I met my very best friend, MJ, on the first day of kindergarten. We were both a little nervous to start school but bonded over our love of a “Dora the Explorer” backpack after our mothers partnered us to walk inside together. Flash forward two decades, and we’re still soul sisters.
I met my other best friend, Alex, in college. We were enrolled in the same program, and time spent together on schoolwork bloomed into a beautiful friendship that has carried on years after graduation.
A friendly face when one’s needed the most
When my diagnostic process began, I was scared and fragile. Admittedly, I did isolate myself from some people, which was helped by the pandemic. What I never expected was for some of my friends to “ghost” me. My serious illness (systemic mastocytosis, or SM) didn’t fit into their aesthetic, and they cut me out completely.
I knew I would never have to worry about this with my two best friends. Neither MJ nor Alex was someone I isolated from — they knew every detail along the way, and understood how dramatic and life-altering this felt to me.
Every time I have a test to undergo or an appointment that I’ve been dreading, Alex will send me a text to wish me luck or sarcastically tell me to have a good day (if we haven’t already spoken on the phone that day). When the test or appointment wraps up, MJ is usually the first of a few people to ask me how it went. Her timing is eerily accurate — after my second bone marrow biopsy, she called me on FaceTime the moment the doctor left the room. She stayed on the phone with me while I laid in the hospital bed waiting to leave, even though my dad was with me.
Humor has become my main coping mechanism, and truly the one I’m best at. MJ will laugh at my dark jokes, whereas I can always count on Alex to fuel them.
I have no recollection of it, due to the various medications I was pumped with, but during my second stint in the ICU, MJ sat on FaceTime while I was in and out of sleep. Knowing in hindsight that I had that sort of company brings me comfort.
Laughing together through the tears
Some days, what I’m forced to live with will hit me all at once, and it feels unbearable. I’ve faced many different losses with this illness. Some of these losses are big, some of them are small, and they all feel all-consuming. There was a day recently when it felt like a little too much. MJ and I work for the same company, so I went to hover at her desk while trying to lift myself out of my feelings. After a few moments she looked away from her computer and asked what I was doing.
Those simple words tore down the wall I was building, and I began crying. “Why am I sick?” I asked, rhetorically.
Her shoulders dropped and she just said, “Oh Goose Goose, I don’t know.”
The combination of my childhood nickname and the fact that she felt the need to actually try to answer the question had me laughing through my tears. It was all I needed to get through the rest of the day.
Alex has had her own experiences with doctors, so I know she’s always ready to rant with me about the atrocities of the Quebec medical system and the absolutely out-of-pocket things that people say.
I’m lucky enough to have other friends in my corner, friends who are also always available to listen and check-in. Their friendship also means the world to me. Anyone who has ever actually bothered to ask how I am and seem to care has touched my heart.
My diagnosis has also been the foundation for new friendships and connections. I’ve had more than a few people confide in me about their own illnesses and seek my advice on how to move forward. This sense of community was lacking in the first few years after my diagnosis. I’m thankful to have it now.
It’ll always sadden me to remember the people who abandoned me and aren’t part of my life anymore, but I’m pretty sure the Universe over-corrected when it sent me Alex and MJ.
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