bluebird’s legacy

you rode the waves like a natural,
chalking it up to waves of snow:
a fellow boarder
(though I could never strive to be as cool).
now you soar higher 
than your namesake.
we'll see you in the glisten of sunrise
over far-flung beaches,
the frozen leaps of friends
bound by fate.
you live on
in storm clouds that swirl like waves, in the scramble
of dusty ghost crabs 
under flashlight beams, 
and the laughter and tears
 of countless friends,
captured like millions of 
shooting stars
gone too soon,
but present always in others,
held close 
across our memories--
a sad smile, recollection,
a hand pressed to the heart.
your children
will look heavenwards 
to skies splayed in brilliant stars
and feel your presence 
in nature's grace,
from sand-flecked shores
to craggy mountain peaks,
and know your love
exists for them
forever

On Saturday, I received the news that a friend passed away from metastatic breast cancer. She was someone that I met on a First Descents surfing trip last year. I wrote about that experience earlier on my blog, but what I think is most important to know in order to understand the friendships that form from First Descents is that you enter a room with others in their 20s and 30s who already share a powerful common ground with you: you’re all the first among your own friend groups to receive a cancer diagnosis, and you already share near-death experiences, traumatic surgeries, fear of recurrence, scanxiety, the bane of ongoing side effects (thanks, chemo), and port scars (well, unless you’re like me and took your chemo hits to the arm veins). Among these unfortunate similarities, you share the common bond of hope– knowing how strong you had to be and how strong you’ll probably have to keep being as you move forward, understanding the painful losses that cancer so often imparts on young people, like friendships, intimacy, fertility, security, health, and the expectation of a future.

Though I only spent one week with Bluebird, we shared these AYA cancer connections that pull strangers together so quickly as well as other similarities. Like me, she was an active young mom who enjoyed adventure. She also received her diagnosis when her kids were under 5. She also went through treatment during the pandemic. She seemed like the kind of friend that everyone loves to have– fearless, vibrant and compassionate. The nickname she chose fit her well. When I saw the posting this past Saturday on social media, I couldn’t believe it; I felt raw shock. Minutes later when a post on another platform from a mutual friend confirmed her passing, I could only cry and pray for those closest to her.

Every once in a while, I have this little voice sneak into my head telling me that I still think about cancer too much– forget writing about it, or sharing my memoir, or starting the support group at the local clinic. Then I think about how we are losing young people every day to this horrendous disease, and I don’t think those of us who are passionate about saving our community can afford to stop thinking about it. I believe that awareness, support, and community are vital from initial diagnosis to long-term survivorship. Before my diagnosis, I was naive to these things, but I know their importance now. Seeing a beloved friend go long before her time only emphasizes how important our young adult cancer community is. And I know that Bluebird will always be remembered by so very many friends and family, including her small but mighty First Descents family. Soar high, Bluebird. 🖤💗