A Friendship Beyond Truth: Lessons from Danza

In the course of life, one often assumes that true love is synonymous with truthfulness. Yet, an experience with my friend Danza, just a month before she passed away, shifted this perception entirely. It was during a warm Friday in March that the air carried the scent of cherry blossoms, adding a serene sweetness to the atmosphere.

On that day, I awaited my friend Elsie who soon arrived, clad in cut-off denim shorts and a sleeveless top, reminiscent of the style from 1969. Despite the wedge sandals she wore, my hug barely reached her shoulder. Her eyes mirrored apprehension. “How do I prepare for this?” she inquired softly.

“She remains Danza,” I reassured, “only without hair.” “Will I still recognize her?” she asked nervously. My assurance was firm. “Absolutely.” Elsie’s presence brought a much-needed sense of comfort. I led her to the bedroom, granting them privacy while I stepped into the kitchen. When I returned, traces of tears marked their faces. Elsie sat on the edge of the bed, playing with a corner of the duvet, a familiar gesture. “Okay chickadee!” she clicked her tongue playfully, marking the start of a transformative moment.

From her bag emerged a suite of cosmetics: eyeliner, eye shadow, lipstick, lip liner, face powder, and rouge. In my possession was massage cream fragrant with essential oils, and a lavender silk scarf. Our high school days seldom had room for cosmetics, except when we were performing on stage. Those days were plagued by pore-clogging greasepaint. We embraced natural beauty, infused with the authenticity of Carole King’s songs. Even as we grew, our approach to makeup remained cautious, far removed from our high school theatrics.

Our mission was clear. We sought normalcy by altering appearances, something we often did as teenagers. As the hourglass drained beside us, the hope was to rekindle color in Danza’s face, perhaps inspiring a brief escape from the realities surrounding us.

For 25 years, our friendship thrived on being genuine, never needing pretense. I was unprepared for the revelation that awaited.

We elevated the hospital bed until Danza was seated upright, her head supported by a pillow, eyes gently shut. Elsie initiated the makeover, applying powder meticulously and layering shadows delicately, ending with lilac tones. When she stepped back to admire her handiwork, I proceeded with the sable eyeliner. Its usage, a skill imparted to me by Danza during the high school years, felt especially poignant now. As I traced the line on her eyelid, Danza softly joined the familiar tune, “You make me feel… like a natural woman.”

Elsie massaged Danza’s hands with the smell of aromatic cream lifting spirits, while her silver bangles chimed softly. Following chemotherapy, Danza’s eyebrows had not survived, but we addressed this now. Her lips soon echoed the rich shade of mulberry, and the lavender scarf we tied around her brought her features to vivid life. Her expression now mirrored warmth, her cheekbones and smile radiating energy.

“Doe-shaped eyes accented by a bald head. Solid fox,” Danza mused in jest while posing playfully.

Our laughter briefly transported us back to high school days. Not long ago, our peers thrived amid the chaos of drugs and political protests, while Danza and I dedicated ourselves to volunteering at the local hospital. Danza had been back to that very hospital earlier, now serving as a cancer center.

“Remember the pink and white uniforms?” I reminisced.

“Ugh. Those white stockings suffocated my legs,” she replied with a grimace. “And our pigtails tied with pink ribbons. Weren’t we adorable?”

Her smile faded slowly, “You keep asking these questions. Why don’t you just ask me what’s really on your mind?”

Doubts crept in. “Danza, what do you mean?”

“It’s not about your words; it’s what you’re avoiding,” she posited.

I felt the silence engulfing, paralyzing my voice.

“Danza, is there something you want to share?” I managed to ask.

Her nod conveyed a weighted resolve. “Yes,” she replied, her face stoic.

Elsie placed a soft kiss on Danza’s cheek and departed discretely.

“You’re going to despise me,” Danza declared.

“What would cause such a reaction?” At that moment, recollections of Danza’s elaborate tales surfaced, yet this felt starkly real.

“The birthday party…” she hesitated, and I waited. “Well, it never happened.”

I recalled vividly my 16th birthday. The promise of a surprise party, made impossible by my flu. Her despondent call informed me of its cancellation. In subsequent days, there was silence. No hints of celebrations, no overdue gifts, nothing. The truth, as revealed now, was a party had been imagined, not realized due to financial constraint.

Then and there, the illusion shattered. Distorted perceptions of Danza’s circumstances came into focus—her life shaped by necessity rather than choice, a reality I couldn’t comprehend then.

“Danza, it wasn’t your fault,” I said steadily, “that lack doesn’t affect my feelings towards you.” I held her gaze firmly, pushing the truth out in earnest steps.

My growing awareness, fueled by personal financial struggles, clarified the depth of her sacrifice. Pleas of love and appreciation filled our tear-stained moments, intertwining our hearts and absolving her guilt.

Upon opening the door, Elsie waited. “I’m so sorry,” I admitted.

“Boy,” she responded, closing a magazine, “that was tough.”

I shared the exchange with Danza, my emotions laid bare. Her revelation reframed what I once perceived as a fracture. It was, in reality, a testament to how deeply she valued our friendship.

The hospice nurse soon joined and reassured me. She explained it wasn’t uncommon for those at life’s end to emerge from medication-induced haze to resolve emotional weights. Expertly navigating vitals and medication, she confirmed Danza’s peace.

For me, the struggle subsided too. The depth of true friendship transcended the limitations of honesty. It encompassed silence, self-sacrifice, and hidden burdens carried unbeknownst to spare loved ones unnecessary grief. Danza’s silence regarding my 16th birthday became a unique expression of our relationship’s purity.

Megan Vered, a native of Berkeley, California, contributes essays to various publications.

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