A few months ago, my father volunteered to pick E up from daycare on Fridays and keep her overnight. On Saturday morning, they have breakfast at IHOP before he brings her home. I’ve always wondered what they do on Friday nights, and now I know. Here’s a video of E and my dad dancing at our family reunion this past weekend. Sorry about the unsteady hand on the video. I was too busy laughing.

I was able to visit with Chris before she left for Oklahoma.

I saw her husband, James, as he dropped the kids off Tuesday. He told me that Chris was managing her pain pretty well that morning and that it would be a good time to call. I called her from the car on my way to work.

Her voice was weak when she answered the phone. It startled me.

“Hey, it’s D.”

“I’m so glad that you called,” her voice gained strength almost immediately.

We spent my half hour drive talking about potty training, work, and the book club. I came close to crying only when she asked me whether or not Mike was going to propose. “James had to learn the hard way,” she said gently. “Life is too short. Tell Mike to get with it.”

I couldn’t focus for the rest of the day. My mood was bittersweet. My dad picked Elyse up from daycare, and it gave me a chance to stop by her house. I kept trying to prepare myself for the worse. I told myself that she’s lost a lot of weight, that she’s in pain. I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry.

It wasn’t necessary. Chris has lost a lot of weight, but she still looked like herself. She was full of good humor. Her sister and a few other friends were there. We talked and laughed as usual. I had never noticed the color of her eyes before. Hazel.

By Friday, an update e-mail was circulating. Chris made it to Oklahoma, and she is impressed with her treatment center. I’m glad that I was able to spend some time with her to see that this battle hasn’t broken her spirit.

Ever since I pledged my sorority in college (OOO-OOP), four has been my favorite number. It was my line number, my position in the group of eleven women who worked together to make the journey into DST. My identity was linked to my number during that time, and I saw the beauty in that digit. It was a perfect square, a pair of pairs. And it looked nice on the back of my red roller-derby jacket.

But four isn’t beautiful when it comes to cancer. My friend, my sorority sister, was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. There is nothing perfect about it.

I saw her about a month ago when she dropped her daughter at daycare. Our drop off and pickup schedules are usually about 45 minutes apart, but I was taking Elyse in a little early that Wednesday. Chris was limping.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “You look like you are walking funny.”

“Well, I have a mass in my abdomen. We’re going to see the surgeon on Friday. I haven’t been to work in a couple of weeks.”

I was thinking fibroids. A painful, but highly treatable, condition that a lot of women have.

“Okay, go home and get some rest. Let me know if you need something. I’ll call you next week.”

By Monday, the sister network had sent out an e-mail that was as vague as it was ominous. Chris had gone in for exploratory surgery, and the doctors found two masses. She was at home resting. I called a few times, but I didn’t catch her.

E-mail #2, sent out the next week, was even more ominous. It was difficult to tell what exactly her condition was, but the words “oncologist” and “chemotherapy” said it all.

That Sunday I went to our book club meeting, but I got there late. My friend Kay caught me up on what happened later that evening. I was vegging out on my favorite spot on the couch when she called. “I got Kim’s house a few minutes early, and we got to talk about Chris. It is cancer, and she is starting chemo soon. Her mother had cancer, and Kim says that she is cool with it being cancer.”

I sat up fast. “Cool with it? What does that mean? How is someone cool with cancer?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she just meant that she is trying to work through it.”

“Whatever. Nobody is cool with cancer.”

Hmmph. Cool my ass. You are cool with grape Kool-Aid instead of cherry. You are cool with going to the grocery store tomorrow instead of today. You are not cool with cancer.

I called Chris a few more times, but I still kept missing her.

E-mail #3 is released. Chris has lost more than 20 pounds and she was admitted to the hospital because one of the tumors is squeezing an artery and making it difficult to breathe. She is going to a treatment center in Oklahoma for a second opinion and potential treatment.

Cool my ass.

Another sister in our book club was celebrating her birthday this past weekend. Her husband threw her a surprise party, and we hoped to see Chris there. She wasn’t feeling well enough to come out.

Kay and I were still speculating and worried. The e-mails had been vague, and we weren’t sure if Chris was receiving treatment. Kay was able to talk with one of Chris’ closest friends and get some more information. She sat down next to me as I was eating.

“Okay, I talked to Tonya, and I was able to find out about Chris. She has stage four colon cancer.” I dropped my fork.

“What?”

“So, all of the e-mails that we’ve gotten about her, about pain and hospitalization, that has been the cancer. She hasn’t even started treatment yet. The doctors here say that one of the tumors is inoperable, and she is going to Oklahoma for the second opinion, and hopefully treatment.”

I kept frowning, and Kay went on. “Colon cancer is typically something people get in their 40s and 50s. Doctor’s don’t recommend that you get a colonoscopy until you are in your 40s. Chris will be 34 next week.”

We ate our meal in silence. We eventually found our way through some small talk and back into the party.

Cool with it? Bull.

I cried on the way home. Chris is married with two kids. I started thinking about some of our times together.

When we were trying to learn how to rollerblade five years ago, was the cancer there then? What about when we were in the bowling league? Or when she was carrying her daughter? At my daughter’s birthday party two Decembers ago, she told me that she was starting a new job and considering having another baby. How far along was the cancer then? How did she carry Colin through this? How long did it take to get from Stage 0 to Stage 4?

But it does no good to speculate. This is Chris’ fight, her dragon to slay. I’m standing on the sidelines, watching her battle this beast. I wish I that I could jump the dragon from behind, give her an edge so that she could beat its ass. But I can’t. All I can do is pray.

So that’s what I do. I pray for Chris’ strength. I pray that God touches those who treat her, so that they can help to make her well. I pray for her faithfulness. I pray for her husband and children, and I thank God for her presence in my life.

I love you, Chris, and I pray for your safe and healthy return home.

My friend J Moore once wrote a blog about the things that the modern man needs to navigate in our times:

http://soulternative.blogspot.com/2006_05_01_archive.html

On of the things that he mentioned was a true friend — the one who would bail you out of jail with no questions asked. For me, those same friends are the ones who help me recharge; I can let my hair down (figuratively, you know I rock the short style), and I can turn back the clock on my “real age” with a good dose of laughter. (See previous post on my “real age”).

I’ve been blessed to have a few good friends like that in my day, and I got to spend time with two of them this past weekend. Erika and Kee were my best friends and college, and the three of us were as different as they come. Erika hid her brillance and sensitivity with a tough demeanor, and Kee was the social butterfly who never left the dance floor. I was quiet one, the one who had opinions, but not always the voice to express them.

We’ve not been together in about five years. Career and motherhood have helped me find my voice. Life and love have softened Erika’s demeanor. And marriage and motherhood have tamed the social butterfly. But one thing had not changed — Kee still needed some new clothes. In college, the girl had a closet full of sweats and evening wear. And five years ago, she was wearing maternity clothes months after her son was born.

So a trip to the mall was imperative. Kee surprised us by bringing a great pair of jeans, but she needed to build up her wardrobe. Erika and I dragged Kee from store to store, looking more for things for ourselves than for her.

By the time we got to Macy’s, I was starting to run out of steam. But then I found a pair of peach faux snake (but real leather) four-and-a-half-inch slingbacks on the sale rack. When I stood in the middle of the shoe department with my foot pointed toward the mirror, I was instantly revived.

Kee looked at me and said, “You are such a shoe ho. I love you for it, D, but you are such a ho.”

I agreed. “But,” I said, “Every ho has her standards.”

Then I explained my Shoe Rules:

You’ve got to love them. It’s your foot, and it’s your money. You work too hard to blow it on shoes that you like only a little bit.

If they hurts, leave them at the store. Again, it’s your money. A pair of shoes that you wear for a hour and give to your girl the next day is money down the drain. Some shoes will give over time, but usually not enough to ease the pain. And in case you were wondering, patent leather doesn’t stretch. Most times, it’s not even leather.

Buy leather. Please see the note above about stretching. And if you are a member of PETA, sorry, but it is what it is.

If they cost too much, don’t even try them on. Guilt over a hasty expense cheapens the thrill of a new shoe, plus it’s more important to keep the lights on.

As I was going through my rules, two brothes walked past us. “Yo, that’s hot. That shoe looks good on you.”

“Rule number five,” I said. “If a man walks by and tells you that you look great in the shoes, buy them immediately.”

Kee laughed. “Do you think they have that in my size?”

Needless to say, we both bought the shoes.

I’ve been 30 for a while now. As a matter of fact, I’m 33.5. I’m not bothered by my age (today or most days), but every now and then, I will blurt out that I’m old. Especially when I’m talking with my brothers, who are still in undergrad. When they ask me something about college or life in general, my answer is typically out-of-date. I respond to their puzzled looks with “Well, I’m old.” Brian tries to make me feel better with a pat on the shoulder and a rebuttal to my comment, but James just nods his head.

I recently took an online test at realage.com. You answer a barrage of questions, and the site calculates your “perceived” age vs. your calendar age. My lifestyle, surprisingly, is in line with my actual age.

Even so, it is nice to have affirmation from time to time that, regardless of my age, I am still fly. And yes, I know that by saying “fly,” that I am once again giving away my age. No matter. Here’s the story.

My long-time sales rep from Verizon Wireless, Logan, was promoted to corporate, but I still turn to him for advice when it’s time to upgrade. He advised that the BlackBerry Pearl would be life-changing, and he was right. (Did I mention that it’s pink?) In order to access all of the features, I had to get a memory card.

I went to my local Verizon to pick up the card. I couldn’t find Carmen, the sales rep Logan referred, so I went to the accessories section. A sales rep aproached. He was tall, dark, and smiling.

“How can I help you?” Smiley adjusted his tie.

“I just need a memory card.” I held it up my pink BlackBerry.

“Oh, you got the new Pearl. How do you like it?” His smile widened.

After I explained how much I love the Pink Pearl, Smiley showed me variety of memory cards. I chose the 4GB. We went to the counter to check out, and Carmen and another guy emerged from the back. This guy was short, dark, and smiling more than the first guy.

“Are you married?” Out of the corner of my eye, Carmen was shaking her head. Unfortunately, I got the hint too late.

“No.”

Shorty’s grin was from ear to ear. “Any prospects?”

“Yes, I have a prospect. I’m in a relationship.”

“Shoot! That’s all I needed to hear!” He grabbed a business card and a pen off of the counter and proceeded to scribble down his phone number. By this time, Smiley was finished ringing up my sale. Shorty ran to the end of the counter and handed me the card.

“Sweetie, I can’t take this.” I handed the card back.

Shorty’s smile faded. “Why not?”

“I told you that I have a man.”

“Oh. I thought you said that you don’t have a man. Well, you can’t fault me for trying.” Shorty went back into the breakroom.

I said my goodbyes to Carmen and headed for the door. Smiley was right on my heels.

“I want to give you my card. I know you have a man, but you don’t have a sales rep.” He was still smiling.

“Logan’s my sales rep.”

“But he’s in corporate.”

“She’s his business customer!” Carmen yelled. I turned and gave her a look of gratitude and high-tailed it out of the store.

I didn’t think anything else about my experience until I got an e-mail from Logan yesterday. “Hey you didn’t tell me you had admirers at the Verizon Store. Carmen said you had to turn like 3 of them down. And when u said I have a sales rep they were all like man. And there were some who admired from a far. You are a superstar lady.”

When I told him that I wished I could remember what I was wearing because it seemed to be such a hit, Logan responded. “It’s just ur daily swag. Own it.”

So I think because of my “daily swag” and the three suitors from Verizon, I can dial my “Real Age” back to 30.