A weekend at the beach

How do you say good-bye to someone who's become important to your living? How do you help her prepare for what she and I both know will come soon? I've read the books on death and dying and so has she. But our intellects failed us.

A clear strong force within me said "go see her" -- give her a present that would bring her joy and help her feel safe, if just for a little time. My present was the ocean, a favorite place, Rehobeth. With this trip, she came full circle back to where she spent summers as a kid with cousins, aunts, uncles and her devoted grandmother. With the help of her doctors, I arranged for us to spend three days and four nights over a perfect September weekend at the classiest and oldest hotel on the beach, The Boardwalk Plaza Hotel.

Our time together included a gourmet dinner alfresco at the hotel next to the boardwalk as the sunset danced on the beach grass and sand. I ate authentic crab cakes, not the overly breaded, fried sorry excuses they serve here in Memphis. My friend laughed as I savored every bite. I laughed that she laughed. It was a very good evening as we made plans for our stay.

We walked the boardwalk splashed in morning sun and breezes. She told me the history of almost every hotel, store and arcade and how they evolved over the years. She bought her cherished dark chocolate coconut clusters.

We rested in the afternoons watching endless episodes of HGTV, sipping our martinis, splurging on snacks from room service. For dinner we ate pizza at the Grotto, Nicobolis at Nick's and steamed hard shells at Crabby Jacks. Each evening included a movie selected from the used DVDs we had bought.

On Sunday, the beach called to us, so we hauled our chairs, umbrella, towels, books and crossword puzzles out to the rim of the sand to spy a good view of the shore and waves. Four hours later, my friend was more red and I more tanned. Only on Tuesday night, did we learn that she had acquired 3rd degree burns on her shins. We didn't know her skin had become sensitive to one of the medications she was taking. She's now in the hospital for a few days to repair the damage. But it was a marvelous four hours -- gazing out from our chairs, shooing away the greedy gulls, standing in the surf and eating a bucket of perfect skins-still-on, greasy, crunchy fresh french fries.

My friend and I are disparate people. Where she is brilliant, I struggle to comprehend. Where she has dry humor, thinks logically and is quiet and private, I am serious, emotional, social and effusive. But somehow we are friends who spent sleepless hours together in the four nights when it was lonely, scary and painful for her despite some very, very strong drugs. I held her in my arms. She held my hands and I hers. We whispered those thoughts we can't talk about out loud, face-to-face -- what's going to happen, what she will miss, what I will miss, her fears and my hopes, how much we've given to each other throughout our friendship. We cried, carefully trying to protect each other from the sadness. Those four nights were most important, because that kind of closeness has no match. It is what I will always remember. My friend claims that she is invisible -- that people literally do not see her. But I see her now and will always see her.