The prompt was to analyze our latest reading of "Macbeth." A rather mundane task which was to be expected of a typical Tuesday morning English class.

Then the phone rang. Although my typical response would be to turn my phone over and continue annotating Shakespeare’s work, I decided to step out and take the call. The immensity of the emotion that poured out of the other line of the phone, is beyond explanation.

Struggling to understand the broken words that were coming out of my best friend's mouth, I was able to gather the phrase, “It is cancer.”

That was just the beginning, at this point neither of us understood the enormity that was to come. Fast forward to her 18th birthday, we found ourselves sitting in a dreary hospital room awaiting her first round of chemotherapy. This would not stop her birthday.

Little did she know there was a party waiting for her in the next room over. One that included strawberry cake, lots of friends, and of course loads of presents. The next hour was fun. It seemed as if for a moment everything was normal, regardless of the hospital setting.

I looked over and could immediately tell. Her eyes lost their normal sparkle and her face immediately went pale. I knew it hit her. I let everyone know it was probably time to leave, and let her rest in her room. From what she tells me, the next night was dreadful. Hours were spent throwing up so hard that she popped the blood vessels in her eyes. The throbbing in her head and the exhaustion overtook her body. This was a glimpse into the next year and a half.

The next day I came back to the hospital to visit my best friend. Walking down the fifth floor was eerie. The sounds of kids crying, noises of people throwing up, and looking at the little kids who had been through more by the age of five than I had at 18 was heartbreaking. That somber feeling of floor five was eventually lifted when I entered room 522.

She still had a smile on her face. Despite the horrible night she had, she was ready for a new day. One full of conversation with her friends, and several TV shows. I could tell she was hurting. She would never say it. She just kept smiling. Weeks went by. The smile never left but the pain in her eyes strengthened. She was tired. She was depressed. She was sick, but never showed it.

I went off to college. Despite my best efforts to postpone this life transition, it was inevitable. She wanted me to. She wanted me to continue with my path. I didn’t want to leave. I remember saying goodbye as I drove off to begin this new chapter in my life. I knew she felt stuck, and I hated that. I hated the goodbyes and the pain in her eyes. I hated having to go. I still hate it. I hate that I had to leave her. Hate is a strong word, but this is the best instance in which I can apply it.

My phone buzzed. It was her mom. Again, not good news. The night before she had gone into septic shock. Not knowing what this was, I immediately opened up Google. I looked at my roommate and the tears began streaming. Her heart had stopped for eight minutes, and she was revitalized on her bathroom floor.

The next couple weeks would be spent in the hospital, in critical condition. Weeks went by and she began to build her strength back up. Talking became easier, walking became less of an obstacle, and hope returned.

She is now cancer-free and in remission. As I write this she is sitting across from me on the couch in Aspen, Colorado. This morning she hiked two miles and is looking forward to another strenuous hike tomorrow morning. She is the strongest person I know, and I couldn’t be more proud.