Two years ago, a blond saw a face in the audience. She watched a head nod and eyes that made contact, and with each cue she found her speaking voice.

The brunette with the nodding head was so earnest, so unschooled, so wanted to fit in. The words she was hearing helped her believe in herself.

A friendship began when one person listened as the other one spoke. They had no idea how much the other needed what each was there to give.

Laughter. Honesty. Support. Space. All given and received without one expectation.

Tonight the brunette spoke, actually poured out her guts.

And the blond?

She listened and nodded.

****************************************************
I am taking part in a Gratitude Challenge. For 21 days I am practicing gratitude for the little (and big) things all around me. Tonight’s post is a love letter to all of my incredible friends.

Remember when Victoria Secret first came out with the Miracle Bra? You never needed it, but the moment they launched their Miracle Bra bathing suits you had one in your hands.

We all laughed when you tried it on. I think I commented that you now had a shelf on which to rest your drink…and suntan lotion…and my drink…and my suntan lotion. You brushed me off and proudly announced that your mom declared it the “two-carat” bikini–as in you were going to land a 2 ct. diamond engagement ring by wearing it on the beach.

I always knew that wasn’t what was going to do it. You know why?

Late one night out on the beach very much into our cups, you made some comment about needing to follow the campground rules. As usual, we all started calling you out.

“Once a sorority President, always a sorority president.”

“My mom said ‘Don’t go on the Potomac. It’s dangerous on the Potomac.'”

“You’re such a MUFFIN!”

You turned to me, now a college graduate, and tried to look me straight in the eye and slurred,

“I may be a muffin on the outside, but I’m a jalapeno PEPPER on the inside.”

I’m pretty sure I aspirated a marshmallow at that point.

So yesterday, as I sat here hundreds of miles away from the hospital where doctors were removing your breasts–and with them the cancer that was attacking them–I calmed my nerves and even smiled knowing that 2 ct boobs or not, you will always be a jalapeno pepper on the inside.

And NO doctor will ever be able to remove that.

I’ve been staring at this blank form for quite some time with no cogent thoughts coming forth. There are plenty of ideas, jumbled fragments, but I can’t seem to wrap any of them up into neat little packages.

And I think there’s probably a very good reason for this.

My best friend has breast cancer.

She’s 37. She has three children aged almost 5 and under.

I’ve known for a few weeks now–about as long as she has–and I think I’ve just been pretending it’s not true.

The doctors caught it early. She just went in for a check up–a routine physical–and the doc suggested she go in for a mammogram to establish a baseline. The doc didn’t feel anything. The mammogram didn’t show anything specific, just some thickening. They sent her for an ultrasound assuming they were just ruling things out.

She has cancer.

And they still can’t even feel the lumps.

That’s a good thing. The prognosis is good.

And I thought I was okay. I mean, I don’t have cancer. I can’t complain. So I’m fine. I’m the fine one. I’m perfectly fine.

EXCEPT WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO MY BEST FRIEND???!!!!!

I can’t fix her. I can’t make it okay for her. I can’t change things when she’s scared. I can’t make it better. And I hate that.

Each time my head starts in this direction, I just say shut up. You’re not the one who is sick. Just shut up.

But I’m afraid too.

When my aunt was diagnosed with cancer nine years ago, I was sure she was going to be fine. Six weeks later I was at her memorial service. I still think of her almost every day.

I’m so afraid to be positive about Pfunky’s cancer.

I’m so afraid.

Rick and George* were quite the stoners in high school.

Both great guys, they were pretty easy-going–you know the weed and all–friendly, quick to laugh–again with the weed–fun–even without the weed (I mean I think I saw them when they weren’t stoned)–bright–despite the weed–athletic–and that’s tough with the weed–and they were friends of mine.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that George and Rick smoked a little dope back in the 80’s.

Tonight I spoke to George for the first time in ten years. With what I assume was a completely straight face, he told me about a recent conversation he had with Rick.

Apparently, Rick was experiencing a dilemma and needed some advice. Rick wanted to know if George thought it would be okay to let his 13 y.o. son go see Clerks 2.

Let me paint this for you in a slightly different way.

Bill and Ted have kids of their own and consult with each other on how best to raise them.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

My first in-depth experience with Washington, DC was the summer I lived here and interned. My college roommate grew up here and had spent the spring semester at American University so she introduced me to a number of her friends. There was one guy in particular that I clicked with and we spent a good deal of our time together discovering the city. We didn’t date we were truly just friends.

We went back to our respective schools at the end of the summer and once back into our daily routines–and well we didn’t speak again–until we ran into each other the following summer at a tiny train station in the middle of nowhere in Spain and again six weeks later in Prague. We vowed that we wouldn’t lose touch this time.

So that fall, both having graduated, he called me from NY to see what I was up to. I had returned from my excursion and was living with my parents in FL and trying to figure out my next move. He mentioned he was moving back to DC with a friend and wondered if I wanted him to find an apartment that had a room for me too. “What the hell!” I replied, and before I knew it I was driving to DC with all of my possessions hoping I’d find a job.

We lived together for three years. We visited each other’s families, we developed our own traditions and we shared a dog. I loved him like a brother, but we began to grow apart. We moved into our own apartments. We started seriously dating people and we spoke less and less. I got married and got a son not much later and my life spun out of control. He moved back to NY and we haven’t spoken in almost 8 years.

Tonight I looked him up on Facebook.

Social media and social networking have made it possible for me to meet incredible people, share interesting ideas and waste time trash talking over the internet during boring meetings, but are these people my “friends?”

It depends when you ask me.

My gut response is yes, but I think back to the friendship I had with my DC roommate or with college friends or folks from high school or middle school even and I wonder if the same definition applies.

The internet has made it possible for us to communicate with people we never see. Through blog posts, through email, in less than 140 characters we share our thoughts, but does that mean that we are friends?

Last night I had drinks with five people I met online and one I have gotten to know better online. We talked easily. We enjoyed ourselves and some of us stayed way later than we should have, but can I say these folks are my friends? What do I really know about them? What do they know about me? Would they notice if I hopped off my social networks? Would they check in if I did?

What about those long-lost friends that you can reconnect with through Facebook or Classmates or any other network out there? Can you revive a friendship that was? Should you even bother? Clearly there were reasons you fell out of touch in the first place. Is it better to leave the past in the past?

I don’t have any answers tonight.

I’m just going to go outside and ponder this all.