Grief and Gladness

So there was this girl I knew, named Amy. She was the friend of some friends of mine. She was there at the wedding of our mutual friends, and I saw her at other get-togethers and birthday celebrations. She was sweet and funny and fun to hang out with. One day I went into the copy store she worked in. There was a quick moment of recognition and happy surprise when we saw each other. We leaned on the tall counter top and chatted as the copier churned out pages for my job. When my copies were finished we hugged goodbye and I looked forward to seeing her again. I did see her again a number of times. One time we talked about the trip to Colorado that she and her husband were going on to celebrate their one year anniversary. One time we talked about wedding cakes, since I had made the one for our mutual friends. We talked about how her hair was growing back in and about the procedures she was having done after her surgery. We talked about cancer.

When I first met Amy, she was in remission for leukemia. Her hair was growing back, she had a wonderful circle of friends (including her future husband), and she was optimistic that the cancer was completely gone. Life was good. It was the second time that she had battled with cancer. She was first diagnosed with leukemia when she was a senior in college. She went through chemo and went into remission. But then a new kind of leukemia attacked her. Again she went through treatment and again went into remission. Then out of the blue, Amy was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had to start treatment all over again.

I remember leaning across the store counter and watching Amy smile as she talked about the procedures that were being done to help her body fight the cancer. She was marveling at how medicine and science were continually advancing. I had to marvel with her, caught in an enthusiasm for how life goes on and how faith carries us through. She had tremendous faith. She was hopeful and optimistic. Inside her body there was battle of chemo and dying cells but around her was love and life and she clung to those things with a startlingly clear faith. Whenever I'd say goodbye to Amy I always felt happy. She had a glow that exuded from deep inside her and made her beautiful. It didn't matter that we were talking about how long it took for one's hair to grow back. Amy was smiling as she said it, smiling as she touched her scalp, smiling from an inner faith that was nothing short of miraculous.

A few days ago I heard the news: Amy had died. Three kinds of cancer over seven years had taken their toll, taken her life. I was sitting in the library when I saw the news on facebook. Some might say, "Of all places," but I would say, "Yes, of course," because I didn't know Amy's family, just her friends, so it would be from a much closer friend than I that the news would come, broadcast out of quiet yet public grief. I sat in the library and looked at pictures of Amy and began to cry. Amy, shaving off her hair for the first time. Amy, smiling with a group of friends. Amy, with her wonderful loving husband whose pain I felt like a sharp knife, doubling me over in my chair with tears I tried to keep as quiet as I could. Amy, so young. How could she be gone?

A few days later I was standing in church singing along with the worship songs when I started to cry again over Amy. I have lost people to cancer before but somehow this felt different. Amy was my age. She was newly married and had so much hope and life in front of her. It seems almost audacious that she would get cancer at all, let alone three times, and that it would finally claim someone so young and full of spirit. I sat down, once again doubled over as tears streamed down my face. I know that there is joy for Amy now. There is no more pain or bad news. No more surgery or chemo. Her infectious joy and faith are probably multiplied by a thousand. Amy is not crying, yet I don't feel bad about crying for earth's loss. It's okay to remember her dancing with her soon-to-be husband at our friend's wedding and to feel a well of sorrow that she won't dance on earth any more. I could say nice things about heaven, which I believe in though I've never seen, but instead I'll choose to focus on what I have seen: Amy's sweet spirit, her radiant smile, and how her life rippled dearly to those around her. I wasn't a close friend, but I knew her and that was enough. She was loved and is loved still, and I will think of her both with gladness and grief. She was this girl I knew, and so much more.