My friend Helen flew to Canada for a week’s vacation with her sister and never returned. A neatly dressed 60-year-old woman with Helen’s slim figure, silver-gray curls and radiant smile came back, but it wasn't the Helen I knew. She got off the plane so dazed and confused it was amazing she had been able negotiated the plane transfer required to get to Sea-Tac.

     Over the next two days Helen met with several doctors. Using a signature that resembled a chicken scratch more than her usually precise penmanship, she signed numerous forms authorizing a series of tests and giving her doctors permission to tell a neighbor and me the results.

     I remember the June morning when I heard the news. The doctor called while I was alone with Helen at her condo. The tests were conclusive. Helen had an inoperable brain tumor located in the center of her frontal lobe. The tumor’s placement made it impossible to treat with surgery and it would not respond to chemotherapy. The doctor suggested radiation treatments to reduce Helen’s cranial swelling and reduce the severity of her frequent headaches. His best hope was that the radiation treatments might add a month to Helen’s life. With or without treatments, Helen had only three or four months to live.

     By early September the possibility of a miraculous cure for her had passed. Now bedridden, Helen's king size bed dwarfed her rail-thin body. The figure in the bed barely resembled the woman I’d known for seven years. The elegant Helen who always dressed with care and who entered rooms with a ready smile was gone.

     As she lay in her bed, covered up to her chin with a white eyelet bedspread trimmed with lace, I could see only the face of my dear friend. Her once carefully coiffured hair hung limply around her emaciated face. The bright, smiling eyes that encouraged me through a dozen drafts of my first book were dull and vacant. No longer physically able to eat or drink, her bodily functions were closing down. And, although she could have been fed intravenously, one had to ask why? It would only prolong the inevitable. With no food or water Helen would be dead within a few days.

     One afternoon, I had the opportunity to sit alone with Helen in her bedroom. She floated in and out of consciousness as I sat on her bed and talking about things I remembered from when she was healthy. Although she could only flutter her eyelids in response, I hoped she could feel the love behind my words. I recalled the numerous times she boosted the morale of friends and acquaintances by listening with genuine interest to the stories of their lives. Helen always encouraged members of our writers’ club to pursue their writing dreams. Mentally replaying some of her pep talks, I wondered if she had kept enough of her powerful, self-confidence booster for herself. Over the past year she and I talked about her struggles to become more assertive. Instead of giving her time away to everyone who asked for help, she was learning how to say that magical two-letter-word, “No,” and to focus on her own needs and writing aspirations. But at her core, Helen remained a giver. She had been making great strides to combat her tendency to give too much when her brain tumor threw up an impenetrable roadblock. In an instant, her life as a world traveler, published writer and first-rate friend collapsed.

     Sitting beside her, I told Helen how her death was transforming my spiritual beliefs. I had begun the summer with my aversion to anything religious fully intact. Then slowly, my door of resistance cracked open. Helen’s condo became a laboratory were spiritual practices were put to the test. I knew she’d get a kick out of hearing about me praying, chanting and using touch healing. Although Helen was never pushy about her religious beliefs, she always let me know how important spirituality was to her well-being.

     After about fifteen minutes, I grew tired of hearing myself talk. Over the past three months I coped best when I could help Helen with her physical needs, by cooking food, running errands and helping her dress. Now she was beyond those necessities and I didn't know what to do.

     Standing up, I moved to the window and watched sunlight dance across the Puget Sound. A group of gulls circled overhead as a ferry prepared to land at the Edmonds’ dock. Turning back I caught a glimpse of my dear friend in the mirror over her dresser. Seeing Helen as a stranger might, my heart sunk and I slumped down on to the floor. Sitting on the tan carpet, my back against the cool outside wall, I watched the erratic rise and fall of her chest. Soon I found myself trying to match my breath with her’s, but the irregular rhythm made it difficult for me to stay in synch.

     Hearing Helen draw in a raspy breath, I matched her shallow intake. Seconds passed. My lungs were about to explode, when I finally heard her exhale. Whew! Than I waited, literally breathless, for her next intake. There was no pattern, no rhythm. The irregularity of her breaths reminded me of the Energizer Bunny winding down its drumming. Beat, beat-beat, half-beat, beat.

     After a few minutes my lungs begged for more oxygen. Taking in half a dozen lung filling, deep breaths I could almost hear my body say, “Ah, that feels better.” Then I’d return to my breath matching challenge with Helen. Sharing the room’s air with my dying friend felt sacred because I knew it was the last thing she and I could share together.