Jaci Dawn

I’ve thought about this for a few days. I got this phone call at work that was a bombshell. You’re not supposed to get calls like this at work, but Ellen is forgiven because first – and foremost –  she’s my friend. And I met her through work.

I’d overheard that she “terminated” her license (real estate) and I wondered what that was about. Ellen has always been a methodical real estate agent, not a lot of business, but always something going on. I wondered if the down economy was forcing her out, or her health? She’s struggled with a lot of issues since I first met her six years ago.

She is a funny woman with salt-and-pepper hair who dressed in that down-town Portland style: lots of layers. I’d just taken over the position of office coordinator and was busy whipping a failing office into order. It was a horrid mess: the previous coordinators had been unorganized, couldn’t alphabetize and were far removed from the anal world of “everything has a place.” (Just ask me: I can be really anal about where things GO. And how to alphabetize!)  Ellen was just another agent in the office, albeit one with a crooked smile and a twinkle in her eye.

I could count on Ellen to be insightful, well read, and bitingly funny. She could say something and just walk away and I’d be standing there trying not to burst into hysterics. Or pee my pants. She could look at an interpersonal relationship, analyze it, and have some very profound thoughts on it. Always spot on.

I left that position about three years ago, but I never left my love for Ellen. We’ve kept in touch or at least tried to. And so I wondered about her new status as a “terminated” agent.

Then she called me. She told the story as if it was a huge joke: how she went to the doctor because she thought she was having a terrible asthma attack, and when they did an x-ray, they couldn’t find her right lung. “But it was there yesterday,” she said.

Her lung was full of fluid so it didn’t show up on the x-ray. And there was something on the bottom of the x-ray that disturbed the doctors. So they had to do a CAT scan (or is that a CT scan? Don’t ask me: I am medically impaired). The end result was this:

Ellen has ovarian cancer.

She started chemo this week. Without chemo, they gave her six months to live. Ellen is only a couple days older than me. She can’t die.

OK, that’s incredibly selfish, so let’s be more specific (and even more selfish): I don’t WANT her to die. She’s my friend. She’s funny. She’s sweet. Thoughtful. Articulate. And she’s my friend.

I hate cancer. And I really hope that cutting sense of humor stands Ellen in good stead in the next few months.