Monday, June 02, 2025

I had lunch yesterday with long-time friends I hadn’t seen in years. We first met during a pivotal chapter in my life, when I was a breast cancer patient participating in a support group. They were the group’s unofficial leaders—steady and compassionate, offering wise listening and unwavering kindness. The connections forged in that group felt deep and enduring. Despite years and distance, our shared strengths and vulnerabilities still feel familiar.

It had been a long time since we’d laid eyes on one another, but recently, they wandered separately into the department store where I work. We recognized each other immediately—like “old friends,” which we are—and promised to meet for lunch soon.

Judy and Candy are continuing to nurture the cancer support group–welcoming women facing breast cancer and other illnesses. Their dedication says much about their character, and just as much about our deep human need for community when we’re navigating illness. Sitting with them again felt comforting as they shared how the group continues to evolve.

Conversation came easily. We didn’t need to fill in every gap—we simply slipped into the familiarities of our old connection: talking about our lives now, the realities of aging, fond memories, and the ever-present question: What may come next? There was laughter, warmth, and a few comfortable silences. Our lunch felt less like a reunion and more like a quiet rekindling—an affirmation of ties built during significant uncertainties and shared strengths.

They spoke of their early lives—how, as young women, they each bravely moved to Alaska during its formative days, just as it prepared for Statehood. They met there, in a time when its cities were small and its spirit was wide open. Those were the early days of loosening social constraints for women, and they embraced the freedom and opportunity. Eventually, each moved—independently but around the same time—to Central Oregon, where they reconnected.

They asked after my donkey, Pimmy, who is doing well—her illnesses are stable and under control. They asked about my other critters: sweet turkey Lacey, noisy Cockatoo Peaches, and Chase (yes, that Puppy-from-Hell, Chase, who still lives with me).

The best part of our lunch was simply knowing—knowing one another well and knowing where we’ve been. We didn’t just share memories; we shared something more enduring–a kind of bond formed while at our most human, our most open. That’s what has made the cancer group so special, and it’s what made our lunch such a gift.

Dear Friends: Like Alaska in its frontier days, Central Oregon is an “honest place.”—Diana