The Importance of Friendships
DEBORAH
Your Husband Can’t Be Your End-All
Michelle Obama is an impressive, powerful woman, but she also comes off as the kind of woman you’d like to have as one of your girlfriends. Maybe that explains her widespread popularity. I first interviewed her a few months before the 2008 election, and I admired her intelligence and candor. A few years later, I was deeply inspired by something she said in another interview: “Your husband cannot be your be-all and end-all.” Early in his career, Mrs. Obama was frustrated by her husband’s frequent absences as he worked tirelessly as a community organizer. Often she found herself at home with the kids, feeling resentful and angry. It’s a common scenario many women can relate to these days. But Michelle Obama didn’t remain angry and upset; she discovered something that I now understand too: the value and the rescuing power of friendships with her girlfriends. Every word Michelle Obama spoke about the importance of female friendships resonated deep within me, as I knew what she said was true.
In the beginning of a romantic relationship, it can feel like this other person is the sun, the moon and the stars and that you’ll never again need anyone else. Like most couples, Al and I were best friends bonded by that powerful biological attraction that early love brings. But, of course, after years of marriage and the draining power of that other biological wonder called children, the single-minded intensity of our relationship waned. He doesn’t understand why I keep droning on and on about someone who annoyed me or why I sometimes feel irritable instead of sexy after the kids finally go to bed and I discovered one of them jammed a DVD into my computer and deleted all of my phone contacts “by accident.” At those moments all I want to do is pass out . . . or simply vent. The last thing I want is sex. That’s a situation where those estrogen alliances come in real handy! There are feelings women share that men simply don’t have the capacity or the interest to understand.
As much as we love each other, Al and I are indeed from Mars and Venus. He can’t understand why I like to talk late into the evening or maybe into the next day about someone who insulted me or grated on my nerves.
“Either tell them about themselves or move on,” he says.
After we’ve watched a particularly disturbing or provocative movie, I want to discuss it more before bed. Was the ballerina imagining all those crazy acts in Black Swan or did they really happen? Why did the The Help strike such a chord and make its way to the Oscars?
Al is happy to discuss these things for a bit, but then he wants to move on to other things.
“Why beat a dead horse?” he wants to know.
For me, that’s where close girlfriends come in.
Like me, most of my female friends want to talk about who and what is bothering us. Yes, we want to resolve a situation and trade advice on how to handle it, but we also want to lay out our feelings about whatever it is and then discuss the implications.
My friend Agenia and I can talk for an hour about a fight we had with our husbands and why they are wrong, or how a colleague just drives us crazy. When we hang up the phone, both of us feel heard and validated in ways that our men simply can’t seem to understand or have the patience for. Rather than get annoyed by Al’s lack of understanding for these types of things, I’ve learned to save certain topics for a female friend, to be shared over a cup of coffee—or better yet, a glass of wine.
I am fortunate to have an amazing “sisterhood” of women in my life, Robin Roberts among them. Robin and I not only have a last name in common, but we also share a deep commitment to family and spirituality. Over the years she has been a treasured friend I can always depend on for kinship and great career advice in our famously high-pressured, competitive work environment. Every few months Robin and I get together with our friends Gayle, Tonya and Theresa for a soul-nurturing lunch to talk about our joys and struggles and anything else that may pop up! We all agree that we walk around beaming for days after our afternoon get-togethers. We’re always the first to offer shout-outs when one of us has received an award or support when someone has an ailing family member. Second to my sisters, these friends are among the most important women in my life. Whether face-to-face or courtesy of Verizon, a girlfriend powwow can be as restorative as a therapy appointment. One of my oldest and dearest friends lives in South Carolina, but we have wonderful phone dates. With glasses of chardonnay in hand, we laugh or cry for an hour or so until we both feel we can face another day with our sanity fully intact.
Simply being heard by a woman who knows exactly what it’s like to have a husband forget to pick up the laundry or leave a smelly banana peel next to the computer overnight is like balm for an aching soul. Every other morning I find myself on the phone with Agenia, my dearest friend of thirty years. Usually, sometime around eight a.m. (seven a.m. her time), we begin the conversation with a hearty “Are you ready for this?” Within ten minutes we are cracking each other up over the ridiculousness we both deal with on a regular basis. A mom and a CEO of a national organization, she understands my stresses, and she knows how to tell me what’s worth sweating over and what’s not. And most important, she knows when to just listen.
Most men simply don’t get the point of long, emotional exchanges, and trying to engage them just ends up in frustration. Though we’ve been together for twenty years, Al simply doesn’t understand why I obsessively talk about something that is bothering me. If we have had a fight and made up, he feels like it’s settled and done, and I feel like I still want to explain how I felt. I mean, why not clear the air over and over . . . and over? That’s why talking with my female friends often feels lifesaving.
What works great one-on-one can also work wonders in a group. Besides my lunch gal pals, I have a core group of close women friends in New York—Marva, Judy, Jonelle, Angela, Dale, Yolanda and Tawana—and we loosely call ourselves a “book club” because we initially bonded at a dinner discussing the bestselling book The Help. I loved the book, but there was so much I wanted to talk about with others who had read it. The story of oppression and dashed dreams resonated with me because my grandmother and mother had both worked as maids at one point in their lives.
When I was done reading the book, I was grateful to have a place to process my roller-coaster emotions and the many questions I had about the author. Did a white author have the right to tell this story? Did she capture their struggles? Did she stereotype? As a journalist, I was fascinated by the story, but as a Southern black woman, I was intrigued by other people’s take on it. Everywhere I went, from cocktail parties to the set of Good Morning America, people had been talking about this book. (In fact, it was Charlie Gibson who recommended that I read it.)
The night our “book club” was born, we opened a bottle of wine and talked about The Help, but we also delved into one another’s stories. I talked about growing up in the South. One friend spoke of losing a child to SIDS, sudden infant death syndrome. Another talked about growing up black and middle-class in Oklahoma in the 1960s after unexpectedly losing her father, and her mother bravely going forward as a single mom. Everyone willingly peeled away the layers we all hide behind in our otherwise busy daily lives and made ourselves bare. We shared tears and laughter, and it was a rare moment for each of us. We felt safe enough to be vulnerable. With no particular expectations going into the evening, we discovered a sense of connectedness in a way that only girlfriends can truly understand. It was almost like a religious experience of sisterhood.
We whooped it up and hollered until midnight, when our host’s husband came out and gave everyone that certain “look” that meant it was time for us to go home. I hadn’t felt that way since my sleepover days in high school, when my best friend’s father used to tell us to hush up and go to bed!
That night I realized once again the power of female friendships. I came away thinking about my childhood and examining feelings that I had once thought belonged only to me.
Sisterhood has always been healing to me. Talking to my friends helped me to realize that I’m not alone in the pain I’ve carried over the years due to colorism in the black community. When I disclosed my insecurity about growing up as a dark-skinned girl and feeling unattractive, it was my female friends who understood and made me feel beautiful. It has been liberating to share experiences with other women because it has helped free me from burdens I’ve long carried. I am a better partner, mom and friend because of my deep female friendships.
I really want to share with my daughter, Leila, this lesson about the importance of girlfriends. I want her to see that gift at work in my life.
When she sees me with a few female friends in the kitchen or hears my loud, syrupy “Gurlll . . . let me tell you!” on the phone, she may roll her eyes, but then she smiles, knowing I’m connecting with someone I feel close to. She’s happily come along to a musical revue featuring my friend Pauletta, an actress and singer who’s reclaiming her career after stepping back for years to raise her children.
Leila’s even becoming “one of the girls,” once coming to lunch with Robin and me. She’s always adored Robin, and Robin, like so many of my “sisters,” embraces Leila, encouraging her endeavors and interests. I hope Leila learns that as much as we love our guys, there’s something special about women in her life. Isadora James said, “A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life.” There’s nothing quite like the wisdom and power of the lifelong friendship of women. Amen to that.
AL
The Value of Friendship
I’ve always been the kind of husband who encourages my wife to take time with her girlfriends. I appreciate it and I understand it’s what she needs. Even though I am around a lot of people on a daily basis, the truth is, I’m not terribly social. I prefer being with my family and a small handful of people I enjoy spending time with over groups of people I barely know and have no interest in getting to know better. I have a couple of close buddies, but for the most part, I’d much rather be with my wife and kids or alone.
It’s one of the reasons I resent Facebook. All these contacts are called your “friends”? Um, no. Some may happen to be friends, but for the most part they are total strangers and will most likely remain that way.
Though I don’t need people around me all the time, I have a great appreciation for someone who knows you and just lets you say your crazy stuff without judging. I confide in my wife, and a sibling or two, although even then, I’m guilty of not always sharing with them. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve picked up the phone to hear a complaint from a not-so-happy wife, offspring or sibling who read about an interview or something else I’m doing in the paper or online. Mea culpa. I know I need to share more.
But even I have times I need to unload to someone who isn’t going to take it personally or be offended by what I say or how I feel—someone outside the family, like a close buddy. When you have that kind of friend, you almost instantly feel better once you get things off your chest, and if you don’t, that good friend, with a clear head and a terrific sense of humor, can usually talk you off the ledge. I consider that an invaluable friend to have—someone who can cut through the clutter and help you find your way.
My buddy Jon Harris has been one of those guys for me.
Jon is the type of person you feel like you’ve known your whole life a few minutes after meeting him. He has the gift of gab and an insatiable thirst for knowing people. He’s a combination good-time Charlie and the Wedding Singer. He’s half Jewish and half Irish. I call him the world’s tallest Yiddish leprechaun!
I’ve known Jon for at least twenty years. He is the king of global communications. When we first met back in the early nineties, he was working for Pepsi. Then he went to an Internet start-up, fitness powerhouse Bally’s, and finally Hillshire Brands, the international food company, where he was responsible for touting (and tasting) everything from Sara Lee pound cake to Jimmy Dean sausage, which proved problematic, given his family history and his love of food.
His dad died very young from a heart attack; Jon, the father of three young kids, knew he needed to make some changes in his life so he didn’t end up the same way. I never really thought of him as heavy, but he lost forty pounds and got into terrific shape. After that he turned me on to his nutritionist, Melissa Bowman Li, who helped me lose weight after my gastric bypass surgery. Ever since, Jon and I have shared both our love of food and our struggle to stay fit. We have a great camaraderie, and Jon has been a constant reminder of the power of a positive attitude. He has moments of doubt, as we all do, but he has such a deep-seated optimism that won’t allow him to feel defeated, no matter how hard life gets sometimes. He genuinely lets stuff roll off his back, which I admire because I have a tendency to absorb my feelings, whether I show my emotions or not. It may be effective in the short term, but boy, does it catch up to me. The pressure builds up, and eventually, the tiniest thing will push me over the edge. And when that happens, believe me, it isn’t pretty. Just ask Deborah and the kids. Jon’s example is really helping me in my efforts to change that.
One of the ways I think I help Jon is being his “No” coach. Jon is a people pleaser; whether it’s family, friends or colleagues, if it’s humanly possible, Jon wants to say yes to the many requests that come over his transom and land on his desk. The problem is, he can’t possibly do all the things people want him to do, so he’s stressed and exhausted by the end of the day.
That’s where I come in! I’ve learned the cathartic and transformative power of those two letters N-O. Unless it’s a “must do” for work or a “need to” for your kids, most of the things we get asked to do can be dealt with by saying no. Nicely but firmly. Doesn’t need an explanation or an apology. Just a simple no. You will be amazed at how much clearer and focused life is when you use that word. Forget about “please” being the magic word. It’s “no.”
And so when Jon and I talk, he will often run through his calendar and we prune away the requests so that he can focus, laserlike, on the things that really mean something to him and to the people he loves.
One evening we talked forty minutes, taking a Weedwacker to all the requests Jon had by saying no. It was thrilling to look at Jon’s iPhone calendar and see days upon days with almost no blocks of color clogging up the screen.
Jon and I may not speak every day, but I know he is there for me and he knows I am always there for him. When it comes to real friendship, that’s the bottom line—and I believe that meaningful solidarity among his peers is what my father cherished the most.
In my professional life, there have been a few men I’ve met along the way who have reminded me of my dad. It’s pretty well-known that NBC’s Willard Scott has long been a mentor and second dad to me. In the last few years, another father figure has come into my professional and personal life, Vice President Joseph Biden. To me, he is a politician in the very best sense of the word, meaning someone who isn’t afraid to mingle with the people; someone who values loyalty, commitment and your word being your bond. Values too often forgotten today.
The first time I met him, at the second inaugural parade, I was immediately taken by his warmth and generosity. He said hello, treating me like an old friend, not a lowly weatherman standing on the sidelines, aggressively waving him down for a network scoop. He’s the kind of guy who, if he were your local councilman, would get that pesky pothole fixed!
Vice President Biden and I have had the opportunity to get to know each other a bit since the parade. I’ve attended his annual Christmas party a few times, and he took part in an extended interview with Willie Geist, Tamron Hall, Natalie Morales and me. We’ve gotten friendly—as friendly as one can be with the Vice President of the United States!—and I truly admire the guy.
When I was covering the floods last year in Boulder, Colorado, I was so impressed by the way the vice president talked to people, from the locals who were displaced to the state and city politicians, Democrats and Republicans, who had to deal with the damage. I could see he was genuinely worried about what these people were going through and how they were being affected. He shook hands, reached out and hugged those who needed it and was there to offer whatever support he could. That means a lot, especially when you have just lost your home. He was more like an uncle than a polarizing politician. You can just tell that he cares about the American people, loves what he is doing and believes he can make a difference. That is such a rare gift these days, especially in our “what-are-the-polls-saying” and “friend-me” society. At least it feels that way to me.
The vice president graciously granted me an interview in Boulder, and at the end of our walk and talk, we wound up in front of Air Force Two. He turned to me and said, “I don’t know which way you’re going, but I’d be happy to give you a lift as far as Andrews Air Force Base.”
I thought he was joking.
My producer looked at me and said, “You are going, aren’t you?”
“But what about my things back at the hotel?” I wondered.
“Forget your stuff! I’ll take care of it!” my producer said. “The vice president just invited you to fly back on Air Force Two with him! You’ve got to say yes, Al!”
Of course, I knew he was right, so I turned and made my way up the steps of the vice president’s plane.
It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.
As a weatherman, I don’t get a lot of opportunities to travel with politicians like some journalists, so I didn’t know what to expect. I found myself with a couple of other members of the press, the vice president’s staff, Secret Service agents, a full complement of medical professionals, and navy stewards, who were on board to prepare and serve meals.
As we took off, it sank in that I was on board the second-most powerful plane in the world—as a guest of the Vice President of the United States.
Yeah, I felt pretty cool.
Shortly after takeoff, I was summoned to the vice president’s office on board the plane.
“How ya doin’, Al?” he said.
We sat in his office and chatted about family, kids, weight and life.
It was all so . . . normal. As if I were with an old friend.
When we were done, I went back to my seat.
About twenty minutes before we landed, the copilot asked me if I would like to sit in the cockpit for the approach into Andrews Air Force Base.
Just as I was heading forward, the vice president stuck his head out his office door and said, “If I knew this guy was going to be so much trouble, I would never have invited him on board! Way to go, pal. You’re a good man!” He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.
When we landed, the vice president and I shook hands and did that “guy hug” before he deplaned, got into his waiting car and drove off.
I’m not sure why he invited me on the plane that day, but it was the beginning of a deeper friendship that I didn’t expect or see coming. Sometimes in life, the unexpected twists are the best and most precious.
A few months later I had rotator cuff surgery I’d been putting off. A day after I got home, my phone rang. I really wasn’t feeling well enough to speak to anyone, but the odd caller ID made me curious enough to pick up.
“Hey, Al. Vice President Biden calling. How ya doing?”
“Vice President Biden!” I said. I will freely admit I was stunned. “I’m fine.”
“Listen, Mrs. Biden had something like that, and you have to do what the doctors tell you to do, okay?”
“I always do what the doctors say. I’m a good patient,” I assured him.
“Listen, pal, anything you need, you just give me a call . . .”
That phone call, and the ones since, such as for my sixtieth birthday, have meant the world to me.
Are we best buds?
No!
But it’s sure nice to know there is someone who values our relationship. I know I do. And I know my dad must be smiling.
I think about Dad every single day, wondering what he would do or say about something. I think about how proud he would be of Leila, Nicky and Courtney, and I smile because I know deep in my heart that he has to be looking down on our family with a great sense of joy.
And now, more than ever, I appreciate what he got from his friends.
DEBORAH
Losing My Best Friend
The end of life is not easy to contemplate. But, at the risk of sounding maudlin, I do consider it from time to time. I’ve lost so many relatives and friends in recent years. Some, like my grade-school friend Mattie, died too soon of illness, and others, like my aunt Annie, lived a long and incredible life. Big Annie, as she was known, was my daddy’s older sister and the matriarch of his family and died at the age of 103. What a blessed life. After hearing of someone’s death, Big Annie often asked, “Why her and not me?” It may sound strange to some, but we all laughed. A sweet woman with a warm smile, Big Annie was secure in her Christian faith and ready to go home to God. Death was a welcome passage for her when it finally came.
Big Annie’s death was filled with the grace of God’s love, and her funeral was a celebration of a life well lived. And we were prepared for it. I wasn’t prepared to lose my oldest friend.
Denise Ingram was my best friend in the world. We met in the first grade at the segregated Houston County Training School and became inseparable. Both of us were dark-skinned and wore our hair in pigtails with colorful bows, and of course, both of our names started with the letter D. People often confused us because we looked so much alike. Only when I got glasses in the third grade did teachers seem to know who was who, and eventually I went out for cheerleading while Denise excelled in chorus.
I called Denise so often that I can still recite her phone number to this very day. Remember, this was long before cell phones and texting; we actually talked to each other on the phone, sometimes late into the night, gabbing about which boy we liked or didn’t like, whether the Three Degrees would appear on Friday night’s Wolfman Jack Show or whether arm-toning exercises really help make your breasts perky. We traded beauty tips—it was Denise who advised me to use my ring finger to apply eye cream because it’s a weaker finger and easier on the delicate skin. Denise and I talked about everything and sometimes nothing at all.
Her parents were younger than mine and college-educated. Mr. Ingram was a teacher at Perry High School, and Mrs. Ingram was a school secretary, which meant that Denise grew up solidly middle-class, unlike my working-class family. Denise lived in the Creekwood subdivision, a new development across town, where higher-earning black families in Perry built two-story homes and had a neighborhood swimming pool. In my neighborhood, Old Field, the homes were smaller and rather simple. Most of my neighbors worked as cooks or construction laborers or in nearby factories. From the outside looking in, Denise was more likely destined for success. Her relatives, parents and neighbors were primarily professionals and most of mine were not. But our lives took different turns after high school.
By senior year I had developed a strong sense of my ambitions. I had big dreams to go to the University of Georgia, to work in television and maybe one day move to a major city like Chicago or New York. Some of my classmates thought I was pretty cocky. Denise was shyer than I was and, although smart and talented, was less certain about her plans. She chose a slightly smaller college with a little less prestige just south of Perry.
Once we went our separate ways, Denise and I didn’t talk as much. For the first time in years, hers wasn’t the first number I called when I had a problem. I suppose it happens to so many of us after high school, as we venture out into the wider world. But we stayed in touch and saw each other during holidays and summers. Eventually I moved out of Georgia, and after getting her degree in marketing, Denise worked in Washington for a congressman. Later, she landed a staff position at the Social Security Administration and a few other government agencies but never seemed to have a fire in her belly about her work.
Whenever an assignment brought me to Washington, we’d get together, but we definitely weren’t as close as we had once been. Still, I always felt like we remained best friends forever.
Then one fall, when we would both celebrate our thirty-third birthdays, Denise gave me some disconcerting news. She had always been a gifted singer, but she was no longer able to sing at weddings or in the church choir because she had sarcoidosis, an autoimmune disease. In Denise’s case it was attacking her lungs and causing emphysema-like symptoms.
Eventually she decided to follow her doctor’s advice to seek a warmer climate, which might make her feel better. But her condition worsened, and a few years later she moved back to Perry, into her old bedroom at her parents’ house—something no adult child wants to do unless they have to.
By this time Denise and I were in our forties. She had once been filled with such joy and love for music. She even sang “The Lord’s Prayer” at our wedding, bringing Al and me to tears. But a debilitating disease was robbing my childhood pal of her passion and most everything else she loved too. Whenever I came home to see Mom and Dad, I made it a point to call and invite myself over. Sometimes Denise would wave me off, saying she hadn’t gotten dressed or was too tired for a visitor. She had become more and more reclusive because her illness was tough to bear. Mrs. Ingram loved it when I persisted and pushed my way in for a visit anyway. She would give me a secret wink whenever I sat next to Denise on the sofa, watching TV or regaling her with stories about my travels.
I loved Denise so much, and I encouraged her to seek out the best medical care, possibly a lung transplant. But she was reluctant on all fronts. She felt uncomfortable about taking risks, even if it might possibly save her life. She prayed for healing but was at peace with whatever the future would bring. But I was frustrated because I was convinced that Denise felt defeated by her disease. Much to the dismay of her parents and brother and sister, she wasn’t interested in a long, brave fight.
Each time I came home to Perry, I would call and try to see Denise for a cheer-up visit. She became very thin, and her breathing was labored. It pained me to see her so weak and diminished. The sicker Denise got, the less she wanted people to see her in such a fragile state. By now Denise rarely went out in public, fearing germs and looks of pity over her frail condition. I pleaded with her to go to a movie with me or, even better, to visit me in New York. I assured her that I had seen people all over New York City eating in the finest restaurants carrying a little oxygen tank and bag. “It’s the must-have fashion accessory of the season!” I’d say, trying to bring a little levity to the situation, with the hope of lifting her spirits. It didn’t work. Even so, I insisted on seeing her whenever I was in Perry, if only to sit with her and reminisce, tell stories and be together for a few hours.
“You really think you can avoid me?” I’d ask. “Well, it’s not going to work! I am going to be right here for you, because I am your friend and I am going to be here and help you get through this,” I’d say.
If she wasn’t going to fight for herself, I’d fight for her. I’d be her cheerleader. That’s what best friends are for!
Then one day I got that call.
That same dreaded one I got when my dad was dying.
This time, however, I would catch the next plane. Denise was in intensive care at a Florida hospital that specializes in autoimmune diseases.
Something inside told me that I needed to be there. Denise needed another voice there to tell her not to give up.
At first I convinced myself that this would be like any other visit, that I would see Denise and cheer her up. When I got to the hospital, her brother, Hervia, quickly shattered that fantasy. With a stricken face, he pulled me aside in the lobby and cautioned me that I needed to be strong. He warned me that his sister was unconscious and that I should prepare myself before going into the room.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, so I took a deep breath and walked through the door. Denise was lying in bed, as if she were asleep. She had a slack mouth and a frozen, almost scared expression on her face. There were tubes running down her throat and wires connecting her to an oxygen machine and a heart-rate monitor. It took my breath away to see my friend like this—so frail and fragile.
Mrs. Ingram was asleep on the sofa, and I didn’t want to wake her.
I took Denise’s hand and held it tight. And I could’ve sworn she squeezed my hand back.
When her mother awoke, she explained that the doctors had induced a light comatose state so Denise could get some respite from the constant coughing. Her body needed a rest. Mrs. Ingram spoke quietly and confidently about her daughter coming home. I wanted to share her hopes, but I feared that Denise was in a fight for her life. Even so, I had no idea this would be our last visit.
With the beeps of the heart monitor and other machines purring in the background, I talked to Denise, rubbed her head, and smoothed back her hair with my brush. My mind was flooded with memories of our blissful childhood and happy times together. I struggled to hold back my tears, keeping things light, hoping that somewhere deep inside, Denise sensed my presence. With the ventilator pumping oxygen into her, she lay still and peaceful, a knitted blanket draped over her thin legs. My heart was cracking. I stayed for a couple of hours, until the nurses said visiting hours were over.
I had taken a hotel room on the grounds of the hospital so I would be close just in case anything happened. Emotionally drained and physically exhausted, I walked through the darkness and into my hotel feeling anxious and eager for a hot shower and a bed. I was slipping into my nightgown when the phone suddenly rang. Hervia was on the line and said I should come over—right away.
“It’s not good,” he said.
I threw on my sweats and a T-shirt and dashed back to the hospital and straight up to Denise’s room. Mr. and Mrs. Ingram looked stricken as the doctor told them gently that they should consider disconnecting the life support to see if Denise could breathe on her own. Denise had asked long ago not to be left on life support. The Ingrams tried to remain hopeful, but somehow I knew what the outcome would be.
My heart was in my throat.
I couldn’t speak—and worse, I felt out of place, like an intruder in a private family meeting. But at the same time I also felt privileged to be part of the family during this critical moment.
I will never forget that night for as long as I live.
Holding my breath, I stepped back from Denise’s bed and watched the doctor disconnect the breathing tube.
We all held hands and took a deep, nervous breath. Mrs. Ingram, a deeply religious woman, began to pray for her daughter in a tiny voice, pleading, “Dear God, lift her up and give her strength.” We watched the monitor as her heart rate slowed. Mrs. Ingram gently reached for the heirloom blanket at the foot of her bed and placed it across her body.
Seconds later, the machine went flatline.
My friend was gone.
Mrs. Ingram softly wept and gently kissed her daughter. She stared at her for a long time, then finally stepped into the hallway, where she let out a plaintive howl, the kind of heart-stopping cry a mother makes after losing a child. She had held it together for so long, but now that her first baby was gone, she had to let it out.
I just stood frozen in disbelief, tears running down my cheeks, feeling almost out of body. I grabbed Denise’s still warm hands and bent over to kiss her. “Good-bye, my precious friend,” I whispered. I turned to her brother and hugged him tightly.
“Thank you for being here,” he said as he placed his arms around my shoulders. “It meant a lot to us, and I know it meant a lot to Denise.”
Denise will always hold the place as my best friend in life. Although she pushed me away toward the end, I know she held on to our bond as tightly as I did. I understand that it must’ve been painful to face her loved ones when she was losing her grip. She no doubt wanted to make the difficult decision to move on without causing me pain. But I also believe that she wanted me with her once she was on her way. I often think how strange it was that Denise held on until I arrived, then passed away just hours later. In my heart I truly believe that she waited for me, just as we had waited for each other at school or on the phone so many times when we were growing up. My childhood twin allowed me to be at her side as she made her final journey from this life.
As tragic as it was to lose Denise, to watch her die so young, I’m thankful she was surrounded by the people she loved and that I was able to see her out of the world. God had cradled her and taken her away. Although it was heartbreaking, I cherish my memory of being at Denise’s bedside as a reminder of the power of friendship. Whether old, battered or strained, true friendship never dies.
My best friend—my childhood double—was gone. I never expected to say good-bye to her so soon, and I certainly never thought I’d witness her walk into the arms of God.
Though I wanted her to fight, Denise clearly knew how much she could bear. A strong-willed woman of deep, unshakable faith, she had grown weary in her struggle to live. I think she knew it was time to surrender and find her final peace.
A few days later, when I spoke at Denise’s funeral, I realized that it was her birthday. “How ironic to say good-bye to my friend on the same day she was brought into this world,” I thought. I guess that is the true circle of life.
I always imagined that we would grow old together, calling each other up, laughing and gossiping about our lives. But God had another plan.
A year after Denise passed, her mother reached out to me during one of my visits back home. She said, “Deborah, if you could come by the house, I have something I’d like to give you.”
Truth be told, it had been hard for me to stay in touch with her since Denise’s death. It was just so painful, and I missed my friend very much. But when I got her message, of course I stopped in for a visit.
Mrs. Ingram had finally gone through Denise’s things and had come across some wrapped presents. One had my name on it.
It took me a minute to open it. My hands trembled as I bore the paper away.
I opened a small box to find a white ceramic cross decorated with magnolias and dogwoods. The card read, simply, To my friend Deborah.
As I held the cross in my hands, tears fell from my eyes. It was as if Denise and I were together again. In this bittersweet moment I felt the meaning of true friendship. No matter how near or far, we will always be connected in each other’s hearts. When I tell this story to my children, I want them to understand the meaning of the expression “friends to the end.”
AL
The World’s Greatest Puppy!
I am going on record that I did not want a dog. Not that I am antidog. I had a dog from the time I was ten years old until well into my thirties. But a couple of things happened.
1. I moved to Manhattan. The thought of following behind an animal, bending down and picking up its poop was not the way I wanted to spend my evenings.
2. With children who were past the point of poopy diapers, who could dress and feed themselves, why would I bring what amounts to a perennial two-year-old into my home?
3. I developed an allergy to dog hair late in life. And Nicky and Leila are allergic as well.
Of course, as the kids got older, they saw the cute little Yorkies, pugs and Labs walking around Manhattan, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I would hear, “Daaaaad! Can we have a dog? Pleeeeeaase?” accompanied by a look not unlike the kids in those paintings with the huge eyes and the little pouty lower lip.
When that day finally came, they trotted out all the reasons why they should have a dog: companionship, responsibility, an antidote for loneliness; all their friends have a dog—why not us? We’re old enough. We’ll take it out, we’ll walk it, clean up after it. Pleeeeasseee? This despite the fact that Nicky was actually afraid of dogs! He was following his sister’s lead.
These children think their mother and I were dropped on this planet, fully formed, without having run the same scams, arguments and promises on our parents.
Who are you kidding?
My brothers and sisters and I had used the exact same arguments. And this was at a time when your dog didn’t live in your house. In my neighborhood, unless there was bad weather, your dog stayed outside. It didn’t eat gourmet dog food; it had table scraps. And sadly, if your pooch got sick, the vet told you when it was time to say good-bye. There were no diagnoses of cancer, kidney disease or arthritis. No vet in my time or neighborhood would think to suggest chemo, dialysis or hip replacement.
When you took your dog for a walk, it pooped and you left it there as long as it wasn’t on someone’s lawn.
I steadfastly refused to even think about getting a dog until Nicky and Leila were old enough to take said dog outside by themselves and walk same said dog and pick up its poop and deposit said poop in the corner trash receptacle.
End of story.
By early 2012, though, the cacophony had grown to an incessant drone. Deborah and I talked about it and decided they were old enough to help take care of a dog. Friends suggested we have the kids sign a contract accepting their responsibility.
Are you kidding?
Major League Baseball players break multimillion-dollar contracts more often than you and I change underwear. Do you really think some unenforceable pact is going to keep the kids walking the dog or cleaning up after it?
And what if they don’t?
Are we really giving the dog back?
Not likely, so scratch the contract idea.
But we hatched a plan.
Leila was already researching the breed of dog she thought might be perfect for our family. I told them I would talk to Jill Rappaport, our Today show animal advocate. We insisted on a rescue or shelter dog, and Jill is the best at hooking people up with the right rescue/shelter folks. When I called Jill, she was ecstatic. She said to give her some time, but she would find the right dog for our family.
We all had our wish list. The kids wanted a puppy, they wanted it to be a girl, and they wanted something small and hypoallergenic, obviously, and it had to be the world’s greatest puppy! Okay, I added that part, but I figure, since we’re putting in our order . . .
Week after week, the kids were on me. “When is the puppy coming?”
About six weeks went by and then came the call we’d all been waiting for. Jill wanted to know if we would be available to meet with Bill Smith, director of a well-known animal-rescue shelter, at the end of the week. He had a puppy he’d like us to meet.
I must admit, I was suddenly nervous. This was a big, honkin’ deal. Once this happened, there was no going back.
Plus, I started doing the math.
Both Leila and Nicky would be out of the house at college in eight years. Deborah would be stuck with an incontinent, irascible poop machine that would most likely be a flatulence factory. And then there would be the dog.
Under a cone of silence, Deborah and I planned the meeting for the early afternoon before the kids got home from school. This way, if things didn’t go well, no harm, no foul. They’d be none the wiser. (I always feel that when you say that, you have to twiddle your tie and look into the camera like Oliver Hardy.)
Jill and Bill showed up to our home and brought in not one but two crates. As soon as we met I could see that Bill was a man of incredible dedication to rescuing dogs and finding good homes for them. He has a kind demeanor and gentle manner, but I could see him as a staunch defender of these animals.
“GAME ON!” I thought.
We decided to meet a future member of our family in the backyard. Bill left the crates inside the door, reaching into one and walking out back with us. There in his hand was a beautiful light brown ball of fluff. We all sat down on the stone patio, and he let this little guy down on the ground. The puppy looked around curiously, and he was so very cute that I could see falling in love with him. He seemed easygoing and chill; this guy would clearly fit into our home, I thought.
Then Bill brought out the inhabitant of the other crate. He set this one down, and suddenly a black bundle of energy started sniffing and licking and kissing me and Deb. A Havanese mix, she was peppered with white around her chest and her feet and had a wonderful personality. She had been rescued from a Pennsylvania puppy mill, where she would have spent four or five years breeding before meeting a grisly death. You could tell right away this puppy had charisma and a tremendous intelligence that radiated from her core. Can you tell I was smitten from the start?
Just at that moment, Nicky came home from school. He walked into the backyard and came to a halt, his eyes wide and his mouth open.
Among some of Nicky’s issues, he had a fear of dogs. It didn’t matter the size, the temperament or the gender. If we were walking on the street and he saw a dog, he would place me between himself and the offending dog.
This was going to be interesting.
The first pup had snuggled into Deborah’s lap and fallen asleep.
The second puppy trotted right over to Nicky, who amazingly and fearlessly dropped down onto the patio, where this newcomer climbed right into his lap and started licking him!
And he let her!
Then he started kissing her.
Deborah and I looked at each other.
And . . . we had a winner!
Any pup that conquered Nicky’s fear was destined to be our dog.
This little girl chose us.
We felt bad that the other pup would go home without being adopted, but Bill assured us that this little guy would have no problem finding a home. He said that although the light brown lad with the sleepy eyes was originally his first choice, he felt in his gut that this black-and-white beauty belonged with us.
With Bill’s help, we concocted a cover story about “watching” the puppy while she got ready to be on the Today show, in case it didn’t go well with the puppy, but that immediately went out the window as this little one was quickly burrowing into the fabric of our lives. Leila, too, had fallen under the new pup’s spell.
Some things are just meant to be.
Of course, the next question became, “What do we call her?”
Deborah wanted to call her Sugar, as an homage to her Southern roots—“sugar” being a term of endearment.
Leila came up with Pepper, since she was mostly black with a little white thrown in—Salt-’n’-Pepper.
And it stuck.
Over the weeks and months that followed, Pepper quickly became house-trained. She also quickly became Deborah’s third child. Wherever Mommy goes, Pepper is sure to follow. And true to form, while the kids help, the bulk of her care and dog walking fell to her adopted mommy and daddy. And we are happy to do it.
I promised myself that whatever dog we got would not be sleeping on the bed or on the couch. So guess where you can find Pepper just before bedtime every evening?
On the comforter at the foot of our bed. And she looks truly offended when I tell her it’s time to head downstairs. I am almost booed by my wife and children. That said, Pepper has developed a habit of growling and barking if she hears a perceived threat from some interloper passing our threshold. At one a.m., that is no fun. Does she have any idea what time I get up?
She should ask the kids. They’ll tell her.
Many families struggle over whether or not to get a pet. Sometimes it’s an issue of dog versus cat. (I contend dog people are dog people and they simply can’t coexist with cat people.) And as I’ve just said, even the subject of whether or not the dog can sleep on the bed can divide the happiest of couples. But the one thing Deborah and I never expected when we fulfilled the promise of bringing home a puppy was the incredibly positive impact Pepper would end up having on our son. Of course, how could we, since he was afraid of dogs?
I would have bet my last dollar Leila would be the more conscientious about walking and caring for Pepper, but it turned out that Nicky is the one who volunteers his time more often and is far more diligent about keeping the poop, pee and food diary up-to-date than the rest of us. He would even leave the house early in the morning to walk Pepper without telling us where he was going, which scared us! But now we’re thrilled that he’s taken on the biggest responsibility of his young life. He stepped up and took ownership in a way that none of us did, and we were all happy to allow Nicky to do it. It has been endearing and heartening to see him grow and mature from his love and care for the dog.
And there’s another thing. Through this connection, Nicky has discovered the power of unconditional love. Pepper doesn’t care what he got on a test or whether he has learning disabilities. She cares that he pets her belly and gives her treats. She likes when he speaks to her in a funny voice and plays ball. It’s a simple, loving relationship, and though we couldn’t have imagined it at the time, Pepper was the greatest gift we could have given him.
In a sense, to us Nicky is a lot like Pepper. Everything we have learned through him has been a gift. He is an inspiration with a bright outlook and a good heart. He continually amazes me as well as the people he comes into contact with every single day. He is indeed a gift—one that keeps on giving.
It’s now been four years since we brought Pepper home and I can’t even imagine life without her. In fact, I wrote the bulk of this book with her right by my side. She is an integral part of our family and of all our lives. I am so glad I convinced Deborah and the kids to drop their opposition and allow Pepper into our home. After all, she is, in fact, the WORLD’S GREATEST PUPPY!