I found out Thursday that my friend Sandy had gone into a coma. It had been a long day at work followed by a terrific reading I attended by Pulitzer prize-winner Edward P. Jones, reading from his novel The Known World, which is an amazing book about slaveowning blacks in the antebelleum South. The room was packed and I was drawn back into this novel I loved when I read it last summer, an unusual book about an unusual topic but so vividly imagined. The whole time I had my friend on my mind, and that night I slept horribly. I woke up with a start in the middle of the night, having a feeling I couldn't even describe-- feeling like I had seen something so vivid in my sleep that I wanted to remind myself to remember the shock of it the next morning, but I couldn't tell you what it was I saw or experienced, except that it was something strange.

On Friday I woke up earlier than I wanted to, feeling like I had not slept at all. I parked my car at the college where I work and trotted off for a three mile jog, running much slower than I normally do. When I came back to my car to get my clothes for the shower, I saw there was a message on my cell phone, so I immediately hit redial. It was Sandy's boss in the IT department of our college, telling me she'd passed away during the night.

I hadn't known her that long in the scheme of things. When I moved to Florida last May, she was my first new friend. We were the same age and we both wanted to buy a house, so that was the quest that united us last summer, and we spent considerable time talking about it-- neighborhoods, school districts, mortgage brokers, proximity to good restaurants, and that sense of finally owning something tangible, another rite of passage into adulthood. A house-- stability, age thirty just around the corner for both of us, both of us married but with no children yet.

She and her husband had just made an offer and were going through with the inspection when she found out she had leukemia. Our friendship had been developing as friendships often do-- you like the person, but there's no reason to rush things, because you've got all the time in the world to get to know them. When I heard she was sick and going into chemotherapy immediately, I felt a sense of urgency. I kept up with her and visited her after her treatments, and we exchanged long emails every week. At the beginning of October I asked her how she'd feel if I ran the Disney marathon in her honor, and I was thrilled when she told me that she would be honored. I threw myself into fundraising, canvassing, bake sales, you name it-- I'd never done this kind of thing in my life. I kept her updated about my training. She told me all the details of her treatment, and how she'd found that a few of her longtime friends shied away from her now that she was sick, but that she was happy I hadn't been like that.

I last saw her at her apartment the week before I ran Disney. She was enthusiastic about the stem cell transplant she was to receive in Gainesville the night before I ran. She was afraid her husband wasn't facing the fact that the transplant might fail, and she had been trying to prepare him for it. But she seemed pretty optimistic, and I felt optimistic for her-- after all, the donor was a "ten out of ten" match, whatever that means. The next week, after I'd written her to tell her all about the marathon, I got a long letter from her. She had sent plenty of emails, and in the mail she'd sent me cards, a Lance Armstrong bracelet, Christmas letters, etc, but this was a long letter. She described the transplant process, said she was so proud of me for running the marathon, and then she wrote:

"The bone marrow transplant unit has 20 patient rooms. All of them are occupied. I have met a few people while I have been up here. The stories of people here are really amazing. No one should have to go through this disease. Cancer is such a hard disease. When I get better, I want to volunteer with the leukemia society. I want to help others who have this. It doesn't seem so scary when you know someone understands what you are going through. I know you had mentioned something about starting a bone marrow drive when I get better. I think we should definitely do that when I am back. There is always a need for donors, especially minorities. I know people here who have been waiting for a donor for quite a while. It just makes you feel so helpless. I was lucky that a donor was found so quickly, and I thank God every night for that. I also thank God that I have a friend like you. We have a special bond that can't be broken."

I was so touched when I got the letter, and it broke my heart yesterday, reading it. For awhile it was looking like smooth sailing with the transplant, until she came down with this graft-versus-host disease, and her heart and liver finally gave out. I spoke to her husband and he told me about her final hours. He seemed to want to report the details to somebody, even though I don't know him well. I've been crying a lot, off and on, thinking about her family, many of whom sent me letters when they sent me donations for the marathon. The funeral is in Louisiana, but we'll do a memorial service here in Florida soon.

I've been trying to notice everything: burying my nose in the bag of coffee beans, looking up at the intense blueness of the sky, trying to separate out the flavors in the raspberry chocolate cheesecake I had for lunch. I want to tell the people around me over and over again how much I love them; how lucky I am to have them. I can't quite believe this outcome-- I really did think we would be there at Disney next year, cheering on the Team In Training participants, starting that bone marrow drive together at the college. And her presence in the letters and emails she wrote is still so very strong-- it's really hard to believe she's gone.

I wanted to run ten miles today and think about her the whole way. I wanted to notice every detail, the songs I was hearing on my iPod, the humanity in the faces of the people I pass... the old guy I see running with his dog every day, the father and his daughter on their tandem bike, the way my muscles and my body felt so strong as they carried me over the trail. The sun beating down and the cool wind counteracting it. I did not want that run to end. But I couldn't quite accomplish ten miles-- I still had energy, but I started to feel the IT band hurting after 8, so I stopped, conscious of my limitations. For today, that's all I had in me, and I guess it was enough.