The first page of my memoir
If there’s a quote I live by it’s this: “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” And I wouldn’t say it's because I am inherently kind, it's because I’ve been shown an indescribable amount of kindness and grace in my life. The type of kindness that changes and shapes you.
One of the kindest people I know is my best friend Mckenna. She is sunshine on shoes. Truly the brightest, happiest person you’ll ever meet. You’re helpless to want to be her friend. She is magnetic and funny and, as her best friend I can confidently say, a complete and utter dork.
We became best friends in sixth grade. We were in the same class and our brothers played hockey together. We have a hive mind, our similarities birthed a beautiful and goofy friendship. We bonded over crappy tv shows and fresh nachos. Making them at every hangout, inhaling them like children starved.
Mckenna has the unique ability of making you want to tell her anything. You know she’ll keep your secrets and you know she’ll honor your word.
When I was 13 going 14 my dad was diagnosed with stage four kidney cancer. I remember the day vividly. I had just gotten home from hanging out with Mckenna and our friends. My parents came home and I knew instantly something was wrong. The air was charged and my parents looked like someone had died. Instantaneously, the high from seeing my friends had vanished. I had assumed someone in my family must have passed, based on the looks on their faces, but my parents wouldn’t tell me anything until we all sat at the table. My mom made tea. Orange Pekoe, our family’s favourite.
We sat in a circle at the table, my dad at the head, and with tears and shaky breaths my parents explained they had found a mass on my dad’s lungs. At the time, he had a persistent cough that wouldn’t go away. We eventually learned this mass was cancer that had metastasized from his kidneys. My dad had been a fire fighter for almost 15 years and the harsh chemicals and toxins from his job saving lives had given him cancer.
When I got the news, all I wanted to do was scream. This wasn’t fair. My dad was kind and good and this sort of thing was something that you heard about happening to others, not something you live through yourself.
Initially my family wanted to keep it quiet, only telling people who had to know. I knew immediately I had to call Mckenna. She was a few towns over, about an hour and a half away, at her brother’s hockey game. I remember barely getting the words out. “My dad has cancer.” I remember hearing the way her breath caught, “Oh Ally.”
Mckenna drove home right away. Her and her mom left the game immediately and came and picked me up. I was in my pajamas, a common occurrence when I went to her house. She hugged me like I was going to run away. Her mom said something that still sticks 8 years later. “Ally you have a home here, you can come here whenever you need.” They gave me a safe place to land in a vicious storm.
At school, Mckenna was my guardian angel. She kept me from going crazy at how everyone acted normal while my world crumbled to the ground. I was teary eyed and choked up in the beginning getting through my days by hiding in a bathroom stall crying. Mckenna would sit with me. She never judged or acted like I was difficult. She was simply always there, making sure I knew I was never alone.
My dad started experimental treatment in America and got better for a bit. It wasn't perfect, but he was able to go back to work full time while completing treatment. Our family found a new normal in the next two years. But it was still hard—brutally so—and there were so many unanswered questions. Would he be cured? Could he die from this? What would we do if he did?
The intense anxiety put a strain on me. My shoulders were collapsing under the weight of it all. My mom put me in therapy. Mckenna was the first person I told about going. Her judging me never crossed my mind. I knew she would get it, and she did. “This is a good thing Ally, you can always use someone unbiased to talk to,” she said.
Mckenna made everything feel normal and logical, even when I felt that logic had gone out the window with my dad’s diagnosis. I constantly felt like I was stumbling on uneven ground, but then her hand would reach out and catch mine, steadying me.
I would be remiss to talk about kindness and not mention Maddy. I met Maddy through our baseball team at 15 and we instantly clicked. We nerded out about our shared dorky interests. Common ground was plentiful. Maddy is brilliantly funny and one of the wisest people I know. I swear she’s psychic in her ability to meet someone exactly where they are at and know exactly what they need.
Despite being on the same sports team, we lived several towns away from each other. Distance was never an issue, though. Somehow that was our super power. No matter how far away from each other we are, we always made the time.
Mckenna and Maddy were constants in a world of uncertainty. I had other friends who were absolutely supportive but they didn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who’s dad might die? Especially when you are only 16 and certainly don’t have all the answers. Most of my friends would avoid the topic entirely because it was inherently awkward. Cancer is scary and even just saying it out loud can feel infectious.
Mckenna and Maddy had figured it out though. There was nothing to say, but they could stay consistent. They could be in my corner, even when we stopped staying in the same social circles. They were still always my best friends.
Then Covid hit. We were isolated and my dad was extremely high risk with his compromised immune system. His treatment had stopped working. The end was near.
We spent those last few months together as a family, completely intertwined. We began and ended together. But even family units as strong as us aren’t immune to death.
On May 31st 2020, my dad died. The world had ended and swallowed me up. I can only describe it as a void. My dad was once there and then he wasn’t and now there is a void where he once was. A void that is painful and raw to the touch. I’d poke at it sometimes like you do a sore tooth with your tongue. It was physically painful. My chest felt like someone had sent a battering ram into it, my throat was raw from sobbing and my eyes swollen from all the tears.
There were very few people I wanted to see when he died. Besides my family, there were two exceptions: Mckenna and Maddy. I cannot talk about life changing kindness without mentioning them both. Mckenna was kind in her loyalty and her pure heart and Maddy was kind in her humour and ability to make the world disappear for a little while. They were both instrumental in salvaging my sanity in a storm of grief.
Maddy knew what I needed. She came and dropped off flowers and gifts, hugged me tight and then let me go. She knew I needed support and to know she was there for me, but she also knew better than to hold onto me when I was floating so far away. I needed space to rage and scream at the misfortune of my dad’s fate, and not everyone could witness that.
Maddy’s kindness in letting me go is unforgettable. Most have the instinct to hover, but she knew that I was a very private person and bearing my grief to the world wasn’t something I was capable of.
She loved me enough to show me she was there without making my grief a spectacle. She wasn't offended by the line drawn in the sand. Instead she sat by the line, waiting for me to be ready to cross it. Sometimes love means distance and Maddy knew how to broach it.
While Maddy was instrumental in all the ways that mattered, so was Mckenna. They were two sides of the same coin. Maddy offered me distance to collect myself while Mckenna bore witness to my naked grief in the most unorthodox way.
She hugged me and let me scream and cry. Then she settled my restless energy. Because I just wanted to do something—anything—to fix this impossible mountain of grief piling onto my chest.
“What do you want to do? What do you need?”
“Honestly? I want ice cream.”
So we got ice cream. I looked like a mess, completely red in the face and in disarray. We walked 15 minutes to the local corner store because I was particular. There were closer ones, sure, but I wanted the best one.
Mckenna didn’t complain, she didn’t tell me that I shouldn’t want ice cream at a time like this. Instead she asked, “what flavour are you going to get?”
Many people have a vision of how grief is supposed to look. You are supposed to be inconsolable and need every avenue of support. You need casseroles and edible arrangements and platitudes. But my friends knew that I was private and at times difficult. Sure I’d cry and yes I’d talk but I kept a lot inside. They allowed me to keep my privacy but not in exchange for isolation. I didn’t have to get touchy feely if I didn’t want to but I wasn’t allowed to disappear.
Because of these people I’ve learned that kindness isn’t conditional and not all kindness looks the same. Sometimes it’s distance, sometimes it's proximity. It's meeting people where they’re at and allowing them to show up as they are, broken pieces and all.
I have the luxury of having once in a lifetime friends who have taught me that kindness is freely given and everyone deserves it. I carry this lesson with me in every step I take, and I hope I can exemplify even an ounce of the kindness they have shown me.
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