Farewell, My Fabulous Friend

My friend and dance student, Nora, died yesterday after a long and brave battle with cancer.  I miss her already and it’s hard to believe that she didn’t beat cancer.  To say that Nora had a feisty spirit is an understatement.  My sassy friend with flame red (or sometimes hot pink) hair was a firecracker who didn’t mince words and went after exactly what she liked.  I’m just fortunate that she liked belly dancing and that brought her into my life.

The first time I met Nora, we were dancing in a basement.  I had been teaching for a couple of years at that point but due to a scheduling snafu with the studio I had rented, my small class suddenly didn’t have a home.  One of my students (and now dear friend) Melissa generously opened her basement so that we could continue to dance on Saturday mornings.  

Those classes were raucous and celebratory and into that mix walked Nora. She was wearing what I came to understand was a signature look.  She had carefully thought through her dancewear from head to toe and looked like she was ready for a photo shoot. On this particular day, her ensemble was an artful mix of neon yellow and neon green, boldly brilliant against her tan skin and shocking red hair.  She was no shrinking violet.

Belly Dance Spectacular 2013

For ten years, I had the privilege of teaching with Nora at my side. Our Saturday morning classes eventually found their way back into a studio, and Nora gravitated to the front of the class, usually on my right side.  She threw herself into belly dancing with every ounce of her being, each outfit more splendid than the last, and with a love of dance that radiated in her every move and every expression. Her sense of style, broad interest in music and unparalleled eye for color were the inspiration for several choreographies and troupe costumes.  Even in the last year or so, when Nora wasn’t well enough to come to class, her presence stayed with us.  The class held the space in the front, to my right, open for her.  Just in case.

Nora watches Atasha Manila with delight
at the 2013 Belly Dance Spectacular

We grew close over the years and would go to dance shows, just she and I. I used to joke that, as the teacher, I was mother duck to a whole flock of pretty ducklings. Nora for a time called me “Mama Duck” and would lean her head on my shoulder lovingly.  In more recent years, she would still lean her head on my shoulder, but she started calling me “Mom” even though she is a few years older than I am. It was our little joke and I would often hug her and say “there, there, little duckie.”  I liked being that person for her.  Despite her outward boldness, there was much about her that was private. I’m grateful that she let me in. 

I’m glad, too, that for a short time – before we were both swallowed up by the side effects of our treatments – we could commiserate together.  We compared hair loss and talked about wigs and how stupid all of this cancer business is. I was still sore and swollen from my mastectomy when I got word that she was in the hospital.  I stopped by to see her on Monday, as soon as I was able.  She was being moved to hospice care. And now she’s gone.

Nora and Anastasia after having makeup done
by the irrepressible Louie (a.k.a. Atasha Manila)

I want to focus on my memories of her, but it’s impossible not to think about our cancer journeys.  Less than two weeks ago, a few days after my breasts were removed, I was told my pathology report showed no living cancer cells.  The chemo worked, and after radiation and some additional chemotherapy, it is very likely that breast cancer won’t ever come back. Other than the two large scars across my chest, breast cancer could conceivably be a distant memory for me someday.  But why me and not Nora?  And do I dare believe in a life beyond cancer even though repeat invasions seem so indiscriminate and merciless?

I don’t understand everything that goes into freeing people from the grip of cancer, and I don’t think we can ever understand why Nora’s treatment wasn’t enough to win the fight. There are so many variables: the type of cancer, the health of the body invaded by cancer, the resources and support available. Like me, Nora was probably bombarded with information and difficult choices.  She had to put her faith in some form of treatment and then hope for the best, probably many times throughout the years of her fight.  If only the outcome could have been different.

I would end this post on an uplifting note except that it would have annoyed the bejesus out of Nora. Cancer sucks big time. I recently read a book in which the author conducted workshops for the doctors and nurses of cancer patients to talk about death and dying.  After a few weeks, many of them concluded that if given a choice, they would prefer to die from cancer.  In other words, it’s not such a bad way to go.  You can see death coming, unlike, say, if you are hit by a bus. You have a little time to put your affairs in order, say your goodbyes, and prepare emotionally and spiritually. 

That sounds fine in theory, but on the ground it feels awful.  Nora suffered for a long time.  Not just weeks, but years of her life were filled with doctor appointments, treatments and their horrific side effects, and the uncertainty that comes with cancer’s slow waltz with death.  Nora was too young and too full of life to leave like this. I miss her, her friends and fellow dancers miss her, her family misses her, and the world isn’t the same without her.  Damn cancer.  Don’t worry, Nora, I’m going to beat cancer up and down the street. I love you so much my little duckling, you glorious creature.  Come dance in my dreams whenever you want.

Nora in 2006