring up her loyal troops, and instilling in us the courage we all would need in the months ahead.
Much of the time, I did not feel like being courageous. I did not want to keep a stiff upper lip, I wanted to cry. I would bite my lip so that it wouldn’t quiver when I spoke to Mariam. I prayed that my eyes would not betray me so that my tears would not be shed in front of her. It was tough not being as strong as Mariam. In my calmer moments, I would marvel at my friend’s demeanor. How does she do it? I would ask myself. She did not waver.
On January 19th, I received a phone call from one of Mariam’s employees, telling me that Mariam had passed away late the night before. She had worked that day and then because she was having an adverse reaction to one of the treatments, she had received a few days earlier, she decided it was best if she went to the hospital where her courageous battle ended.
There is something about courageousness. It gives strength to those who believe. Mariam believed that she would beat cancer. Her courage was like an anchor; the thing she could draw upon repeatedly until she could not.
Ruth Medlin is a writer who lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. She worked in the fields of education and public service. Ruth enjoys cooking, reading, and traveling. Her first book, Me and Mar, will be published in 2024.
Please connect with Ruth in her Facebook group Clementines.
