Suzanne Rathburn 1962-2008

When Suzanne called last August, she knew something most of us don't know, how much time she had left to live. Two months to a year. Fate compromised and gave her five months.

At the time I wanted to believe the doctors were wrong. "They're so often wrong."

"I know," she said, but I could tell she was resigned to it. This was her third encounter with cancer and she was choosing chemotherapy again to buy time, even though ultimately it would be painful, uncomfortable time. "I can't possibly get my affairs in order in two months."

I never saw Suzanne during the bad times. When she'd show up again, she always had her hair back and was in high spirits. She would come by to record a song in my husband's studio or swim in my pool. She was always happy. She laughed a lot, almost as a punctuation to every sentence. Even when she talked about her bad relationships -- some that were Lifetime movie of the week bad and some that just fizzed out quietly -- she did it in an offhand, casual way. Those bad relationships were 90 percent of what we talked about because we didn't have much else in common except a few mutual acquaintances. I hope that wasn't an all-consuming part of her life.

She considered everyone a good friend. We could and did go a year or more without seeing or talking to each other, and yet she considered me a good friend. My cell phone number was in the book of people to call at the end. How could that be? She was just that way. She embraced people. She was full of gratitude and appreciation for any little thing you did for her and she expressed it. I felt overpaid in appreciation, truly undeserving.

She was a people-person. If I sent her an email, I'd get a call back in seconds, not a return email. So when I heard the news back in August and sent her an email offering whatever I could do, I wasn't surprised when the phone rang the moment I hit "Send."

I listened, as usual. That was all I was ever able to do, listen. She was saying good-bye even though the battle was just beginning. She loved all her friends. She would miss them. She said it was hard to breathe, hard to speak, although except for one coughing spell, she sounded fine on the phone. I don't think she was religious, yet she conjured up a death where she still existed with human emotions.

"I'm going to miss you guys so much!"

As fall progressed and the holidays passed, no news was good news. Then right after the holidays, I got another call. She sounded great and was positive and upbeat. She had even gone back to work part-time. She alluded to being in crushing pain, and yet she was picking up her life again. The doctors were telling her there were fewer tumors. "I'm going to beat this, Mariane, I really think I'm going to beat this."

"Well, then, I'll see you in the summer when we open the pool."

"Oh, I can't go in the sun anymore because of the chemotherapy."

"Okay, we'll swim at night."

But it wasn't a turning point. It was the view from the top of the sliding board, because within a week, the slide began. In mid-January we heard she was in hospice care. I dutifully carried the phone number around in my purse, with all intentions to go by, but instantly a chain of minor problems consumed me for two weeks, and the moment I dispatched the last one, the cell phone rang in my pocket.

"We found your telephone number in a book Suzanne kept."

The summer she was recording her album, she paid for one session in flowers. She brought a carload of flowers over and planted them in the two giant pots on either side of my front steps. That summer the front of the house looked great, an explosion of color and beauty that multiplied throughout the season. Then winter came and they all died and didn't come back. They were flowers for a single season, a temporary burst of vibrant life, and then they were gone.