When Get Well just isn't Enough

A dear friend of mine is laying in a hospital bed fighting for her life tonight. The doctors say it's terminal. Tabor says it's negotiable.
She believes in the power of prayer. She believes in herself. And she believes in miracles.
I hope with all my heart that she's right. I met Tabor as a sophomore in college. She was the managing editor at the paper, and eventually the managing editor for me while I was the EIC. Tabor has spent the majority of her life in school. She's an ordained minister with the African Methodist Episcopal church. She's an African drummer. She's mysterious and intriguing. I don't think Tabor even realizes the depth of her mind. She is a force to be reckoned with. And she's a born teacher. She's the type that teaches without even realizing it.
Tabor taught me to sit down, relax and sing when the nerves hit your stomach like a hive of bees. That's what we did while we waited for the editorial board's decision.

She then taught me composure and grace when I got the job and she didn't. She took me out to lunch, and told me I would succeed.
Tabor taught me that the right decision doesn't always make you popular, but it does make you successful. She taught me to not worry so much about what other people think.
She also taught me that she was not the best pick to have in the room when firing someone. Apparently stressful situations make her laugh. Uncontrollably. At all the wrong moments.
Tabor taught me that being different is beautiful. She would sit in her chair, editing a story on the screen and quietly gaze into space. Contemplating, she'd say. Thinking. Mulling. Very philosophical. She taught me that being weird is good. It's definitely served her well.
Tabor taught me that a look says more than a thousand words. Especially a look from her.
Tabor taught me that washing African-American hair is a weekly ordeal. And takes hours. She also taught me that Ciclids are lovely fish and deserve memorial services when they pass.
She taught me that things will get done. That it's okay to relax, take my time, and work at my own pace. What will be will be. And nothing is insurmountable.
Tabor taught me that Woodchuck on tap is far superior to that which is in a bottle. She tried to teach me to appreciate Bombay Sapphire, but, sadly, it seems that will never happen for "Thrasher" (her nickname for me).
Tabor taught me to block out all the noise. She also taught me a bunch of words I still can't remember.
Tabor is beautiful. And brilliant. She has taken the term "lifelong learner" to a whole new dimension. She's been a student at Virginia Tech since I was in high school, and will receive her most-recent degree, a doctorate, May 14.
Tabor taught me that life is a journey. And we don't have a map. She also taught me that it's more interesting that way. She taught me that thinking is a worthwhile pastime, and that the world, flawed as it is, remains beautiful.
I find myself praying constantly "Please, God. Just let Tabor wear her robes and get that degree. Please." I watch my son play, and wonder what she's thinking and how she's feeling. I watch the birds nest and wonder why her.
She may not realize it, but Tabor has spent most of her life teaching people to think and accept. To question. She certainly has taught me more than I can fully realize. And these words can never do her justice.
I wish I could be there to hold her hand. To tell her to fight. To get a Tabor look and ask her to define half of the words she uses in every day conversation. I wish I could be there to slip some of that Christmas-tree gin into her Slurpee. But I can't.
I know that whether Tabor decides to fly with angels or walk the earth a little while longer, she will bless either realm with a uniqueness most people will never know. She is one-of-a-kind, and she is loved. And she has blessed and enriched more people's lives than she will ever realize. Including mine.