Jenny from the Block

I knew Jennifer long before she became a perfectionist. She was all of 16, and though we both were Creek Dawgs, we didn't actually meet at Tates Creek High School. No, our friendship blossomed, like so many of my friendships, in the aisles of Lexington's Toys R Us.

The Way We Were

She and I both feared Jon Connor because of his perpetual serious look in the break room (which was at this point in history a smoker's haven), but while I lacked the confidence to inquire about his furrowed brow, Jen had the innate and innocent curiosity to start a conversation about it. I think it went something like this...

Jen: Why do you always look so mad?

Jon: What?

That confrontation ended up evolving into an odd relationship that left me and Jennifer going to Jon's fraternity basketball game -- which tells you how long ago this was... Jon still had knees -- where we crafted inspirational signage with colorful markers and chewing gum. The phi psis were in awe of our sidelining abilities, I'm certain.

From then on, Jen has been one of my best friends. She's been an inspiration with her courage, a riot with her perspective, a rock with her convictions and a host to beat all hosts. I've visited her everywhere she's lived -- Cincinnati, Chicago, Charlotte, back to Cincinnati -- and would follow her blazing path even if it took her to NoName, Wyoming. No matter the place, no matter how much money you have, time with Jennifer is time well spent.

One wintry day a few years ago, Kate and I made a hungover voyage to Cincinnati to go shopping with Jen. We wandered into Z Gallerie and picked furniture we couldn't afford for lavish houses even less likely. We went into some high end kitchen store to gawk at copper bottomed pots and pastel colored mixers. Wherever we went, Kate and I started picking the "Jen Item" in the store. As long as it was miniature, she was a sucker for it. I'd suspected this for a while before actually realizing it was a quirk of hers. Who else enjoys travel deodorants and single use canisters of shaving cream on white water rafting trips as much as Jen?

Jen and I have showered together, have done tae bo together, have spent afternoons sleeping on couches in front of the television together, have kept each other abreast of the latest celebrity gossip, have watched entire seasons of Friends and ER together, have cooked meals for dozens of people together, have done nude photography projects together. Jen has called me to the carpet when I have spun out of control. She has asked me why I am making changes instead of trying to make me feel guilty for wanting them. She keeps me grounded and holds me accountable without being judgmental or sentimental or afraid. She is as close to a sister to me as someone can possibly be. I've been through so much with Jen, including tolerating her snoring for five years on ski trips, but none of it has ever been bad. Even the last year of Cancer Challenge '05-'06 has been something with Jennifer I will cherish forever.

I found out in July that Jen had cancer. I still don't know what kind it is, since I was too pissed when I found out to care about the details. Was she kidding? I could see someone sloppy getting cancer, but not Jennifer. There is not a more meticulous person in the world. There is not a more health ambitious person than her. If metaphysically speaking your body acts out what your mind won't, what were Jennifer's lymph nodes and bone marrow trying to say? It was all senseless, and if I could have been injected into her body and if my words had the power to kill, that cancer would have been a distant memory before it had the chance to be realized. She was past the angry part by the time she told me, and as soon as the words came out of her mouth, she cried.

I cried. I cursed. I wanted to swallow the cancer for her. I deserved it. I recklessly fornicated. I drank too much and smoked too much. I was selfish and had wavering faith. I overate and was financially irresponsible and went days on end without bathing. Cancer should live in toxic people with shady hearts, not clean, pure people like Jen. When she told me she had to think about egg donation and losing her fertility and chemo and surgery and hair loss and dying, I let fucks fly out of my mouth more than usual. I offered her anything I could give her -- my womb, my lymph nodes, my bone marrow, my hair -- but none of that made any of her burden mine. She only cried that one time on the phone with me, and since that day, I wouldn't be able to tell she was going through chemo or had cancer if I didn't know. The only sign of sickness at her apartment is this poem hanging on the fridge:

WHAT CANCER CANNOT DO
Cancer is so limited.

It cannot cripple love.
It cannot shatter hope.
It cannot corrode faith.
It cannot destroy peace.
It cannot kill friendship.
It cannot suppress memories.
It cannot silence courage.
It cannot invade the soul.
It cannot steal eternal life.
It cannot conquer the spirit.

I've heard life will only give you what it knows you can take. I never doubted Jennifer would rise to the occasion with whatever life handed her. What I didn't realize was how she would be able to do it with such grace and serenity, with such selflessness and interest, so completely. Jen has become an even better person since having her disease diagnosed, and in doing so, has dragged me along. She has reminded me of what's really important and shown by example that life is meant to be lived. Even while going through chemo, Jen has come to my Halloween party, has kept up with her Wildcats, has organized dinners with her friends, has performed in videos, has done her brother's taxes, has started to plan summer trips for her friends, has bought a house and has been dating. She has crammed more life into the last six months than I've seen other people cram into the last six years.

Jen's new home. Of course, it has a guest room...

Jen is on her last chemo treatment. When she started in October, they hoped she'd get through six but admitted she'd do well to get through four. She's had needles shoved into her bones and a port installed in her chest. Her neck has swollen to twice its size and back, and she has a new vocabulary featuring the names of medicines I haven't even seen commercials for. She has kept her hair, kept going to work and kept a smile on her face. The only time I saw her grimace when I went with her to the doctor's office on Monday was when the nurse shoved a ballpoint pen-sized needle through her skin into her port. She didn't squirm as blood squirted from her body and entered a small test tube, and she actually tried to talk the doctor into giving her chemo even though her platelets were borderline low and she was sedating a sinus infection. She was braver than I expected her to be, excited to tell me about her blood results and how the machines worked. I saw just the beginning of what she's been going through each month for the last six months, I saw the nurses smile when she walked in the office before they realized Jen was bringing them flowers, I saw the doctor impressed by her questions and reassured by her commitment to the fight. I'd been in awe of her before, but never like I was that day.

Jennifer's Friendly New Parasite, "The Port"

Yes, Jen Can Interpret This Information

Jen's Version of a Permanent Record

Jen will finish her last chemo treatment, will have a bone marrow transplant, will take weekly injections, will do whatever it takes, and I will never know how she does it with such a positive attitude. If you ask her, she'll say, "I do it because I have to. I can do it with a bad attitude or a good one, but a good one lets me smile more."

That's just Jen for you. My god, I am so lucky.

Thanks to these people and all of Jen's family for letting us keep our JMil.