There is a framed photo on my desk of a hammock on a beach. The colors of the photo have faded. The memory has not.
A few years ago, I was talking to a dear friend, Karen, about my marriage. She could tell by my voice that something was terribly wrong. Immediately, she invited me to meet her in Puerto Rico. She was going there for a job interview and said I could just stay with her and relax for a few days. My husband (now ex-husband) refused me permission to purchase an airline ticket. I was crushed. The next day, a Fed-Ex package arrived with my ticket to Puerto Rico and a note from Karen that read "See you soon!"
She picked me up at the airport and for the next few days we laughed and we cried.. and somewhere in that time, my heart started to heal. Before going back home, I walked on the beach, settled in on a cozy hammock, and stared at the ocean. Lying there, I became overwhelmed with bittersweet emotions: fear and gratitude. Fear that my marriage was about to end. Gratitude for the gift of our friendship as well as the joy and peace that I felt for those few precious days. Wanting to freeze time, I placed the camera over my tear drenched eye and seized the moment.
That photo still stirs up powerful emotions.
Karen and I have been friends since our college days at PSU. We were both kinesiology majors and met at our personal training job. I went on to run a YMCA in Williamsport, PA, get married and have 3 kids. She went on to work at La Costa Spa in California, then moved to Milan, Italy, and ended up joining the Navy to pursue her dream of becoming a pilot.
While I was birthing babies, she was flying P-3 airplanes and playing Navy volleyball all over the world. She even won the 2001 Armed Services Volleyball Championship. Karen retired from the Navy after actively serving for 10 years, became a pilot for JetBlue, and continues to serve in the Navy reserves.
A few months ago she was surprised to found out that she was called to be a commander of a ground unit in Afghanistan. She left her home and her job in May and is currently in Fort Bragg preparing for her deployment.
So when she asked me to meet her in Virginia Beach on her last free weekend before going off to war, I didn't hesitate, I went.
I received her call Thursday evening (minutes after arriving home from a family vacation), tried to get a flight the next day, but had to wait until Saturday. She sent me a text Friday night "Can't wait to pick you up tomorrow and give you a big hug girlfriend!" We were hugging by 9am Saturday morning outside Norfolk airport.
For 36 hours, we were inseparable. We rode our bikes to the beach and spent the entire day laughing and reminiscing and staring at the ocean. That night we listened to live music and danced the night away.... the entire night... and watched the sun rise the next morning.
That's how we roll. Pack as much as possible in to the time we have together... sleep is rarely included. Unfortunately our rendezvous adventures are few and far between and always bookended with trips to an airport.
This past weekend was no exception.
As we were packing up to leave the beach house, she remembered that her driver's license was in my wallet. I placed it in her hand and she said, "Good thing we remembered my ID, you sure don't want to be me."
Nothing could be further from the truth.
She is my mentor and my idol. I love her like a sister. And, if I could protect her from harm in anyway, I would do it without question.
When the time came to do that drive, that miserable journey back to the airport, a sick feeling started to stir in my belly. We have done this exchange a million times in a million cities, and it never, ever gets any easier. As co-pilot, I sang along to songs on the radio and told silly stories meanwhile secretly chanting to myself "don't cry, don't cry, don't cry". And I didn't. Not until I got out of the car, stood on my tippy toes and reached up to give her a hug.
When I got home I looked at that photo of me on the hammock staring at the ocean and once again was filled with bittersweet emotions: fear and gratitude. Fear for the unknown. Gratitude for the gift of our friendship as well as the joy and peace that I felt for those few precious hours.
Karen will return home in July 2011 and you can be sure that whenever that happens, where ever that may be, I will be catching the next flight out to see her... and will give her the biggest hug this world has ever seen.
