Last Friday, I drove to Green Bay. I wasn’t going to a Packer Game. I went to see a friend who I am afraid I won’t be able to see again.

A dubious example of being a rare individual, my friend was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years ago and had seemed to have licked it, except that it came back with a vengeance last spring (Men are diagnosed with breast cancer one seventh as frequently as women). As I understand his condition, it is pretty much eating up his spine.

Before I left home, I was very conscious that I did not want to be a bundle of emotions around him. The last thing I wanted to do was put him in a position of taking care of me when he had to share the dance floor with his own thoughts and emotions.

In the nearly twenty years that I’ve known him, we have maybe spent thirty days together. We lost touch for probably ten years. Yet, from the beginning, we had a real heart connection. When I stepped down the short flight of stairs of his sister’s split level, which they had made into a sort of suite where he could get around with his walker, all that mattered was catching up.

He asked me about my life. I talked excitedly about the blog I had started and about my desire to go to Maachu Piccu, how I wanted to find a partner, a soul mate. He showed me photographs stored in his laptop. It became sort of a game for us, together, to figure out which directories different pictures could be found. He showed me photos of one of his recent motorcycles, which he named Tango, and pics from his “50 states in 30 days tour.” We looked over photos of some of the artwork he had done, now, mostly in storage. He showed me a photo he took of his own shadow. I couldn’t help but smile. I had posed for a similar shot of myself at a Chicago beach barely two months ago.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my tatts?” he teased me, referring to his collection of Varga Girl style inked pin-ups conspicuously displayed on both forearms.

“Well yes, I was going to get to that.” I laughed.

We had dinner together in the TV room part of his suite. I had a glass of wine. Then we went into his bedroom where he stretched out on his bed and we watched a blu-ray DVD on Alaska. It was kind of like going on vacation together. “The narration got a little corny sometimes, but the scenery was mind-blowing,” I said afterwards. He agreed. We called it a night at 8:00.

The next morning, he was hit with a terrible bout of nausea. We chatted for a bit then decided he should take a nap. He woke up an hour later. We both realized he needed more than a nap’s worth of sleep. I kissed him and drove back to Chicago. It was a shorter visit than I had hoped for, but I am so glad I went. It was perfect.

Whatever grace I lent him by witnessing his life without hovering over his challenges, he gave back to me in equal measure. He has always listened to me in such a way that I couldn’t help but feel seen and heard.

Holding the space for another person to be totally himself, to reveal all the love and fear, hope and regret that wants to be seen, and still allow for some pieces of his story to stay in the shadows – holding that person in your heart fully, in the moment, wherever they’re at in their life – is no small thing.