At the time she got too sick to stay awake for long periods of time, Zahra had been working on an article with me. In it we were going to cover the do's and don’ts of dealing with someone who was very or terminally ill.  Visit them, she would tell me. It is so important that they don’t feel isolated.  It’s scary and it’s lonely and a visit, even if short, is so uplifting.  Zahra knew what she was talking about. She had been diagnosed with a very aggressive form of ovarian cancer two years prior. When I met her she had just celebrated her 18^th birthday.

Our meeting came about when a mutual friend asked if I would be willing to take her photos. Zahra wanted to be a model and since I am also a photographer, it was a perfect fit. Together with a makeup artist, a stylist and another photographer friend, we gave her a high-end fashion shoot.   Zahra looked fabulous!  I was able to edit out the growth of the tumors that made her look as if she was 5 months pregnant and to get rid of the tubes leading out from her shoulder port, feeding her pain meds.

She was very proud of that shoot. A portfolio and various photos from it can be seen throughout the house. She was also very grateful to have experienced it. From this I learned the importance of making someone feel really special

Her subsequent graduation party (after the local high school finally granted her an honorary diploma) was a time for even more celebration. Family and friends showed up. Restaurants, cake makers and party planners made it an event to remember. She was the social butterfly, flitting from table to table speaking and thanking those who attended. It was easy to forget she had a death sentence and only a couple of months to live.

I was there, visiting, when the pain from the tumors that had taken over her liver and stomach, made her curse God and the cards that had been dealt her.  As we waited for the ambulance to take her to the hospice center her anger changed to prayer, a pleading with God to help her, to ease the unbearable pain. I ached to hold her, but she couldn’t bear to be touched. It was difficult to watch. Almost as difficult was seeing a mother helplessly watching her child suffer, unable to help.  Zahra was frightened and thought she was about to die. I asked her to look at and focus on my eyes.  I’m not afraid, I told her. Take my strength, I said, and learned that I could be strong for someone else.

At the hospice, the nurse told me that she wouldn’t make it to the three weeks left before Christmas.  But they didn’t know Zahra. She defied them and their diagnosis and came home.  This time the family was told that they should be prepared to bury her before the New Year.

On New Year’s Eve, she stopped me as I was walking out the door after my visit.    Val, I love you. Happy New Year. Did I tell you I made a New Year’s resolution? Really, Zahra, what?  I want to live, she told me. Me too, baby girl, me too.

From that I learned that hope exists even when others think it doesn’t.

As the days went on, Zahra began the slow descent to the next world. Weight began to fall away from her already small frame. No longer being able to eat solid foods, she decided that she couldn’t stand to watch others eat. She spent longer and longer periods of time in her room and on her bed. She slept more. When awake, we talked about the article and the impact she wanted to make on those who were ill. She was very excited about the possibility of being a published author and I was thrilled that I might be able to give her that opportunity.

At the end of January I went away for a week, but spoke to her mother or texted Zahra daily. She’s feeling the same I was told each time. But she really wasn’t.I got a call a day before I got home.  You better come as soon as you get off the plane, she won’t make it past this weekend.  I did and she did.But a week had made a huge difference in her appearance. Zahra now was nothing more than a skeleton with skin. She resembled the photos you see of Auschwitz survivors. Her tumors had grown so much that she looked 9 months pregnant. But her spirit remained intact. We laughed and talked, she spoke about a future. Next month, she would say, or in the spring. She never failed to show appreciation to those around her – for visiting or bringing food or flowers.  All while texting an old friend, answering a call from a well-wisher or showing off a ring she loved that now was too big for her thin fingers.

This past week, she began to hallucinate:  I’ve just finished filling out an application for a job, she told her father. I can walk again, she proudly told me. Mostly her speech became incoherent, but when she was there -- however briefly -- she was fully there. Her eyes followed you as you spoke and even when she couldn’t answer anymore, you could see how happy she was that you came by. Thank you for being here, they seemed to say.

During one of her lucid moments I took photos of her and her mom. They both ‘freshened up’ for me.  Her mom looking sadly and lovingly at her first-born who, once again, was in diapers and now weighed less than 60 pounds.  And Zahra, with a slight smile, leaning heavily against her beloved ‘mommy.’  Despite all of the overwhelming evidence, her mother continued to hope for a miracle and I stand in awe of the power of that love.

One evening as I was walking out, a family came by to visit. Their young son, about 10 years old, was told by his mom to ‘come and kiss Zahra hello.’  I watched him hang back. I’m afraid he said. Not surprising, I thought. Besides her alarming appearance, she had tubes everywhere taking out and putting things in. Zahra heard him. Despite how hard it must have been, she raised herself on her elbows-It’s just me, she said proudly. Me--Zahra.  I then understood why those of us who saw her often were no longer bothered by her outward appearance-it was the soul of Zahra that we now noticed.

From her I also learned acceptance. Zahra’s dad, despite efforts by various agencies, organizations and friends was unable to get a visa to come and visit her.  We all watched as her father spoke to her on Skype and she lovingly caressed the computer screen. Come, she told him, and in one of the clearest communications in the past few days-- I love you.

She passed on today. She died with dignity at home, like she wanted to, surrounded by the people who loved her and the things that defined her. It was not an easy death, she was young and didn’t want to go. She knew cancer would win one day but she never, ever, gave up living.

So in the end this article bears both our names. Mine for just telling her story and Zahra’s for letting us all know that we need to be kind to those around us who are ill or who are in need. The other message –the real big one, is that she was Zahra, she was not cancer, she was not sickness, she was just Zahra. Beautiful, brave 18 year old teen-Zahra. She was always so grateful, but I hope she understood in the end that she is the one who touched us with her warmth and courage and determination and it is we, who are indebted to her.

So Zahra, I am positive that you are now walking jauntily down some awesome runway dressed in the latest fashions, with your beautiful hair flowing behind you and wearing your most loved jewelry. I didn’t know you for a long time, but I knew you for a lifetime. Baby girl, you have made me a better person for that knowledge.