Dare

Dare

I couldn't jump from the airplane. The plane was circling the jump zone, round and round, while I stood in the doorway, paralyzed. The instructor was screaming at me, "go, go, go," and I stood there, frozen in time. Finally, Mary Jo's voice rang in my head, screaming "Jump you Chickenshit!" and I did. As I fell through the sky, my only thought was of her.

Mary Jo had started it. Ever since we were kids, we'd been daring each other to do unexpected things. Like the time I dared Mary Jo to make a mud pie and eat it, and she swallowed half a worm. That was fun. But then she dared me to eat a cockroach, and I threw up. Not so fun. As we grew into adulthood, the dares had gotten more dangerous and adrenaline filled. We pushed each other to confront our fears.

When I was young, I thought I was afraid of heights. As I grew older, I realized it wasn't heights I was afraid of, it was the sensation of falling. I couldn't jump off a diving board, bungee jump, rock climb. I experienced paralyzing fear, and would back out of the dares as gracefully as I could. But Mary Jo kept pushing me to go beyond my fear.

When we turned 30, Mary Jo felt a lump in her breast. She wanted to ignore it, thinking she was too young. I dared her to get it checked out. It was an aggressive form of cancer. Mary Jo was devastated. After her mastectomy, she seemed to wilt away. She said she felt like half a woman. After the surgery, I dared her to get a tattoo to cover the scar. She had a panther tattooed where her left breast had been. It was her favorite animal. She seemed to perk up after that. She enjoyed wearing outfits that would show off the tattoo. She liked the shock value.

At 32, the cancer came back. It was in her lymph nodes. We cried together. She shaved her head. She dared me to shave mine, and I did. We color coordinated our scarves for the day. The radiation treatments were destroying her body, but she tried to keep good humor. When she got down and wanted to give up, I dared her to live. Her eyes would light up and she'd tell me to "fuck off." But she would eat, and eventually rally.

At 33, her body got tired. She had fought as much as she could, but the flesh was no longer willing. We cried together. I moved in and cared for her. She was in pain and I knew she wanted to go. I think she was staying for me. She told me that when she died, she wanted me to jump out of an airplane in for her. I told her she was crazy. One afternoon, when her suffering seemed unbearable, I dared her to die. She took that dare.

Those were the thoughts racing through my mind, as I fell peacefully through the air. I cried as I pulled the rip cord, launching the parachute into the sky. As always, Mary Jo had the last laugh. She dared me to live, and I gratefully accepted.