"She died."

Today was a very strange day, and I'm probably in no position to write about this topic, but it's something that's been on my mind since my friend Dan walked in to my cubicle this morning to speak those words and relay the news. One of our company's freelance artists had been battling cancer for a few years now. I didn't know her very well, but I'm somewhat sure she was only in her early thirties, not much older than me. Shortly after getting married, she discovered she had breast cancer. She had one or both removed and everything seemed to be in remission after some treatments, and she had even returned to work.

When we were redesigning our catalog, my supervisor employed the assistance of several freelancers, including her, to present different options. I remember meeting with him at one point to go over some of their designs and as I was talking to him, she showed up in his door and paused. I had finished with what I had to say so I said “all yours” and waved her in with a smile that was returned. I think that may have been my last interaction with her. About a week later in a staff meeting, our boss mentioned that she wasn't feeling well again and we'd be without her services for an indeterminate period of time. I didn't think it was that long ago but I happened to be checking the files on our server, and I noticed that the last ones she had worked on were dated at the end of May.

I find comfort in routine, as many of us often do, in the certainty of where I'm going to be and what I'm going to be doing each day. I will forget things like my keys if I leave them anywhere but a specific corner of my desk. The danger of everything being the same all the time is that one day blurs in to the next, and what seems like a few weeks might in fact be months. Just yesterday, I was dropping off some paintings I was returning to a few of my illustrators. Our FedEx pickup point is in a corridor that isn't used all that often anymore, but our company bookstore used to be there. It moved to a larger location after some renovations and the company hired a much nicer cashier than the previous one, yet yesterday out of nowhere I had a sudden twinge of nostalgia. I remembered when I was first with the company more than five years ago, when the small bookstore was open to only one floor of our building at a time on assigned days of the week. Going to the bookstore used to be a social event for myself and friends new and old. I looked at the shelf I'd placed my packages upon and remembered a much younger MCF sitting there, in the middle of a long line, waiting to get in and enjoying the company of my new friends. As headed back up the stairs, the realization of how long ago that was hit me, though it didn't FEEL like it had been that long.

A few weeks ago some of this girl's friends in the company organized a bake sale as a fundraiser, the proceeds of which the company would match. In a few weeks, a comedy show would be held as another benefit and the signs advertising it are still scattered about the office. I didn't know the specifics of her condition or how far the cancer had spread into her body, and it was a real shock when my friend told me this morning. It was one of those genuine, routine-shaking moments like the announcement of layoffs, or planes crashing in to skyscrapers. It was the merciless stab of reality, a punch to the gut that leaves a lump in one's throat and makes a mouth go dry. As I mentioned, I didn't really know her all that well, so I do feel a bit out of place writing about this, but the news definitely affected me. It's not the first time our company has lost someone young to cancer either, and it echoed another loss from 4 or 5 years ago. In that instance, the head of our department had called a big meeting to break the news to a shocked and crowded room. That, too, was a strange day.

It's tough to go back to work, to the routine, familiar and safe after hearing something like that. There's a conscious effort, a feeling of wading through molasses not unlike one of those dreams in which the dreamer tries to run, and finds he or she cannot move. What made the day truly surreal was the company barbecue this afternoon. As we wended our way through the crowds, snippets of conversations from various tables could be heard. Everyone was talking about the same thing. At our table one of my co-workers made the inevitable observation about life and how the expression “at least you have your health” normally sounds so empty. People get down about a lot of things, whether it's not having enough money, not liking where they live or hating their job, and the cliché about health is never welcome until you hear about someone who doesn't have their health. Suddenly, it's real, and it makes you appreciate breathing a little bit more. I could do little more than nod in assent to his observation.

I had a meeting scheduled at 1:00 and had to head back from the barbecue earlier than I normally come back from lunch. There was plenty of work to keep me busy after the meeting, and after work I had my second great workout session in the gym this week. Finally, I’ve been finishing early enough to get there before it closes. Driving home though, I began thinking about how my day began, and realized those two small words continued lurking in my subconscious. Maybe it's in poor taste to turn someone else's loss into an entry on my site, but I’m compelled to write what's on my mind. That's what I do here, every day. We're all mortal and will die someday, but as with another instance I once wrote about, the sooner it happens the more tragic it is. I can only pray she's in heaven now and no longer in pain, and that her husband and family can find the strength to persevere. I can't imagine what this must be like for them.

Cherish every moment you’re alive, and every moment you have with your family and friends.