Friends Forever (continued)

I left you yesterday with a cliffhanger about Karen dropping a bomb when we talked after my mom's memorial service.  She spoke hesitantly at first, and then blurted out, "Ronnie has ALS."  Ron had always been athletic, and, for some reason, the memory of a concussion he sustained from a brutal tackle during a high school fottball game dominated my thoughts for a moment.  I knew that ALS meant a death sentence for Ron and couldn't think of the right thing to say.  Finally, I stammered,"When did you find out?'

Ron had been diagnosed earlier that year in June, so the debilitation had not begun in earnest yet.  We hugged each other, and tears hung at the corner of her eyes, eventually trickling slowly down her cheeks and rolling off her chin.  Family members were collecting the story boards, cards, and other things that had been part of the service, and I realized we would soon leave.  We still had to drive for several hours to the cemetery where my dad was buried in his home state so Mom's ashes would be placed alongside his.  I gave Karen one long, last hug and vowed I'd stay in touch.

Thus began an odyssey that led me back to my hometown in 2008 for a brief visit to Ron and Karen's home. They lived on a lake where we had all swum and water-skied when we were teenagers.  By then, ALS had robbed Ron of his upper body musculature, so that when he walked, his spaghetti-thin arms dangled by his sides, moving as if some unseen breeze blew intermittenlty behind him.  He could still speak understandly, and he laughed as we reminisced about our experiences in band and some of our ridiculous antics in high school.

When I waved good-bye the next day, I promised myself that I would return as often as possible while he was alive.  In 2009, I made three trips there and stayed with them for a few days out the total three weeks I spent in the area.  Ron hadn't changed markedly by then, so he still got a kick out of listening to us bellowing out some of our favorite oldies and dancing as though demon-possessed.  I could almost delude myself into thinking something magical would occur, and Ron's muscles would grow back, so that he could dance with us.  But that didn't happen.

The next year, I traveled there in the summer and stayed with them except for a few days.  Ron now sat in a wheelchair most of the time and left the house infrequently.  He just didn't feel like going through all the machinations to ride in the specially equipped van.  Karen and he still maintained a postive attitude, and she tended to him with the skill of a nurse.  He had a feeding tube and several medicines that she administered to help ease his discomfort, and he required more help  when he walked because his leg muscles were considerably weaker than the previous year.  I knew then that I would find a way to go there during my annual Christmas visit.  I'm glad I did, because we laughed and joked like we always did one last time.  Ron died three weeks later in January.

When Karen arrived here April 21st, I wanted nothing more than for her to relax and enjoy herself.  She did that, but something even more special occurred.  The bond of friendship that had begun so many years ago strengthened and added dimension to our relationship.  The girls of yesteryear had become the women of today, and, in that maturation process, we realized that we had a forever friendship, which years of separation had not weakened or tarnished.  When I was a girl scout, one of our songs had the following lines:  "Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver, and the other is gold."  Here's to my special, 24-karat friend, Karen.