Opinion Shapers article by my wonderful friend Michelle!

Opinion Shapers: Friend's grace in her battle with cancer is inspiring
BY MICHELLE BAKER • NEWS JOURNAL COLUMNIST • APRIL 11, 2010

When it comes to friends, I have been more than blessed. I've read that some friends are "forever" while others are for "right now," but none cross your path without leaving their mark.

I know how they can pull you up and give you strength during the rough times, or smack you upside the head and pull you back to Earth when you get a little off track. That's what friends are for, to make you a better version of yourself.

If you are very lucky, you will have one friend who will touch your heart so deeply that they will, literally, change your life forever.

Linda was never just a "work friend." I met her just after I graduated from college, both of us working nights in a small community hospital. She was instantly likable. My strange sense of humor meshed well with hers, and she quickly became my favorite nurse there.

Life intervened, the way it often does, and led me on a path far away from that quiet intensive care unit. We lost touch, but Linda was usually somewhere near the center of every good memory I had of those days.

I was thrilled when I saw her at work one day. My old friend was the new hire. We spent time catching up, sharing pictures of my kids and of her new grandson, talking about people we used to know. She mentioned, almost in passing, that she'd recently had cancer, leiomyosarcoma. She was tough, she was alive, she had "... kicked cancer's ass." Her friends cheered her on as she sailed past her one-year mark cancer free, and we joined the leiomyosarcoma groups on Facebook, if only to show our support.

The worst was over, and life was good.

Not long after that milestone, Linda admitted she was afraid her cancer had returned. Every scan and test said she was still clear, but that nagging suspicion lingered. She researched return rates, treatment options and survival percentages. As a registered nurse, she knew the score from the beginning. She knew what she was dealing with while the rest of us put on happy faces and told her everything would be OK.

We were wrong.

Her biopsy results confirmed what she already knew. Leiomyosarcoma.

Linda was once again going to battle with the monster that is cancer.

In between researching treatments and scheduling doctor's appointments, Linda started thinking of the future, a future she is no longer a part of. She started a list of things she wants at the end of her life, including me -- speaking at her funeral. She asked me, and I swear I felt my heart break. I told her not to think about death and funerals, to focus, instead, on fighting and winning. She said she is fighting, she beat it once and she will beat it again.

"But this," she said, "this is the only thing I can control. And I don't want my funeral to be sad, I want it to be full of life and loud and raucous, so I want you to speak at it."

I said yes, but told her by the time she died we would both be so old, I'd be senile and wouldn't remember who the heck she was anyway, so ... sure.

I can't imagine what I would say if it comes right down to it. How do you say goodbye to someone whose love of life has been reflected in everything she's ever done?

Linda recently posted a quote on her Facebook page that really speaks what she is feeling: "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I wouldn't have a single bit of talent left and could say, 'I used everything You gave me.'"

She is making the most of right now, and has started her bucket list -- you know, the list of things you want to do before you kick the bucket.

She is looking for places to ride a mechanical bull while she awaits her appointment with one of the country's leading specialists in leiomyosarcoma.

She is checking out skydiving schools while she begins planning for her funeral, a task she cannot bear to leave for her family.

I am in awe of her strength and her determination to beat this. If there is sadness or self-pity, I haven't seen it. I am humbled by the way she balances her faith and hope for a cure with her desire to not waste a single day. The grace with which she seems to face every piece of news, including the recent inclusion of the word "inoperable," makes me ashamed to admit I just want to sit down and cry for her.

She doesn't need my tears right now, so I'm sucking it up and doing what I can to help her. I just wish I knew what that might be. At this point it would be anything she asked of me, including skydiving with her, even though I am terrified of heights. If she can face all of this, then the least I can do is jump out of a plane with her.

Linda has made me think about my own bucket list, the things I want to do before I go, whenever that may be. I'm talking about the simple things you do with this gift you have been given. You will only regret the things you didn't do, and I plan on having no regrets.

I want to count snowflakes with my children the first snowfall of the season and stay up late on summer nights just to listen to the crickets. I will sing with the radio and not care who might hear, and I will plant all pink flowers this year, even though I'm the only one in the house who likes pink.

I'm not going to nag my husband over every little infraction (real and imagined) and instead just be happy that I have loved someone so completely.

And I will not wait until a friend's funeral to tell them how much they mean to me and how honored I am to have been able to call them friend.

If you have a moment please remember Linda in your prayers today. If anyone can beat this, she can. Say a prayer for all of those brave people who are fighting cancer, as well as those who have won, or lost, their battles. You can leave messages or words of encouragement for Linda on Facebook on the "Lights for Linda" page, or you can send them to LightsForLinda@live.com.

Michelle Baker lives in Ontario with her husband and their three children. She is a respiratory therapist at Ashland Samaritan Hospital. E-mail chelb01@hotmail.com.