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"When I think of Stacey, it&amp;amp;#8217;s always summer. Her peachy skin has gone tawny, and she looks gorgeous in a crinkled white linen dress. We&amp;amp;#8217;ve just spent an evening at an outdoor concert and return to our car to find it hobbled by the infamous Denver boot&amp;amp;#8212;the evil lock they can slap on your tire when your meter has expired. Though the guy from the towing company is about 6&amp;amp;#8217;12&amp;amp;#8221; and built like Sasquatch, and Stacey weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, she demands that he release our car for the price of the meter money owed and waive the &amp;amp;#8220;removal fee.&amp;amp;#8221; The guy refuses, and the next thing I know, Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s threatening to slug him. Finally, I pay up and haul her away. To restore some calm, I turn on the radio and out pours that old song &amp;amp;#8220;I Fought the Law (and the Law Won).&amp;amp;#8221; We laugh so hard I&amp;amp;#8217;m afraid I&amp;amp;#8217;ll toss my cheese and crackers. Then Stacey turns to me and says, absolutely seriously, &amp;amp;#8220;You&amp;amp;#8217;re the best friend I have.&amp;amp;#8221; I am astounded. Back then, I was just one of a vast pantheon of Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s gal pals. Everyone loved Stacey. She was the prettiest non-movie-star any of us knew. And she had this husky lounge singer&amp;amp;#8217;s voice with a little catch at the top that no one could resist. Yet Stacey would prove prescient in her pronouncement of our best-friendship. Over the coming years we became as close as sisters, turning to each other in those epic life moments of love and loss, birth and death. On the day I stood, at age 38, before a crowd of 300 and gave my first husband&amp;amp;#8217;s eulogy, it was Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s face I looked into for reassurance. And when as a widow with three young sons and slim resources, I adopted my daughter, who would become her godchild Francie, Stacey was among the few who championed me. Two years after that, I sat in Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s hospital room after she narrowly survived the very disease that killed my husband&amp;amp;#8212;cancer. And when Stacey and her husband, Mike, failed in the eleventh hour of their first attempt to adopt a child, I pleaded with them to roll the dice and try once more. They did, and now I am godmother to their four-year-old daughter, Gabriela Clair. My Friend in Crisis On Wednesday, December 7, 2006&amp;amp;#8212;20 months after Gabriela&amp;amp;#8217;s arrival&amp;amp;#8212;I was preparing my annual Christmas lunch when the doorbell rang. I thought it might be Stacey, popping in early for a festive glass of wine, but it was our friend Pam, who cupped my shoulders in her hands and said, &amp;amp;#8220;Everything&amp;amp;#8217;s going to be OK, but&amp;amp;#8230;.&amp;amp;#8221; Pam went on to explain that Stacey had been admitted to the hospital with a severe case of ketoacidosis (a dangerous buildup of acids in the bloodstream and a complication of her diabetes). The day before, she had been driving and had felt so sick that she had to turn around and go back home. By the morning of my lunch, Mike had called an ambulance. She was having trouble breathing, so doctors put her on a ventilator. She was conscious, said Pam, but weak and disoriented. In one motion, I dropped the tray of scones I&amp;amp;#8217;d been holding onto the counter and turned to grab my coat from the rack by the door. &amp;amp;#8220;Wait,&amp;amp;#8221; said Pam. &amp;amp;#8220;Don&amp;amp;#8217;t. Mike doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t want anyone to come now.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;He doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t mean me,&amp;amp;#8221; I explained. &amp;amp;#8220;He means&amp;amp;#8230;even you,&amp;amp;#8221; Pam replied. &amp;amp;#8220;No one but family until after the crisis is over.&amp;amp;#8221; Slapped by shock, I tried to make sense of everything I&amp;amp;#8217;d just heard. &amp;amp;#8220;I just saw her last week, when she cut my hair,&amp;amp;#8221; I said lamely. I could remember asking Stacey if everything was OK: She&amp;amp;#8217;d been thinner and seemed under the weather, but she brushed it off. Now, leaving Pam in the hall, I ran to call Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s mother. &amp;amp;#8220;She&amp;amp;#8217;s going to be fine,&amp;amp;#8221; Sue said. &amp;amp;#8220;Our Stacey always beats the odds.&amp;amp;#8221; I felt better. For a wisp of a thing, Stacey was tough: Colon cancer hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t killed her, nor sudden-onset diabetes&amp;amp;#8212;not even the masked mugger who&amp;amp;#8217;d once threatened her with a piece of pipe. After speaking with Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s mom, I decided to be a good girl, sensible instead of hysterical, and honor Mike&amp;amp;#8217;s wish that I stay clear of the hospital for a few days&amp;amp;#8212;a decision that will torment me until I close my own eyes for the last time. Stacey Disappears I&amp;amp;#8217;ve no idea how many times I played&amp;amp;#8212;in the long, slow, still days that followed&amp;amp;#8212;the last message I ever got from Stacey, a few days before she became ill. It must have been at least a hundred; the machine eventually broke: &amp;amp;#8220;Jack, I&amp;amp;#8217;m going to be a little late to your house. It&amp;amp;#8217;s crazy time around here. The phone never stops ringing&amp;amp;#8230;.&amp;amp;#8221; Although I got daily bulletins from Mike&amp;amp;#8217;s sisters, it was excruciating to be away from Stacey for the first weekend of her hospitalization. By Sunday, I was frantic. &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;m going to the hospital,&amp;amp;#8221; I declared to my husband, Chris, who all but ordered me to stay put. Stacey was sedated, Chris pointed out, needing all her strength to get well. She wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t even know I was there. &amp;amp;#8220;But I would,&amp;amp;#8221; I told him. &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;m letting her down!&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;You&amp;amp;#8217;re not,&amp;amp;#8221; he responded. &amp;amp;#8220;Stacey will understand.&amp;amp;#8221; So I walked through the holiday rituals: the tree trimming, the sleigh ride and Francie&amp;amp;#8217;s birthday&amp;amp;#8212;which Auntie Stacey had never, not once, missed. I had to go out of town overnight to give a lecture. I have no memory of giving it. When I came home, Mike&amp;amp;#8217;s sister called: Stacey was breathing up to four hours on her own, and in a day or so the vent would come out. &amp;amp;#8220;Thank God,&amp;amp;#8221; I said. &amp;amp;#8220;So she&amp;amp;#8217;s really going to be fine? And, promise, as soon as she&amp;amp;#8217;s off the vent, then I can come?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;Absolutely,&amp;amp;#8221; she said. So I comforted myself, adding Italian glass earrings and a knit purse to the margarita set I&amp;amp;#8217;d gotten Stacey for Christmas. Soon, I would cover her bed with gifts and hear that funny, beloved, irreplaceable voice. Then, on the afternoon of December 21, the phone rang again. I still don&amp;amp;#8217;t remember who called me. But she told me Stacey had gone downhill. Somehow, she&amp;amp;#8217;d pulled out the vent. Under supervision, she&amp;amp;#8217;d managed to breathe on her own for a while. But suddenly she began to gag and cough. Her vocal cords seized up, blocking the flow of air to her lungs and slowing her heart rate. Doctors gave her drugs to help activate her heart, but a few minutes later, she went into cardiopulmonary arrest. Essentially, she died. For one of the very few times since Stacey had become ill, Mike had gone home to catch a few hours&amp;amp;#8217; sleep. But had he been there, he would have wanted a full-out &amp;amp;#8220;sudden death&amp;amp;#8221; resuscitation, which, according to the family members and medical personnel I spoke with afterward, is what she got. Doctors used a mask to force oxygen into her lungs, striking Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s chest with the traditional CPR technique and readministering the heart-starting drugs. After nearly 20 minutes, Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s heart did start up again. But her brain had apparently remained deprived of oxygen for too long. She was alive, but severely brain damaged. The Believers vs. Me Of course, anyone would have wanted that battle for Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s life&amp;amp;#8212;anyone, perhaps, but me. In a timely but cruel irony, I&amp;amp;#8217;d done extensive research on brain damage for the novel I was working on, All We Know of Heaven. I knew that after just three to five minutes of oxygen deprivation, permanent brain damage can begin. Most experts say after 6 to 10 minutes without oxygen, brain death is likely. Stacey was down at least twice that long. There was no keeping me from the hospital now. Hollow-eyed, thinner than I&amp;amp;#8217;d ever seen him, Mike met me in the waiting room. He made straight for me, and we held each other tight. I asked him to bring me to Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s room. Rounding the door, I expected to see a dead person with her chest still pumping. But instead, she was&amp;amp;#8230;Stacey. Even with a spider&amp;amp;#8217;s web of tubes covering her body, she was my girl. I stroked her hair and bent close to whisper, &amp;amp;#8220;Stace, it&amp;amp;#8217;s Jack! Listen to me!&amp;amp;#8221; And then I let my own prayers storm heaven. I promised to give anything&amp;amp;#8212;my arm, my sight&amp;amp;#8212;if she could come back to us. And when her eyes fluttered open, my heart surged. I was willing, momentarily, to forget the hard facts of her condition and invent a brighter truth. But Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s lake-blue eyes wandered across and away from my face as if I were part of the wall. I put my head down and cried until Mike asked me to leave. Stacey might be upset by the sound of grieving, he told me. In the coming days, as I kept vigil in the waiting room with other friends and family, Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s condition remained stable. She could breathe on her own now and seemed peaceful, but she was in a vegetative state, utterly unresponsive. Nonetheless, the atmosphere outside Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s room went from one of hushed shock and horror to one of rueful cheer, like whistling in the dark. Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s mom told me, &amp;amp;#8220;It&amp;amp;#8217;s going to be fine! I&amp;amp;#8217;ve already met someone who has brain damage and she&amp;amp;#8217;s walking and talking. Even if Stacey isn&amp;amp;#8217;t the same as she was, it will be enough.&amp;amp;#8221; I knew this wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t a wait-and-hope. It was a wait-and-dread. But I bit my tongue. I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be the lone voice of doom in a room filled with people laughing and crying and praying&amp;amp;#8212;using music, photos, songs, touch, everything in their power to try to wake the sleeping beauty. It was too cruel! I tried to believe a miracle could happen, but I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be like the others: The knowledge I had, and wished I did not, divided me from them like a rushing river. Still, I kept my opinions to myself as another close friend of Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s said, &amp;amp;#8220;I wonder what she&amp;amp;#8217;ll say when she wakes up, what she&amp;amp;#8217;ll tell us about where she&amp;amp;#8217;s been.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;I hope it&amp;amp;#8217;s soon,&amp;amp;#8221; someone else added with an almost surreal cheerfulness. &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;ve gained 15 pounds on these cookies!&amp;amp;#8221; Over dozens of visits, I grew more estranged from those who professed to believe Stacey would get better. I listened as doctors explained that Stacey wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t brain dead because her brain stem, which controls elementary functions such as breathing and yawning, had survived. But the cerebral cortex, the part that gives us our personality and our ability to interact with the world, had not. I began to alternately love and hate the sight of the old vacation photographs Mike would leave by her bedside. He was planning the island trip they would take after her &amp;amp;#8220;recovery.&amp;amp;#8221; How could I say what I thought? Mike was so completely loyal and loving to his wife. Twice I cared for Gabi at their house, and my heart squeezed each time she pointed at a photo and said, &amp;amp;#8220;Mommy!&amp;amp;#8221; Soon, however, a rotation was formed for Gabi&amp;amp;#8217;s care, and I wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t part of it. Was it because I was a doubter? As the snow darkened to January slush, brain scan after brain scan showed no improvement. I love Mike. But at last I told him I felt that Stacey would not want to be preserved like a porcelain doll. She had said these exact words to me in her hospital room the night after her cancer surgery, before she and Mike were engaged. Another night during the same period, after a long discussion with me, she chose not to undergo chemo: She was either going to live or die, she said. Now I told Mike, &amp;amp;#8220;I have to say this even if it means you won&amp;amp;#8217;t let me see Gabi anymore.&amp;amp;#8221; With infinite patience, Mike answered, &amp;amp;#8220;Of course I want you to be a part of Gabriela&amp;amp;#8217;s life. You&amp;amp;#8217;re family. And I get the science part. But I can&amp;amp;#8217;t ignore the spirit part. Gabi was meant to be raised under my and Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s wings.&amp;amp;#8221; By February 2007, Stacey had been moved to a nursing home. Friends filled a fishbowl in her room with little slips of paper suggestions for her visitors: &amp;amp;#8220;Tell me a joke&amp;amp;#8221;; &amp;amp;#8220;I can hear you&amp;amp;#8221;; or &amp;amp;#8220;Talk to me about Gabi.&amp;amp;#8221; It was so sweet, but for me, it was a private wound. During my research, many neurologists had explained that a person in Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s state now could not &amp;amp;#8220;hear&amp;amp;#8221; because her brain could not process any sound. So, though I stroked her hair and held her hands, finally, I did most of my talking to her with my heart rather than my voice. But I did sing, to pass the time and on the remote chance that the sound might reach into a corner of her where a candle still burned. She responded no differently than she did when I dropped a book or my keys&amp;amp;#8212;that is, she responded not at all. Around this time, Stacey started having contractures&amp;amp;#8212;her hands and feet permanently turned in on themselves like little claws. &amp;amp;#8220;I know a human hand isn&amp;amp;#8217;t supposed to be that way,&amp;amp;#8221; Mike told me once as we stood by Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s bed. &amp;amp;#8220;I have to believe she doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t feel it.&amp;amp;#8221; As I looked down on that twisted, white form, I thought, How often had I envied Stacey, effortlessly lovely, slim as a leaf? How often had I wished I could be like her&amp;amp;#8212;ineffably understanding, as tolerant as I was judgmental? Why was she suffering now&amp;amp;#8230;and not me? I wanted to run. Instead, I sang to her a Martina McBride song we both loved: &amp;amp;#8220;In my daughter&amp;amp;#8217;s eyes/ I am a hero/ I am strong and wise/ And I know no fear/ But the truth is plain to see/ She was sent to rescue me&amp;amp;#8230;.&amp;amp;#8221; Nurses coming in to care for Stacey stopped when they heard and left us alone. I Walk Away Some months later, as I strode through the dark nursing home parking lot after visiting Stacey, I made my decision: I would never go back. Stacey was in Gabi, and I would love and know Gabi. She was in Mike, and I would be Mike&amp;amp;#8217;s loyal friend at every turn. But Stacey, I knew, would have treated the long duty-hours at the bedside as a cruel waste of life and a mockery of the woman she was. Years before, she hurled back a collection of money devoted friends had taken up to help her pay for cancer treatment. She was fiercely proud then. I chose to believe she was the same now. Having decided this, I sat in my car and sobbed. Last winter, I invited Mike and Gabi for a long, sweet playdate with my children. During that visit, Mike and I had the chance to talk uninterrupted&amp;amp;#8212;one of the first heart-to-heart talks we&amp;amp;#8217;d had since the night of the tragedy. We remembered Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s doting dad, who had just recently passed away. And we discussed Stacey. He told me he still had upbeat days, but they were growing fewer and farther between. &amp;amp;#8220;How long can you go on hoping?&amp;amp;#8221; he asked wistfully. &amp;amp;#8220;Mike,&amp;amp;#8221; I asked, &amp;amp;#8220;do you believe she&amp;amp;#8217;s still&amp;amp;#8230;in there?&amp;amp;#8221; He paused. And then, clearly having thought this over at length, he said, &amp;amp;#8220;I wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t go to see her if I thought I was talking to a bed. And still&amp;amp;#8230;.&amp;amp;#8221; Mike was quiet for a while, and then he said, &amp;amp;#8220;I worry about Gabi. Sometimes I think it would be better, well, if she could say, &amp;amp;#8216;Mommy got sick when I was little and she died&amp;amp;#8230;.&amp;amp;#8217;&amp;amp;#8221; Then Mike told me tearfully that all the same, he couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t let Stacey go&amp;amp;#8212;that he would do so only if she were to become terminally ill with something like cancer. My own tears welled up. The thought that Stacey might live on and on this way, for 10 years, for 20, was unbearable. But again, my best choice was to say nothing. Honoring Stacey I have to admit: I hope Mike will change his mind. Someone in his position has other choices, though they would be hideous in practice. Stacey has already been treated for several infections that may otherwise have killed her. If she gets another one, it could go untreated, and she would die in a sleep of pain-free sedation. If Mike were to take this or another option, I would do everything I could to support him. I would stand by him in the belief that the end would be a sort of peace, not this ugly limbo that never seems to end. Stacey would want that. When my first husband, Dan, decided to stop treating his terminal cancer, Stacey walked that road with me. She stayed with me as his breath slowed and slowed, as he pulled away from life. How could I do less than walk it with her? I would go back and be by Stacey&amp;amp;#8217;s side as she crossed over to the place where, if she&amp;amp;#8217;d had the choice, I believe she surely would have gone nearly three years ago. If there is a heaven, she would be restored to her joyous, quicksilver self. She would run into her father&amp;amp;#8217;s arms, her hair shining, strong and well. If that couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be, at least she would finally sleep. Would I cry? I would cry freely. I would cry an ocean&amp;amp;#8212;not the hard, dry sobs I cry for her now. Either way, I will miss my Stacey every day. I miss her now. I still talk to her. I talk to the picture I keep at my bedside, of her laughing at her wedding. At night, outdoors, I tell her about the frame I bought for Gabi&amp;amp;#8217;s latest picture and about Francie&amp;amp;#8217;s track team. I like to think that my friend&amp;amp;#8217;s bright, expansive spirit has already flown from the silent room where she lies, and that she hears me. And so, I suppose, because Stacey was always the one who saw my best self and rejoiced in it, I talk to her as though she were already my guardian angel. In a sense, she always was. Jacquelyn Mitchard&amp;amp;#8217;s latest novel, No Time to Wave Goodbye (a follow-up to The Deep End of the Ocean "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.glamour.com/magazine/2009/08/life-death-and-what-you-owe-a-friend/3>