Missouri Life October 2023

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

Fall or Fly

WHEN SHE STUMBLED GETTING UP, I QUICKLY REACHED TO STEADY HER. Knuckleheads, an outdoor music venue in Kansas City, was packed, and the crowd filled every space. Carol signaled where she was going, and her husband shot me a look. I knew what he was asking without being asked. I followed Carol into the crowd. Carol and I have been friends all the years since first grade. We’ve stood together through every life event: all the joys and all the heartaches. My childhood companion is woven into me, an ingrained part of who I am and who I will be. We share stories and memories and secrets we are not telling. Carol is my best good friend. I’d follow her anywhere. When Carol called to tell me she’d been diagnosed with an advanced form of cancer that I can’t pronounce, I told her that was not possible. She was the healthy one, the strong one, the one who promised, someday, we would be the Golden Girls. We had it all planned. “I’m sorry,” Carol whispered as I fell apart. Then, she fell apart, too. Carol’s treatment has been aggressive, and the follow-up treatments challenging. She embraces colorful turbans to cover her missing hair and walks with grace and a sensible cane. Despite her diagnosis and her prognosis, my dear friend is determined to fill the rest of her life with the life she has left. Carol has purchased tickets, booked flights, made reservations, and created a year-long calendar of events full of places and people she loves. People like me. Underestimating the boisterous crowd, Carol seemed uncertain, so I reached out and put my hand on her waist, stepping as close as I could. When she turned, I followed, and we found ourselves in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by happy dancers. We were in the thick of it when the song ended and Carol turned to look at the band. When she did, her cane slipped and Carol did, too. In the heartbeat after the last note, the whole place stopped where they were, expecting to applaud the band. Instead, in that pause, the crowd gasped as Carol began to fall. Only, she didn’t fall. I caught her around the waist and pulled her to

I caught her around the waist and pulled her to me, holding her there in the middle of the hushed, watching around her, I whispered in her ear, “I have you.” crowd. With my arms wrapped

me, holding her there in the middle of the hushed, watching crowd. With my arms wrapped around her, I whispered in her ear, “I have you.” “I’m tired,” Carol whispered back, with the eyes of the spectators on us. “I don’t think I can do this.” “Yes you can,” I said, telling her the truth. “I’m right here with you.” It was then that Carol sensed the watching crowd watching us. She straightened her shoulders, readjusted her turban, stepped back, and smiled. Then, she turned and with me close behind, Carol started dancing. As the crowd parted a path, she danced her way through, her cane tapping, her hips swaying, and the red turban telling it all. The setting sun was just right, and Carol looked radiant as she danced in the glow. The sun and the crowd had eyes only for her. I turned back and looked as applause erupted, not for the band, but for the pale dancer in the red turban. Many that night who watched Carol’s fall turn into flight wiped away tears from our eyes, and I am certain many woke the next day remembering that red turban and the woman who chose to live the rest of her life, and her friend who followed behind, dancing right along with her. I’m not about to let her dance alone.

BY LORRY MYERS DEPENDABLE COPILOT Lorry@MissouriLife.com

MERIT MYERS

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