Today we had a funeral.  I didn’t expect it.  But if you have been following along, then you know that already.

A few years ago, Hayley and I decided you could only have a few really close friends in your life.  Five, or maybe seven at most.

I was Hayley’s third best friend.  And at her funeral today, as her third best friend, this is what I said:

Hayley and I are only friends because of cancer.

We met when she came home to be diagnosed, and embark on her treatment.

We first met at CCK, the chiropractic office I was working in at the time, but we really became friends after meeting up at the Koala Bar in Noosa.  We had both gone there to see a band, independently, and found each other by chance.  I impressed Hayls with my Jump Dancing skills, (which are legion by they way), and we were friends from then on.

*****

We were able to become close friends because of cancer.

Hayley wasn’t working at that stage, as she was devoting all of her energy to various things;

• strengthening her body,
• clearing her mind,
• eating nurturing organic food,
• and of course, getting ready to meet John, the love of her life, for the second time.

We used to spend endless hours lunching at the Organic Cafe, or swimming laps at Coolum pool, with lots of time to chat about all of the things under the sun.  We thought we had forever.

When I was pregnant with Liam, Hayls told me that she would be “Aunty Hayley” and I agreed.  I don’t have a sister, and having a pretend sister such as Hayls was a gift and a joy.  I liked to think that people would hear Liam, and later, Coco, say “Aunty Hayley” and think we were actual sisters.

My ‘little sister’ made me laugh more than anyone in the world.

She softened my sharp edges.

She made me irreverent, made me swear, made me play, made me light.

I could tell her anything.

I could do anything, dream anything.

I could be my whole truth.

Because she encouraged such things.

So now the very thing that gave me my friend, my honorary sister, has taken her away.

*****

A patient of mine told me last week that she believes some people build bridges toward others, that they have a talent for bringing people close.   Hayley was one of those people.   She built roads and tracks and pathways to entwine, and join us all together.  She did it with her cheeky sense of humour, her naughtiness, her strength and her gutsiness, her loyalty and dependability, and her laugh, always her laugh.  She built bridges to us all, and she built them well.

Hayley was a chef of food of course, but she was also a chef of the soul.  It’s like she could take a little piece of you, the very piece that you liked the most about yourself, and then she would roll it and knead it and carefully bake it until it was all plumped up, making you better than you were before.  It’s how she made her markings on your heart.

She named her cafe Sister, and even though I know it was meant for Rick and Belinda and Hayley, I like to imagine that she meant it for all of us.  I like to think, that with the laughter that was always just under the surface, and ready to burst forth, and the truthfulness that was always, always there, that she made us all her sisters.

Those of you who know me, will know I love a good literary reference, and so today I would like share with you a reading.  It’s called ‘The Best Friends Book’.

(Sorry blog readers: I gave the book to darling Olive, but it is by Todd Parr.. I did intend to take a pic of it to show you, but, well, I don’t think I was at my bloggy best…  The last line is: )

“Best friends stay close even if they are a million miles away.”

*****

Oh Halys, I wish you weren’t a million miles away.

Cheers.  I might* be pissed as I post this. Sorry if it’s a bit rough.  I’m not proof-reading.

*Am

The Griswald-Ashers arrived in Newy, safe and sound.

We left before sunrise and arrived just before sunset.  Coffees were drunk, chips and lollies were eaten, bladders were extended. Children teased each other and were yelled at by parents*.  Seats were kicked and small people asked, “Are we there yet?” and “Why didn’t we catch a plane?” seventeen million times.

We answered, “Not yet” and “Because” seventeen million and one times.

Forget the Big Banana, the Giant Clam,  the Big Prawn and the Big Rock, they may be of passing interest to the novice traveller, but the Grisashers found the tourist spot to rival all others.  We found the place where Bogans are made.

And if that isn’t enough, it is also the home of the Worst Cafe in the Known World.  We toddled into town, saw the Worst Cafe in the Known World, and made a beeline for it.  It had a cute wraparound verandah, and the place was positively pumping when we arrived.  So we took our seats expectantly.

We soon noticed a pungent odour, a fragrant mix of stale urine and skanky four-day-old lettuce.  Of course we should have left right then, but: children.  Hungry children.  And not a golden arch in sight.

We soon saw why the joint was packed.  The local retirement village was having an outing.  That explained at least some of the urine smell.  I think patrons preferred to relieve themselves like Ruprect in their seats, because whilst we were there, two old dears got locked in the toilet.  The one and only waitress had to jimmy them free them with a butter knife.  Clearly it was safer to  just piss in your seat.

The remainder of the clientele were in the 18-25 age bracket, accompanied by their numerous offspring.  They were striking in their uniformity, in that all of the males had a style of haircut we used to call “tails” in the 80s,  and all of the women had tattoos of their partner’s names, in a florid script, on the nape of their necks.  The only distinguishing features were whether the tails were plaited or not, and the variation in name.  (None of the names had traditional spellings. So I guess it could be confusing.)

I was going to say something a bit rude about why a woman would want to have a tatt on the back of her neck of her mate’s name, perhaps as a form of  identification useful in the throes of passion, by said mate, from the rear vantage point.  But I won’t.

I took photos of the Worst Cafe in the Known World, as well as the swill we were served,  (and dutifully ate, mind you) but I just can’t post them.  I’ve had a fit of conscience, as the Worst Cafe is clearly identifiable.  And that’s really not very nice.

Plus a Bogan might punch me or Nath in the face.

And who knows what one of the men might do.

*Okay, not parents. Me.  I did the yelling.  But they were really shitting me. It was 7.04am.

Do you eat in crappy places on road trips?

Tell me your worst meal…

Tomorrow, we be the Griswalds, and we are going on a road trip.

By the time you are reading this, we will be far from home, hopefully on the other side of the Gold Coast, maybe somewhere around Byron Bay.

We have a fridge in the back and surfboards on the roof.  Miss Xtrailia 2013 has never looked so sporty.

We are travelling down South to a funeral, to say our goodbyes to a chick who lived and laughed like a boss.

So I don’t know when I’ll be posting.  If I can get wifi and a charged computer, I’ll tell you all about it.  Maybe on Thursday I will write you my words from the day.

But for now, think of us, rolling along, Willie Nelson in the background.

Last week, My Friend John called me to tell me that my friend, his wife, could be dying.  He said that things weren’t really going well, and that she might not pull through.  He also said that he might be wrong.  So I thought maybe he might be the boy who cried wolf.  I hoped he was.

I packed a bag, booked a flight and organised the kids, but with a sense of unreality.  My friend couldn’t die.  She was a machine.  She did chemo and chemo and chemo again, and she was always fine.  She killed cancer when it came up.  She engrafted stem cells.  She was a legend at this stuff.  There was no way some stupid little virus could kill her.

It wasn’t until I got in the car, with the wide open road stretching before me, that I knew it was true.  My friend of so long was dying, and there was not one single thing I could do.

All of a sudden it seemed vitally important to savour the world.  I drove with the windows down so I could feel the air and smell the world.  I had the music pumped with bops and pops that sang of happiness and light.  I tried to drink in all the sights of the land as I whizzed by.  Because I knew this was the last time for a while I would be able to see and hear and smell and feel and touch things properly, and clearly.  I knew what would come next.  Haze and fog and dull.

And the sad.  So much sad.

The sun started to set and it became imperative to get pictures, even as I sped along toward the thing I dreaded most, for this was the last day of the sun with Hayley in it.

And after a while the sun set.  And she was gone.