This blog was written in October, 2011 but not published until today. It is dedicated to my godmother, for whom it is written, and who died this week at age 90.

I don’t know if you’ve ever said good-bye to someone knowing you’ll never see them again?

I don’t mean because you met them on a plane and you had a great chat but you live in 2 different states 3 thousand miles apart with no real reason to ever bump into each other.

Or when someone helps you pump your gas and you say “thanks” and they say “you’re welcome” and you both say “bye”—

I don’t even mean when you say “good-bye” and you hope you never see them again–like an old romance who broke your heart and you see them at a reunion and you wish you could duck under the table until the coast was clear.

What I mean when I say “saying good-bye to someone you won’t see again” is the kind of good-bye that comes when you know that person is dying.  And you know you won’t likely be there in the next weeks or months when they finally say they’re through with living in this world and they’re ready to go on to the next.

I had this experience today. I had to look into the eyes of someone who means more to me than any other person in the world, save my own mother and father.  I had to look into those beautiful, fading hazel eyes and squeeze her as tightly as her 93 pound body could safely handle and say good bye. And I have to tell you, it sucked.

And before you say “oh goodness, why did she have to say the s word? Isn’t that a little strong?” I have to let you know that I grew up a good girl, went to church every Sunday, was schooled Catholic and believe in God–but when I got breast cancer I realized that SUCK had a very important place in the English language, and it was right after the world CANCER.

So forgive me if you can–because today I found another place where that word goes perfectly–and it’s right after that moment where you have to say good-bye to someone you love more than anything in this world.

This person I’m talking about is my godmother.  She’s been my godmother for 46 years.  She’s been my next-door-mother for 4 decades plus–she’s helped me tie my shoes,  changed my diapers, spoiled me rotten with colored balloons, cards on my birthday, LLBean fleeces, potted plants, and jewelry.

She’s called me, cajoled me, laughed with me, made me drinks.  She’s heard me cry, she’s made me laugh, she held me when I cried, she hugged me when I hurt.

And one very special day, in the sun porch of her home, she looked into my teenaged eyes and told me I was a star. And for some reason, I believed her.

And I’ve never, EVER, forgotten it.

On this last day I spent with my godmother there was drama—because we’d had a snowstorm and our neighborhood had lost electricity overnight.  It was planned with her daughter that if the power went out, I’d go check on her mother/my godmother–whose name is Darlin–because at 90 years old and with congestive heart failure, she needs to breathe with the help of an oxygen machine. The machine needs to be plugged into electricity to work. If there’s no juice in the wall, it stops working. And Darlin could stop breathing.

So it was planned, and it so happened, that the electricity DID go out–and I ran over to hook my godmother up to her battery-powered tank…so she could breath until the power came back on.  I stayed the night, I pulled up a down puff and snuggled in the next bedroom–because my mother and Dad were safe next door but both Mom and I–and Darlin’s daughter Marie–needed Darlin safe.  I could easily do that if I just stuck around to make sure the air flowed.  It was simple–as I said to Darlin, “we’ll have a sleepover. Just like kids.”

The next day, I had to pack my bags and ready myself to return to my home state–3 thousand miles away.  Which meant I had to say good-bye to my godmother.  I really didn’t want to do that.

Because in the past, every time I’d said good-bye I knew I’d see her again. My godmother is a strong, beautiful woman of grace and determination. She got her college degree in her 60’s, lost her husband–my godfather–in her seventies, yet lived on and flourished as much as you can after losing your best friend–for 2 more decades.  She took classes, she volunteered, she traveled.  And I watched it all in awe.  And I learned from her.  I learned to keep going, keep swinging, keep living. And I, like her, never let life beat me down. After all, Darlin always came back swinging. And so, as I battle metastatic breast cancer,  do I.

In these last years, when congestive heart failure stole my godmother’s breath away, she hooked herself to an oxygen tank and arrived at cocktail parties, grandchildren’s weddings and the cherished Maine beach her family visited all their lives–looking fabulous in outfits I could only dream of looking as good in.  And don’t even get me started on her matching shoes.

And through it all I always saw in Darlin’s eyes that desire to continue. And I was always–ALWAYS– so thankful to see that.

But this last visit, I saw something else in Darlin’s eyes.  It wasn’t exactly a choice to move on as it was a realization that it might be time. She was still smiling and still lovely, ever the hostess offering me coffee by day and cocktails by night–easily and graciously.  But those eyes of hers told me a new story.  They were silently saying to me, I’m getting ready to go.

I confess to not looking too long into those hazel jewels because I didn’t like what I saw.  But I knew it was true.  I knew.

The morning I left Darlin was sitting on her couch, breathing deeply from her oxygen machine, and smiling. She looked at me and laughed her Dorothea–that’s her real name–laugh and, while not adding drama to the already theatrical oxygenated overnight we’d passed together, acknowledged the crazy night we’d spent.  ”Thank you for saving my life last night, Ann.”

I looked at her beautiful face and saw way more than a woman exhausted from 9 decades of life on this planet and a scary, weird night’s sleep–and I saw so much more than a woman I adored.  I saw all the years she’d helped me grow, taught me strength, showed me compassion and told me I was a “somebody”–even in the moments I didn’t believe it myself.  I didn’t see that I saved her life last night. I saw that she’d saved me in my life many times over. And I saw what I always knew to be true–that I was so lucky to have known her.

Which is why, as she claimed I’d saved her life, I replied immediately and without hesitation,

“And thank you, Darlin, for saving mine.”