Mary Kate

I met Mary Kate when she was part of the welcoming committee at Voyagers' orientation for our first Fall semester. While not completely new to homeschooling, I was new at this homeschooling coop and a bit tentative. Mary Kate didn't waste any time. She plunked herself down in the chair next to me, the omnipresent reporter's notebook in hand: you know, those long, thin, lined ones. After the usual introductions, the recruitment began. “How old is your child? You have a boy? Excellent. Is he interested in Shakespeare?” she asked. I had no idea if he was interested in Shakespeare but her enthusiasm almost made me hope he was before I really knew what she was talking about.

It turns out that he did perform in Voyagers Shakespeare Company; Mary Kate was a producer. Those notebooks of hers contained every last detail of each production from rehearsal schedules to costuming to publicity to ticket sales. Once, when the notebook went missing, we all dropped what we were doing and scoured the premises searching for it. I found it on a windowsill just behind a flap of curtain. She shrieked in delight; she was saved!

We attended Voyagers on different days so our only real connection was through Shakespeare. Until The Diagnoses. When I learned Mary Kate had melanoma, I joined our mutual friends with feelings of shock and sadness. I had a few private conversations with her, mostly of a practical nature, concerning how her treatment would impact her involvement at the coop. We didn't touch on how her diagnosis was affecting her family, or her personally, at all. Until my diagnosis.

We were in the Voyagers office when I told her, and the bond was instantaneous. I was new to this cancer thing and didn't realize at that time how this disease unites those afflicted. Mary Kate grabbed my hands in hers and we let the tears flow, something neither of us allowed often. Although our cancers were different, both diagnoses were late stage, and dire. From that point on, outside of her close circle of friends, mine was one of the few calls she would take. We let each other prattle on, didn't ask too many questions, appreciated the importance of just listening. My youngest kid had recently celebrated a birthday; I told her how I worried I would not see another. Her only daughter, 6 or so at the time, had been dreaming aloud about her future wedding; Mary Kate had to leave the room so her sadness wasn't revealed.

I was lucky. My treatment plan was straight forward and went smoothly. Mary Kate was not so lucky. Regular treatments didn't work; she must have been enrolled in every clinical trial available. When they found a tumor in her brain, I accompanied her to the brain oncologist; her husband was unavoidably out of town and she wanted someone non-emotional who would ask tough questions and take good notes. I was honored. When she returned from yet another trial, this time at the National Cancer Institute, I picked her up at the airport and watched her doze off in the passenger seat on the way home. “I just have to hang in there until the technology catches up,” she said. “I know it's stupid, but I'm pissed that I'm losing my hair.” She had great hair, long and thick and red. She had every right to be pissed.

Today, a day after Mary Kate passed away, I can't get her out of my mind. I hope I never completely do.