The beauty & the bewilderment
for my friend, Farrah Yount Mullins, 1976-2009
I’ve talked a lot about the words you’ll read below. They were originally meant to be a memoriam of a life cut short. Then they morphed into a way I could keep the memory of our friendship alive, in the way I could visit her on the days I missed her most. Now, in an incredibly remarkable way, they have become the burning motivation behind this entire blog project. Not surprising to me, really. She had that effect on my life in a million other ways, why should this be any different?
When my friend Farrah passed away, it confounded us all. She was “such a light,” people would say. She was a vibrant 32, phenomenal wife, dedicated mother of two, precious daughter, dearest friend to many. My sister asked, "Why? Why her?" The only theory of comfort I had to share was that it was because she had something to teach all of us by the way she lived her life, especially the part of her life she lived with cancer. In the darkest moments of her life here on Earth she shone brighter than anybody I had ever met. She was graceful and humble in her interactions with those who felt pity for her situation. She never felt sorry for herself. She was defiant in her optimism; she challenged anyone to be otherwise. After three years of fighting and new tumors still forming, she remained assertive in the struggles. She was losing the battles, but she believed she would still win the war. She made me believe it too. That was how bright her light burned, so much so that everyone around her was blinded in our belief that she, herself, would conquer death.
Therefore do not give up. Even though our outer person is being destroyed, our inner person is being renewed day by day. For our momentary light affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory. So we do not focus on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
2 Corinthians 4:16-18
I didn’t meet Farrah “sick.” Rumors had been buzzing around church that this beautiful young mother of two had undergone surgery for melanoma and she gained the reputation of valiant cancer survivor. She had conquered a surgery, rounds of radiation and chemotherapy and was set upon a path of remission. That’s when she came into my life. Six months later and healed in the eyes of anyone who met her, our lives intersected for the first time and we began a friendship that would change my life forever.
It was Cooper and Katherine that brought us together, really. First in swim lessons at the country club we both belonged to and again when they started preschool together at our church. I wrote in her eulogy that she felt like family right off the bat.
A mundane beginning to such a special friendship: we would stand in line to drop off or pick up the kids and easily gossip about life and raising two children, both the same ages. Minutes together in the afternoon turned to hours together at night, over dinner or more play dates with the kids. It came so naturally to us; we began including each other in almost everything we did. We ate dinner together three or four nights a week. I threw a clothing party, she was invited. She had people over to watch a football game, we went. When the holiday season came around, we planned occasions to go see Santa Claus, snow skiing and Christmas shopping. We kept coming up with fun things that required all eight of us to experience. We made plans for future vacations, a mental list of all the things we would do together in the spring, summer and even the next holiday season. I never looked at the time we spent together as much more than a growing friendship. I think now that subconsciously we were shoving as much life into what time we had together, for it was not going to be as long as we would have liked.
At least a year of friendship had gone by when small hints of illness began to reappear. It started again with places just under her skin. Then it was her vision. Within weeks of new symptoms popping up, I was at the ophthalmologist with her; he gave her a prescription for glasses and in the same breath suggested she get an MRI on her head. She knew what that meant; she had anticipated that the problems with her vision had nothing to do with her eyes and she had already been to get an MRI but had not received the results. A couple days later she called me from the ride home—“it’s a tumor, on my brain,” she said. I was crouched on the stoop of my front porch and as the clouds moved in I swallowed hard and said, “what’s the treatment plan?”
Without hesitation, she downplayed the severity. “It’s tiny, like the size of a peanut, located on the very back of my head. They have this kind of radiation that can be precisely targeted on the one spot and they’re just going to zap it.” Three treatments and it's gone, they told her. It sounded way too easy to me, and I wonder now if it felt that way to her as well. However, she put on the confidence like she did with her head wraps and wigs and she insisted that she would do what they said to do and with that, it would be fixed. I pretended to agree and encouraged her to keep positive and know that if the doctors thought it would be an easy fix, then it will be. I then ended the conversation as I always did telling her, “Whatever you need me to do, you tell me. I love you.”
She never called it a tumor in her brain ever again. If she called it a ‘spot’ on her ‘head’ it didn’t sound so menacing. So that’s what she called it. That’s what we all called it. A couple weeks went by and she wasn’t seeing any improvement in her vision. She participated in five radiation treatments and once they were completed, she waited patiently for the swelling to subside(they told her this was a side effect of the radiation and once relieved she would see normally). That is, if they in fact ‘zapped’ the tumor as they initially promised. Two months after she was prescribed the eyeglasses and four weeks after the final radiation treatment, she died. She never regained her vision.
While dealing with the "spot" on her "head", more tumors had appeared, this time in her abdomen. She went through two separate surgeries to remove cancerous sections of her small bowel. Her second visit to Louisville coincided with a weekend in the same town for my family. I was watching old Everwood episodes on Reagan’s computer in our hotel room when Brian sent me a text message, “You should come see Farrah as soon as you get home tomorrow.” Even in a monotone text he sounded terrifyingly urgent. I hurried and typed a reply, “What’s going on? Did you all get bad news before you left the hospital today?”
Three new tumors in the small bowel. Surgery not possible. “She doesn’t have much longer,” he wrote. “She wants to see you and tell you herself.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Two months, maybe.” he replied.
The tears fell instantly. I crawled out of the bed and took my phone into the bathroom. I called my friend Emily to cancel our breakfast date. “We can’t meet you for breakfast in the morning. We have to get back immediately. They gave her two months.” I exhaled into the phone and began sobbing.
We left Louisville early the next day. On the ride home, Reagan and I barely talked, afraid of what would happen if we said it out loud. “I’m scared,” I said. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to make it worse for her—how am I supposed to do this without crying?” He could hardly answer me for choking back his own sorrow.
“It doesn’t matter what you say. She just wants you to be there.” He’s a man of few words but sometimes he gets it so right.
She was sitting in her chair when we got to their house, the one she had been recuperating in for months. On her head was a bandana, hiding the peach fuzz trying desperately to cover her head again. I touched her knee as she told me what I already knew from Brian. I asked her if she was scared and she simply said, “I’m just not ready to go. They say I won’t likely survive a round of chemo at this point. Without treatment, I have two to four months.” Though it wasn’t anything we didn’t know already, the finality of it was intensely painful to hear; it had been decided by those who decide these things that there was nothing more to be done. Her body was going to forsake her and soon.
I couldn’t leave her for hours after she broke the news to me about how much time we had left. It is in those precious hours that I hold on to priceless memories and ironically, most of my regret. I told her I was sorry, for what I couldn’t exactly say. I told her that I loved her and that I wasn’t ready to let her go. She said she wasn’t ready either. We laid there in her room for hours, she in her borrowed recliner and me in her bed. We remained mostly silent there together, both of us afraid to talk for fear that words would transform into tears and we wouldn’t be able to restrain it. I wish now that I had said more. I told her I would help her write letters to the boys; I should have gotten a piece of paper right then and there and began the notation. I told her I would make a list of things she wanted each of them to have on certain birthdays and occasions; I should have begun recording her requests right then. Instead, I wiped her brow when she struggled with nausea and lay beside her in silence in the moments she could experience rest.
So many of her friends had heard her news and rushed to be at her side, a testament to the kind of friend she was to all of us. At one point there were at least 6 of us filling the room with laughter and reverie. She seemed to sustain her strength simply from the love all of these people who loved her were pouring out into the room. Brian later told me that she was left exhausted from those days but blessed all the same.
The next day she and I shared silence in her room again. This day was much more somber than the last; I read to her a magazine trying to fill the air with mundane topics to distract from the devastating reality. I wish I could say that our last conversations were pivotal, meaningful in some special way. We barely said much at all. By this time she was in excruciating pain, with very little energy or motivation to speak. I spent most of the time in the den talking to Brian and Jason, or out on the porch by myself. She called me to the room and in those last brief moments I asked her again if she was scared. “I’m scared because I don’t know anyone up there.” I had no idea how to really respond to her—I just giggled because that’s what I do when I am nervous or unsure. I told her not to worry, that she would know nothing but joy at that point. Then I choked back tears and told her once again that I was sorry. We both sat quiet for what seemed like an hour. She drifted off to sleep again and I returned to the porch. When darkness came I walked into the house to say goodbye to everyone—her brother, Jason was sitting with her as I leaned in the room to say goodbye to her. She opened her eyes slightly and whispered, “love you, “to which I replied, “love you too. See you tomorrow.”
She suffered multiple surgeries, various rounds of experimental chemotherapy treatments, as well as radiation treatments and never accepted defeat until it was all but staring her in the face. She was never given a timeline until it was so short there was no time to speak of. She got her final prognosis on a Tuesday and died on the following Monday. Less than a week and she was gone for good.
"The people who live in darkness have seen a great light, and for those living in the land of the shadow of death, a light has dawned…"
Matthew 4:16
On June 29, 2009, I was awakened at 6:30am by my cell phone ringing. I grabbed it, recognizing her husband’s contact immediately. Instantly I feared the worst, then reassured myself as I said, “hello,” that maybe he just needed help with something. I answered and he paused before saying very calmly and quietly, “Farrah passed this morning around 5:30, I just wanted to call and let you know.” His voice broke at the end and I stammered out apologies and began to cry into the phone.
I was blogging when Farrah’s light burned out. Back then my writings were simply an online diary, and it was there that I told the world that I had lost my friend. An entire day had expired after she passed before I could put the words down in any sort of sensible way. When I wrote it, it was simply to let people know that she was gone. The room was dark and the hour was late as I placed my laptop on my lap and shared what I was feeling.. I didn’t anticipate that it would resonate with anyone but my own heart. I didn’t anticipate the number of her friends that would read it. I didn’t anticipate that I would be asked to share it at her funeral and that the memory of that experience would be one that would stay with me for a lifetime. The words themselves would become a talisman that I keep clutched close to my chest to this day.
I gave myself a pep talk the whole way to her funeral. I’m a pro at keeping my emotions in check but I was certain this day was going to get the best of me. No amount of meditation could convince me that I was going to be able to stand at that podium, stare down at that casket and deliver the speech I had prepared. I arrived with plenty of time to spare; time to stand around greeting and hugging and working myself up into a nervous frenzy. When it was time for the service to start, I took my seat on the front row next to Lyndsey, Farrah’s dear friend and confidant. I couldn’t look to my right, see her family in an ocean of mourning. I couldn’t concentrate on the sermon the officiant was giving. I just stared straight ahead, trying to regulate my breathing, praying for her help. My heart was pounding in my chest; it felt like it was crawling up my throat as the pastor’s oration came to a close. I almost panicked, thinking there was no way I was going to be able to rise from the pew; my legs were jello. But somehow it happened. I stood up, walked to the altar, slid my glasses onto the edge of my nose, stared out at the sea of black and began talking.
“Hi, I’m Kelly and I’m here today to celebrate the life of my friend Farrah. Ever since I was young I have written in a journal. These days I keep an online journal called a blog. On Monday I wrote an entry for my friend; I’d like to share it with you here today.”
“Goodbye to a Friend”
“What I'll miss most is our spaghetti dinners. The ones where she made a salad and pasta for all of us and a solitary steak for Brian. All of us around the table enjoying a fantastic supper(she didn't like to cook but was good at it among all the other things she was great at) mostly gossiping about church and school and just about everybody else in town. It seemed to come natural to the eight of us--the Taylors and the Mullins have only known each other for a couple years but from the inside of the pack it felt like an era. I feel like I have known Farrah forever. I guess it's good that way, since I only got to keep her for a short time--we packed a lot of memories and a phenomenal friendship in a relatively short span of time. I suspected from the very beginning that although we were serious when we talked about marrying Katherine off to Cooper, it was a real possibility that we wouldn't both be there to see it happen. Doesn't make it any easier to lose her now. In fact, it makes it that much harder. We had plans. Our futures were intertwined in those plans and I simply wasn't ready to rearrange them. I know she wasn't either.
Farrah was only 29 when she was diagnosed with melanoma. Her story is tragically unique in how young she was and how fast the disease took over her physical body. But she was unique and special in so many other wonderful ways.
If you met her once, you never forgot her. If it wasn't the fiery red hair tousled atop her head, it was her infectious gift of gab and her ability to make you feel like you were instantly part of her family. At a get together(which most of the time she was hosting), you wanted to be wherever she was, part of whatever conversation she was because you could guarantee it was a good one. She was a terrific storyteller and she had some gems to share. She didn't demand attention, she just commanded it. She was a presence--one that I hope I can carry with me to all of the future get togethers she herself will have to miss. Even so, I am certain they will not be the same.
She wasn't just someone you liked--you loved her instantly. And she loved you right back--with more sincerity than most can exude in a lifetime of friendship. She was always thinking of me(and everyone else in her life) despite the enormous amount of things on her plate and going on in her head every day. She was released from the hospital one last time and given some not so good news--the next day was my birthday. When I went to see her and asked how she was, she cried as she told me. But in the next breath she handed me a box with my birthday present in it. I couldn't believe she had done it--but selfishly I was ecstatic. I was thrilled because now I have an exquisite little green charm hanging on my bracelet that will remind me of my precious friend every time I look at it.
If that's not enough I wear another bracelet on my right arm--during the last days of her life there were a ton of us wearing green bracelets with her name on them. We wore them for hope--hope that she would beat it. I will be wearing the bracelet now in memory of my amazing friend. When someone asks me what it is, I will be able to share her story and her life light with someone else. She'll be making new friends long after she is gone from this earth--I think she would enjoy that very much.
Luckily for me we were both believers in Christ, so I don't worry about where she is headed. She'll know no more fear, no more pain and no more wondering what life will be like in the future. That, unfortunately, will be our burden to bear. That's what I worry about, what our lives will be like without her. I'm certain I will reach for my phone to call or text her to vent or laugh and will pull away at the memory that she won't be on the other end of that call. She assures me that I can still talk to her when she's up there in heaven but that won't really be good enough for me. I want her here on earth with us, with those precocious little boys she has lived for her whole adult life. I worry that those two boys will never fully know how much their mother adored them--how she cherished every second she spent with them. I don't doubt that they will fulfill every dream she ever had for them, I'm just sad that they won't be able to share those successes with her, hear her say, "I'm so proud of you." I have to believe that God is a fair and loving God and that though they won't be able to hear her voice, they will feel her spirit surrounding them with love.
Speaking of 'fair' it all seems a little unjust--someone like Farrah going through what she has been through, having her time here taken from her and all of us that love her. My sister asked, "Why? Why her?" My only theory is that it's because of who she is that she's the one to take this journey. Because she has something to teach all of us by the way she 'lived' her life, especially the part of her life she lived with cancer. She was graceful and humble in her interactions with those who felt pity for her situation. She never felt sorry for herself. She was defiantly optimistic; she challenged anyone to be otherwise. Despite the appearance of new tumors, signs that the cancer was continuing to spread, she remained assertive in her fight--she was losing the battles but she believed she would still win the war. She made me believe it too. I wish our belief would have been enough.
The last conversations I had with her will stay with me for a long time, maybe for the rest of my life. But what I hope will stay on my heart the longest is what she has been to me for the last year. How she has changed my life just by being my friend. How I look at life and love and cancer is forever changed. Funny for me, since I lost my father to the disease 8 years ago--that experience taught me a lot, but unfortunately what’s left from it is bitterness and regret. What I have been given by being close to Farrah is something altogether different. I know what true bravery looks like--a real sense of 'faith.' I was given the chance to realize how precious a gift being a mother really is--how blessed I am to have Katherine and Natalie in my world and how lucky I am to get to watch them grow. I experienced true friendship that came to me through the most casual of circumstances but quickly evolved into something so beautiful and eternal I will love my other friends with so much more intensity from here on out. I am a different person because of Farrah; and not because I have lost her but simply because I knew her.
We all know what a fan of musicals I am, but I never imagined a song from one of my favorites, "Wicked" would apply to my relationship with Farrah--it came on in the car one day as I casually sang along to the lyrics, I began to cry. I'd like to share them here:
For Good, from the musical, “Wicked”
I'm limited, Just look at me, I'm limited
And just look at you,you can do all I couldn't do, Glinda
So now it's up to you, For both of us, Now it's up to you
I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn
And we are led to those who help us most to grow if we let them, and we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true, but I know I'm who I am today because I knew you
Like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes the sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you, I have been changed for good
It well may be that we will never meet again In this lifetime, so let me say before we part
So much of me Is made of what I learned from you, you'll be with me like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end, I know you have rewritten mine by being my friend
Like a ship blown from its mooring by a wind off the sea
Like a seed dropped by a sky bird In a distant wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you, because I knew you, I have been changed for good
And just to clear the air, I ask forgiveness for the things I've done, you blame me for
But then I guess we know there's blame to share and none of it seems to matter anymore
Like a comet pulled from orbit (like a ship blown from its mooring)
As it passes the sun (by a wind off the sea)
Like a stream that meets a boulder (like a seed dropped by a bird)
Halfway through the wood (in the wood)
Who can say if I've been changed for the better, I do believe I have been changed for the better
And because I knew you, because I knew you, because I knew you I have been changed for good
I knew that her time here was coming to an end, but I was still knocked senseless when I received the call that she was gone. It happened too soon; I still had things to say. Goodbye, for one. We had talked about her leaving, but we never said the words--I hope she can hear me say them now. See you later, friend. I love you and I will miss you terribly. I promise to look after your boys, all three of them. Promise me you'll be there waiting for me when it's my turn. We'll have so much to catch up on.
I'm not naive and I know that life will go on. I have said goodbye to my friend and I will eventually find comfort knowing that I will one day say hello to her all over again. But for now, I am sad. Sad for me, but more sad for Brian, Cooper, Parker and all her family and friends. I will end by sending out all my love to those who loved her--may you also find peace and comfort in your loss. I'm absolutely certain that she will be sending down all the love she can to help us do that. God bless you and keep you. May the Lord lift his countenance upon you and give you peace. Amen.”
I don’t remember making it back to my seat but I do remember hoping that in some way, she was proud of me for what I had said. I prayed desperately that she had been able to hear me somehow. I made it through the rest of the ceremony without much display until it was time for us all to leave. I watched my darling husband in his appropo grey suit, proceed to the casket and take his stance on the left side. As they raised the casket from its perch, I felt the muscles in my body tense and my heart begin to pound. I bent my head and tried frantically to bite back the flood of tears rising in my throat. She was leaving us for good and watching her go was almost unbearable. The usher nodded to me to rise and I practically leapt from the pew. I dropped my chin, ducked my head and stared at my feet as I shuffled up the aisle, soaking my high heels with my own tears.
When I hit the doors to the parking lot, there was a chilling breeze that whispered across my face. I felt the tears evaporating on my cheeks as I headed towards my car. Staring at me from the edge of the sidewalk was the limo where her family was sitting, waiting for the procession to the cemetery to begin. Her brother, Jason called me over to the window and I reached in to hold her husband, Brian’s hand. Thank yous and I love yous were whispered between us and then I let go and stepped away into the mob of mourners pouring out of the church and into the parking lot. I felt a hand on my back and when I turned to see who it was I sank into the embrace of my long time friend, Emily. The tears overwhelmed me again and as she held me she hollered into my ear, “this is just shitty!” We broke into awkward laughter, and as we separated she looked into my eyes and said the same words I felt like I had been spitting on repeat for days. “I’m sorry.”
In the days after Farrah’s funeral, I kept trying to describe to people what it felt like and I couldn’t quite paint the picture where they could truly understand. Everyone around me was walking forward and my feet were buried in thick mud, holding me in place while the world carried on around me. Time passed for everyone else but me. And I was grateful for it and resentful of it at the same time. I couldn’t bear the thought of going on without her and I was angry that the rest of the world could. I was clinging to the memory of how my life looked with her in it, unable to forge forward without her. It felt like I was intentionally leaving her behind and that felt incredibly wrong.
So I just stayed there in my grief. I would spend hours listening to music and rereading the eulogy I wrote. I know now that He was there with me, consoling me with the comfort of my own reverie. Allowing me to trudge through the waters of grief in my own way, holding me the whole time. It’s quiet how He does it. You recognize it more clearly in hindsight but if you look for it in the moment, you will feel it then as well.
“I waited and waited and waited for God. At last he looked; finally he listened. He lifted me out of the ditch, pulled me from deep mud. He stood me up on a solid rock to make sure I wouldn’t slip. He taught me how to sing the latest God-song, a praise-song to our God.” Psalms 40:1-3
Her story: how she loved, how we lost, and what I’ve experienced in all of the time that has passed since she died is now woven amongst words of wisdom from the Holy Spirit showing me how He is with us through it all, the beauty and the bewilderment.
