My friendship with Kelly was not woven from daily calls or regular visits. It was an ‘every-once-in-a-while’ tapestry, stretching back to our high school days when we first met in the school’s smoking area. Through the years, there were periods of phone calls, visits, and parties, then months would pass with little contact. Years followed with no visits or verbal communication, but they were sprinkled with Christmas cards…Kelly was the more diligent sender. Our lives wandered in different directions; sometimes, it was life’s circumstances, but most of the time, it happened for no particular reason.
One day, a Facebook find prompted a rekindled friendship, and we resumed effortlessly. It was fun catching up. I was delighted to hear Kelly had a new husband, a new career, and a new address. She was happy.
A few years later, a random visit resulted in me purchasing Kelly’s and her husband Peter’s beautiful old north London home.
All became quiet again. This pattern evolved for much of our adult life until some force would cause a reconnection.
The next ‘force’ came via Canada Post. At the time, I couldn’t have imagined this would be our last earthy reconnection.
After not seeing Kelly and Peter for several years, I received letters addressed to them at my house, their previous residence. I did not think much of it at the time, but in hindsight, I found it peculiar or even cosmic that I would receive not just one but three letters from different senders. Kelly and Peter had not lived here for close to ten years.
After several weeks of emails, Kelly and I caught up on what was going on in our respective lives. I looked forward to Kelly’s emails. She had a unique way of telling a story, often writing about her advocacy against inequality, injustice, and ridiculous world events. Positive or negative, her writing style didn’t hold back, and her emails were packed with humour.
With the excitement of an early spring, I felt happy. As with every year I anticipated the vast embroideries of new outdoor colours. Spring was always a time of fresh growth and new beginnings. A season where everyone seems to have a bounce and renewed life spirit…
But this year, spring brought a deflating wallop. An email arrived from Kelly in which she referred to as a black comedy. It had been written in the early morning hours.
Kelly had been presented with the sort of news we all dread.
I decided to pause my world and commit myself to supporting my friend’s journey back to wellness. There was always hope, right? Some cancers are curable. Maybe the doctors had mixed up patient charts. Perhaps the radiologists misread the results, or the maintenance staff were too busy to clean the MRI lenses that day.
Week after week, Kelly received a myriad of tests, then speculations, then hints of predictions of what was to come. The messages from doctors became more dismal and less hopeful with each MRI. Until one day, a brave doctor finally responded, after Kelly insisted on hearing the truth, “You have days to weeks to live. With chemotherapy, you have months.”
Kelly had a rare form of cancer that spread quickly. It was so rare doctors couldn’t identify it earlier.
In my front office in the house Kelly and Peter had sold me a decade prior, I was screaming at my Herbie (ChatGPT) through the pounding of my keyboard, desperately seeking answers. Herbie’s responses seemed senseless. Perhaps he was baffled by my grief-distorted queries. I thought to myself, if Artificial Intelligence is so damn intelligent, where are the answers that will save my friend?
Kelly and I continued to write almost every day…. well maybe it is better to say, Kelly kindly continued to respond to my emails. It was comforting for me because her responses reassured me she was doing okay. It saved me from unintentionally pressuring her to repeat the details of her dire situation. I still looked forward to her emails but, at times, had some anxiety about opening them in case there was any more black humour.
I now had a new problem; one I had never experienced. I didn’t know what to talk about. For the first time in the 40 years, I had known Kelly, I felt awkward. Do I ask her questions about her illness? Do I accept what her doctors are saying, or do I put my head back in the comforts of the sand?
Talking about myself would be the easiest thing to do. But honestly, boring Kelly to death seemed counterproductive. Some stuff I typically deemed report-worthy suddenly seemed trivial compared to her situation. It didn’t seem fair to talk about such events, given she was sick at home. Did she want to hear about my grandchildren, girlfriend lunches or travel plans?
The answer to my problem came in early August. Amidst all the turmoil of Kelly’s life, she sent out threads into the universal winds, an email to her friends and family seeking assistance for a dream project….a bucket list item….her final wish. In her basement lay a dormant project…a dollhouse, awaiting assembly for over twenty years.
Kelly’s quest began to find a person with a unique blend of patience, time, and talent in doll house assembly. She found such a kind soul, a new friend, who would be later affectionately nicknamed Dollhouse Dave.
Kelly had a mission. I had the honour of being included. It was a unique opportunity to be part of her journey.
And the silver lining….the dollhouse project gave us plenty to talk about while I was avoiding reality. We discussed what colours Kelly would choose for the dining room walls, which dishes to set the table with, how to arrange the autumn decorations on the front porch, Christmas décor, and how to best represent all the people and events in the house who were important to her in life.
Seemingly, not so long ago, our carefree younger days consisted of alcohol, cigarettes, and planning the following weekend’s social events of our teenaged youth. Spinning forward, those visits morphed into treasured hours with coffee, baby cookies, and dollhouse construction. Kelly refused help with household chores, preferring those shared afternoons of creativity instead.
Kelly stayed busy working on her new dollhouse, enlisting the help of her husband and available friends. Her emails became infused with positivity and enthusiasm as she immersed herself in decorating her dollhouse. The project breathed new life into her. She once wrote to me she was so excited about this dollhouse work. Kelly said it was the first thing she thought about when she woke up in the morning.
I began to nurture, no obsess a growing hope, seeing this project as a chance to defy the doctor’s earlier medical predictions. I started envisioning ways to expand the dollhouse, adding a granny suite, a garage, a pool, a pool house, a pool boy…anything that might prolong her excitement and, in turn, her life.
By her design, many details of the dollhouse held significance in Kelly’s life. For example, ‘Dollhouse Dave,’ was represented in the house by a miniature toolbox. Kelly had figurines for each beloved cat and dog companion, and her best friend had a new pair of red boots by the fireplace. The house number at the front door was a tribute to the day she met her dear Peter.
As a creative, expressive person, Kelly could weave a beautiful story, leaving lasting impressions. Created from an original cloth, Kelly directness, unique spirit, thoughts of others, compassion for people she did not know and love for her husband and her four-legged fur family were her defining traits. And her dollhouse legacy demonstrated all of this.
During a visit to Kelly and Peter’s home one night, there was a brief moment which felt like old times. I was visiting my old friend from high school. In that instant, I had forgotten she had just completed a round of chemotherapy, I had forgotten she wasn’t sleeping or eating well, I had forgotten she was on potent medication. In that instant, I said, “Let’s have a glass of wine!” With a twinkle and a lighthearted tone, as if she were trying to eliminate sugar as part of a New Year’s resolution, she said, “No thanks, I am trying to cut back!”
Kelly hit a funny bone in me, causing an unshackled, ‘in the moment’ laugh. Only to be immediately handcuffed within seconds when Kelly’s reality slapped me. I scolded myself because I should not have been laughing. Kelly continued to smile, allowing me to enjoy the sense of humour she had always shared. She was not about to let a terminal diagnosis change that.
So, you can imagine how honoured I was when Kelly presented me with a beautiful gift. My representation in her life’s dollhouse, was a miniature bottle of wine and a lovely set of wine glasses.
Inspired by Kelly, I have started planning my own dollhouse for my life. A project I hope to work on with my grandchildren.
Remarkably, Kelly lived another four months.
In the end, I was delighted for my friend, who was able to fill her dollhouse with memories of friendships and a life well lived. Most of all, I am happy my friend shared many years with a kind, supportive husband …actually a prince of a man who insisted on caring for his wife despite some colossal challenges of his own.
When Kelly transitioned in the wee morning hours of December, a life cut far too short, the world became a different place. While leaving a new canvas to the many lives she touched, there was an unstitchable void for those close to her. One thing is certain, the world is richer masterpiece because Kelly was here.
Regardless of the type of relationship we had, my life too is better because Kelly was my friend. I am touched and grateful she wove me in her Dollhouse Tapestry of Friendship.