February 2004, New York and Norway

By Pamela Heyer Santore

She was a foreign exchange student from Norway. I was a native New Yorker. She was a statuesque blonde with funky hair. I was a petite brunette with braces. We were as different as night and day.

It was the fall of my junior year of high school when I walked into English class one morning and noticed her sitting in the seat next to mine. Who was she? Where did she come from? She wasn’t there yesterday.

I greeted her with a hello and what must have been a thousand questions. She was an exchange student from Norway who had already attended another school in Virginia. Not happy there, she found another host family and came to New York. She was from a land far away, where they hunted polar bears, she said. She pronounced her “W” like a “V” and her “V” like a “W.” We immediately became friends.

She fell in love with her house “brother,” and ended up staying in New York an extra year. When they broke up, she returned to Norway.

We stayed in touch over the years, and although it could be years between visits, I always knew that if she stepped foot in the United States, she’d find her way to my doorstep. I even made a trip to Norway one Christmas to visit with her. The memories I have from that adventure, I continue to hold close to my heart.

Years passed and still we maintained this very special and very distant friendship. She came for my wedding and I included her in the ceremony as if she were one of my sisters. She remembered me as I had my children.

One day, I received a call from a man she was dating, one whom I’d met during her last visit in New York. My dearest friend in the world was in trouble. While on a business trip in Greece, she was brutally attacked and raped by three men.

I phoned her immediately and I shed tears as she described the horrific incident. She’d never asked me for a thing during the 20 years I’d known her, but she was about to. She asked me to fly to Norway to help her through what can only be described as emotional agony.

Although my initial reaction was, “Yes, I’m coming,” there were many variables to consider before I was able to commit to going.

I was no longer a teenager with no responsibilities. I was no longer a college student with only my grades to worry about. I was no longer single and working at a job where I could schedule two weeks vacation at a moment’s notice. I was a wife and mother with a husband and three children to take care of. I was also pregnant with my fourth child.

As much as, and maybe because of how much my husband loves me, I had to make sure he was comfortable with my leaving him at home alone with the three kids. Although he supported my emotional reaction to my friend’s tragedy, it was not easy to let his pregnant wife get on a plane alone and fly halfway across the world. To be honest, I wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of having to leave my children without me — never an easy thing for a mother to do.

Another consideration was flying during my pregnancy. In an uncomplicated pregnancy, flying during the second trimester is not usually a problem. However, having experienced pre-term labor with two of my other pregnancies, flying could be cause for concern. I needed to get medical clearance before I embarked on a journey of this magnitude.

Another big obstacle was the flying itself. I tend to be a “nervous” plane passenger, to put it mildly. There are no strings attached! Under any other circumstance, I would take a Xanax as soon as I board the flight. I would fall asleep, would ask my husband not to disturb me to say good-bye or put the oxygen mask over my face (I don’t want to be conscious as we’re going down) and would wake at my destination. This is the only way to fly for me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even have a glass of wine to relax and would be traveling alone — not a good combination.

Every time I spoke with my friend it became clearer and clearer how much she needed me. I spoke with other friends who told me that in the same situation, they would go. So, I booked my flight and spent the days prior to departure crying from anxiety. This was not an easy thing for me to do, especially since I suffer from bipolar disorder.

Not only was I a mother leaving her children, a wife leaving her husband, a woman six months with child, someone terrified to fly, but was also a patient without my medication. With my doctor’s permission, I had stopped taking my meds until I delivered my child.

Before leaving my house for the airport, I called my friend to warn her that she’d have to keep in close contact by cell phone if she really needed me to get on my flight. It wouldn’t be the first time I had gotten to the airport and not been able to get on a plane. I told her I would probably need her to walk me onto the plane by phone from Norway.

My husband stayed with me for as long as he could. We kissed and embraced. We said good-bye. Without looking back, I approached the checkpoint. After getting through security, which was no easy feat since they made me remove my boots — not such a simple process for a woman with a huge belly — I nervously sat and began to weep.

I could not get on the plane. I could not leave my children. I could not survive a flight to Norway. Then, my cell phone rang. She asked me how I was doing. I cried that I wasn’t doing too well. I told her I didn’t think I could get on the plane. She told me she really needed me to do it, and as I cried, she walked me onto the plane from Norway.

I did make it to Norway. I did all I could do for my friend. I held her in my arms and she was able to cry — something she hadn’t been able to do since the rape. What she needed was a hug — but it was a hug that could only be given by me. Knowing what I went through to get to her also had a huge impact on her. Just the fact that, as tormented as I was, I bought a ticket and left my family in order to be there for her. She felt loved, she said, for the first time.

I spent three days and two nights with my dearest friend. We laughed, we cried, we had a shaman come to her apartment to ritually cleanse us. We sat by the fire eating frozen fish.

I learned a lot about myself by taking that trip. I now know that despite my disability, I am a strong person. I’ve also realized the power of love is much greater than I had ever realized. I always thought a love like that was reserved for my family. I learned the importance of being true to myself, because had I not gone to her, I would have always regretted it, and I would never have known the true nature of me.

Unaccompanied once again, I returned to Norway last summer — this time for her mother’s funeral. I continue to grow.

Pamela Heyer Santore is a freelance writer and editor living in Staten Island, New York, with her husband and four children.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, May 3rd, 2007 | Email This Post

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