Real love often means telling the truth. But a friend named Danza showed me a different side of love shortly before her passing. It was a March Friday, filled with the aroma of cherry blossoms. I sat on the deck, waiting for our friend Elsie to arrive. We wanted to recapture our high school days, even if for a short moment. Time seemed to be slipping away.
Elsie arrived, sporting cut-off denim shorts and a sleeveless top, reminiscent of 1969. She hugged me, towering over me even in wedges. She asked me how to prepare for seeing Danza, who was now without hair because of her illness. I reassured her that she would still recognize Danza.
I took Elsie to Danza’s room and left them alone for privacy. When I returned, both had been crying. Elsie, sitting on the bed, proposed a makeover and produced a paper bag with cosmetics. I brought massage cream and a scarf. In school, makeup had been reserved for the stage. As adults, the impromptu makeover was our way to create normalcy amidst harsh reality.
We sat Danza up in her bed and began applying makeup. Elsie used shade and rouge carefully, while I recalled Danza teaching me to use eyeliner during our school days. I tried to recreate those happy times by humming a song we both loved. Danza joined in, making the experience bittersweet.
With Danza’s makeup completed and her head wrapped in a lavender scarf, her features regained vibrancy. She looked in the mirror and smiled, bringing back memories of when we were Candy Stripers in high school. Despite the grim setting, we found laughter in old memories.
However, Danza quickly became serious and asked why I wouldn’t ask her questions directly related to her illness. I hesitated, but then she revealed a lie she had kept to protect me. She had never planned a birthday party for me that she claimed to have cancelled years ago due to my illness. The truth was, financial struggles had prevented it.
This revelation highlighted how I had misjudged the differences in our backgrounds. My upbringing in a comfortable home contrasted with her life which I had romanticized. Now living a similar struggle, I understood the lengths a person would go to shield a friend from pain.
We processed the truth together, shaking off the guilt and sealing our friendship with understanding. When I finally left the room, I found Elsie waiting, aware of the emotional storm that had passed.
Later, a hospice nurse visited, tending to Danza’s needs and acknowledging her emotional release as common for the dying. The nurse explained that clearing past emotional debts helps a person die peacefully. I realized Danza’s silence wasn’t a breach of trust. It was an act of love safeguarding our bond.
The lesson from Danza was that love sometimes means carrying burdens alone for those we care about. Her silence about my birthday’s reality symbolized the depth and strength of our friendship.
Megan Vered is from Berkeley, California. Her personal essays have appeared in various publications. The views in this article are her own.
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