Lies, all Lies

I knew sooner or later there would be the call.

My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I remember the first call. Laura had that shaky strength in her voice. The voice of someone who wants, so desperately, not to be the one to have to pass on the news about her cancer. How many times had she told this story? Her family, her child, her immediate friends and co-workers. Then she had to tell me, the friend that had fallen out of touch in the periphery that is everyday life.

“Hey, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but guess what?”

It was nothing like that. The conversation stayed mainly on the details of the caner, synovial sarcoma, where it was located, a golf ball sized lump in her right forearm, and the ify prognosis. There was confidence in getting rid of the initial tumor. Unfortunately the odds were it would come back, with a vengeance. More frightening was the chance that the surgery to remove the tumor, which would save her life, would render her right hand useless.

Laura was a brilliant artist. No matter how she struggled with her art, there was no confusion in her about what she was. To loose her hand would prove as slow and painful a death as the cancer which was working it’s way inside her.

I remember she told me it was the same caner Robert Urich had, and, at that time, he was still going strong. Being the small, small world the Earth is, I had, a few years earlier, seen him on a flight from LA to Houston. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, I was in LA, there was a very good chance one would run into a celebrity flying somewhere. She told me it was very likely he was on his way to MD Anderson Caner Center.

Well, there you go, had been the optimistic conclusion to our conversation. There were the promises of keeping in touch. We made sure we both knew we loved one another.

Either the chemo, or the radiation, or both, I’m not completely sure on the details of the treatment, did the trick, shrinking the tumor to a point where surgery was able to remove the growth. Laura recovered, with no loss of the use of her hand.

When her cancer came back, like Urich, Larua made the trip to Houston to get treatment. Her previous treatment had been in Louisiana where she was living. This was so incredibly fantastic to us both. We would be closer to one another. We would be able to visit more. We did on several occasions but, somewhere between her battling the cancer and not wanting to have to burden me with seeing her in the bad times, and my fear, the visits were few a far between.

With all of the social networking sites, we had no shortage of ways to communicate and/or keep in touch. Somehow we didn’t. I can only guess that her reasons were the same as with the limited face-to-face visits. For me, it was definitely my cowardice.

Then, this morning, I got an direct message from her sister on twitter. It simply read:

“Aeryk, this is Julie, Laura Courville Tyler’s sister … call me.”

No. No. The pit in my stomach opened up. This was it. I wanted to run away. No. I wasn’t going to call. It was 7:00 in the morning.

There was no running away. Not this time. Not now. I made the call.

It was just like the first call. It was so surreal because Julie sounds just like Laura. The strength in her voice despite the pain and anger and confusion. The conversation consisted of details, when she had passed, how her daughter and husband were, she had the chance to see her mother and make whatever amends they could. Julie was apologetic for having to be the one to give me the news, and start my day out on such a bad note.

I can’t lie about my day. I could have been much better. It’s no one’s fault though. That’s how it is when someone you care for dies. As sad as I am about learning that Laura passed, I am deeply comforted knowing that there was an art showing which she was a part of before she died. Having your art displayed for people to enjoy is every artist’s dream, regardless of the medium. In a wonderful every-dog-has-its-day ending, not only was she in the show, but she won best in show. An honor she deserved, but most importantly got to experience.

Laura, I know it’s too late to fill the void with anything. I know it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Things happened and what’s done is done. Yet, regardless of what’s possible or not, I have to say I will be eternally sorry, if for nothing else, missing your moment of glory. You were a very dear friend and I love you. As an artist you are an inspiration. As a human being, my hero. Since your diagnosis of caner we might not have been as close as we could have been, but you were never far from my thoughts. I will miss you so very much.

And, thank you for never making good on your threat of going public with that horrible picture of me as a child, running around in my orange coveralls, paying Star Wars, next door at Homer’s.