February.
My least favorite month of the year next to November, the month that took my girls Karline and Claire from me.
My mother’s birth month. Valentine’s day (a day I feel belongs in the Spring). The beginning of radiation.
A small stubborn block of ice sandwiched between the new beginnings of January and March’s first breaths of Spring.
February marked the Celebration of Life for my oldest best friend, Claire. And if that wasn’t insane enough, add to the fact that we never had a formal high school reunion (COVID), so this was the first major reunion of our personalized friend sphere. Spanning multiple grades, over decades, parents, teachers, and old feuds. Not only was I helping my friend’s parents plan this Twilight Zone reunion for their daughter, but I was also faced with the anxiety-inducing realization that we would all see each other again. As the social media mouthpiece of this gathering, I would be in direct contact with everyone.
Nothing like forcible greeting your nostalgia with an involuntary bald head! Since Claire’s mom had texted me the date to announce to my little world, I invested in overpriced serums and creams that promised to produce an immediate mane of hair. My mornings started and evenings ended with me in front of the mirror, staring at my shining white scalp, pointing out the new clusters of growth with hope.
With each passing day, an awkward strand would stand more noticeably taller than the day before. On this went until it looked like I’d been visibly electrified. Nothing screams “I’ve made it as a human” to your high school peers, like looking like a 95-year-old young adult!
I was tasked with getting a social media headcount for the festivities, which meant reaching out to everyone.
Those that loved me, those I didn’t know,
And those that hated me.
Not only me but, oddly enough, Claire as well.
Old close friends who had become grief tourists in the throes of her death. Circling like vultures picking out the pieces that smoothed their damaged ego.
Constantly, I was straddled between two ideals; firstly, the one that honored Claire the most honestly and authentically. Secondly, the socially graceful and tactful inclusion of everyone.
So, in February, I struggled with a different cancer. An insidious, grief-filled cancerous tumble down memory lane and the complicated tightrope shuffle to the day of the services.
The real-life, living, breathing Claire Sullivan had some severe feelings that she echoed not only to me but to anyone familiar with this one particular expired friendship.
It’s not my place to say who and what happened, but I will say that it speaks volumes to throw your best friend of over a decade under the bus for anything. Anything! Much less, for something they didn’t do. So when Claire and I reunited in 2017, we had a common betrayer.
The funny part was that I had not known we were enemies! Even after she said she’d prefer to “sleep on a park bench” to staying at my apartment in New York, I stupidly believed this bully and I still loved each other.
Until Claire told me everything.
That ever since I left for New York, this girl had said nothing but horrendous things behind my back. That I was a worthless human who would eventually become my mother.
That I didn’t deserve to live in New York and that she gave me “less than a year.”
That this girl would eagerly await my failure and personally greet me in Virginia when I succumbed to her expected demise.
And when Claire first confessed these realizations, the flashbacks returned. To when she Microsoft painted a swastiska on my forehead because I had a “jew nose.” Red dots for acne and all.
To when she mocked Claire’s involuntary movements from her MS and pretended to fall over, “like Claire flailing around!”
To when she and another girl made a full on home movie mocking me for my father leaving when I was 3. The friend sauntered around a room and dreamily asked, “Who am I? Where is my dad?!”
To when I called her after my mom hit me and she said never to bother her again with that shit and hung up the phone.
All the times Claire and I were made to look the fool to cushion her pride.
To say that Claire and I bonded over her deception would be the understatement of a lifetime. The hurt was so deep that it solidified our need to mean forever when we said it. To, at all costs, avoid falling into another trap called friendship only to have it blow up in our faces. To say, “I love you,” as much as possible.
But now, it’s just me.
Before Karline died and I got cancer, I once believed that funerals and afterlife services were hallowed ground. A place where everyone had to put aside their differences and shut the fuck up for just one day. These sacred spaces forced all members to raise white flags and carry on with civility for just one shred of time before returning to their lives.
But then Karline died, and some guy she hated showed up at her funeral.
I glared daggers at him as he listened attentively to her parents speak at her graveside. The absolute nerve of this guy to show up! As I stared in awe, I remember wondering, “Do I tell the guy to go fuck himself, or do I keep glaring?”
I ended up going over to her high school friends and muttering, “she fucking hated that guy.” When we hatched a plan, the jerkoff had left the cemetery.
But this was different. This was not just any asshole showing up to Claire’s Celebration; it was THE asshole of all assholes. The one she had just been bitching me to me about less than a month before she passed. The one that took up text messages, screenshots of texts from other people, and multiple days’ worth of phone conversations. We affectionately called it “the big hurt.” This was over a decade-long friendship that had turned into a decade-long feud. Hands down, her most painful heartbreak of Claire’s short life.
So here I was, wading through these murky fucking waters of social etiquette because there’s no handbook for what to do when your best friend dies.
Is it worth wriggling the knife out of your friend’s back if they’re already dead?
And let’s say I even get the knife out. Do I lay it down gently or slam it into the back of its owner?
What kind of friend would I be to Claire by not honoring her wishes in this?
Would she claw her way back through the void to set the girl who scorned her high school heart right? I began to pray that she would.
Most nights before bed, I’d walk my dog outside beneath the 10:00 pm sky and yell into the heavens, “CLAIRE, GIVE ME A FUCKING SIGN!”
The wind didn’t suddenly gust from the air. No auspicious branch would fall from the treetops and crack at my feet. Not a single animal darted out from the woods to look me in the eye.
Just my fluffy cocker spaniel sniffing his way for the right place to piss in the yard.
When the day of the service came, I didn’t know what to expect. It would be a lie to say I hadn’t worried, but the better part of me expected her to apologize. How could she not?
When someone offers you an olive branch, you don’t douse it in gasoline and ignite. And if you do, you can’t be surprised when you’re burned by your flame, right?
Gable held my hand as we braved the blustery cold wind to go inside. Before we could get to the door, I saw a familiar face. And then I saw another! And within the first ten minutes, I had enveloped at least ten people in a solid embrace.
Before I knew it, the service had started and was over. Honestly, I was in a daze the entire time. All the planning for Claire’s services had felt like a continuation of her existence. I had spent three months going through music, photos, and all other remnants of her for this big day. So it hit me at once when I saw her tear-soaked father talking at the podium. It took me until that moment to understand that she was truly gone.
Though I had prepared a little blurb on her behalf, I froze when the officiant asked if anyone else had something to say. Claire’s best friend from Colorado, Sierra, sat next to me, and I told her that I thought I was going to throw up. Or shit my pants. There was no way I was going up there.
After the service, we all mingled in the foyer. One unapproachable face stood out amongst the rest through the dozens of hellos and sweet smiles. Here we go. I figured it was time to buck up, do the politely, and say hello. I walked over to the traitor, forced a smile, and said hello.
She looked nervous as hell. Her box-dyed red hair quivered on her collarbone while she shifted her bulging eyes to the side to avoid eye contact with me. “Yeah, okay,” she stammered.
And I couldn’t help but feel a rush of pity for this creature trying to stand on her shaking ground. Desperately clinging to any idea that she was too hard to mess with. The carefully crafted ego shattered beneath my glance. She was scared shitless.
And that was when I learned that pity was the only thing stronger than hatred. Or the insurmountable guilt that must eat her alive every day.
I didn’t need to plunge the knife from Claire’s back into her; she had already done it herself.
I looked at her and sighed before excusing myself to find Gable. This poor drowned rat knew she wasn’t fooling anyone, most of all me. How do you go to war with someone who doesn’t have peace within themselves? You can’t.
I had already won in the sudden realization that I would never in my life feel the disgrace that this girl was publicly enduring. So, peace it was and had to be.
I laid the knife on the ground.
With the apparent exception aside, Claire would’ve been starry-eyed to see all the loving humans that showed up for her. I spent hours tucked into familiar hugs from long ago and drifted into the updated whereabouts of the people I adored from a different lifetime. Why the fuck had I cared so much about one spoiled friendship when I was literally crowded with love?
Throughout the day, I couldn’t help but notice this girl sheepishly look around to make sure she wouldn’t run into me. And I felt so awful for her! To be socially strangled by a noose of her own design. There was a time I wondered if she knew Claire’s hatred of her was public knowledge, but the palpable discomfort told me everything I needed to know.
Most of all, when Claire’s mother and I locked eyes as this girl reached out to hug her. Instantly, we read each other’s minds.
However uncomfortable, I left Virginia with a clear sense of closure. So many what-ifs and unknowns were visibly unclouded enough for me to find peace. Peace in Claire’s passing, in the death of friendships that never had life, to begin with, and in the faith that I will raise a daughter secure enough with herself to never treat anyone the way Claire and I were both treated.
Because that’s what I promised her before she died.
With March before me, I leave behind cancer of the heart and return to the one in my left boob. Every single weekday of this month will feel a lot like groundhog day.
Dropping off the kids.
Driving to Sparta Cancer Center.
Scanning my entry card.
Going into the changing room.
Changing into a gown.
Watching a shitty soap opera in the waiting area.
Holding my gown to my back as I walk to the radiation area.
Giving my name and date of birth.
Laying on the table.
Putting my feet over the pillow.
Pulling down my gown.
Cradling my arm into the custom-molded cavity of my body.
Putting my hand on my head.
Laying deathly still for ten minutes straight.
Listening to the hum of the lasers and the classic rock on the radio.
Watching the machines encircle my body.
Watching the lights turn on.
Lifting my arm out of the mould.
Sitting up.
Getting off the table.
Going to the dressing room.
Getting dressed.
Go to my car.
Drive to my mother-in-law’s house.
Get the kids.
Repeat until April.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 