”˜I’m calling with condolences for your lost youth,” I said sarcastically. “Happy Birthday!” And so went the message I left on my friend’s voicemail on the occasion of her 40th.

Susan had a rough year. She had moved into a new house, a new marriage, and a new body, thanks to an unwanted, extra 20 pounds. The year also threw a curve ball: Susan was to have an operation, which she put off as long as possible. When she finally had the surgery, an unexpected tumor turned up ”“ and it wasn’t benign. They had removed a cancer.

I remember Susan’s phone call the day of the biopsy report. The conversation was detailed, matter-of-fact. But the panic in her voice was beyond anything I could hope to calm. More than anything, I just wanted to proclaim some soothing medical certainty beyond my purview; all that was needed, though, was to affirm the certainty of our friendship. This was too easy.

But I had no illusions. Though I had been in life-threatening situations, I had never been diagnosed with an illness that could be fatal. That was the line of demarcation. I didn’t presume to understand, in the pit of my being, how Susan felt. The best I could hope for was to extend my own fear, to imagine how awful this must be, and to hope that I was at least somewhere in the ballpark. That is, perhaps, the nature of empathy ”“ just being in the ballpark.

As the months went by, talk of Susan’s health lightened considerably. She would offer information about tests and doctor’s visits and treatments, thereby relieving my burden to ask. In a sense, she became my tour guide; follow her lead, and the conversation would go where she directed. I had only to trust that direction and desire were the same. Presumably what we weren’t discussing was not on her itinerary.

But how could I know that for certain? Perhaps she felt some subjects were too delicate, or weighty, or difficult to bring to the fore. Maybe she erased some destinations from her map so as to avoid adding them to mine ”“ we’re all so busy not burdening one another. Perhaps I should simply have asked: Is there more, or something else, or another way you’d like me to handle this?

While pondering, I couldn’t help but think back to Susan’s role when the tables were turned. When my mother was dying of cancer, Susan’s daily phone call was like a shot of adrenaline. At times, she nearly revived me. Other times, I don’t recall a word she said ”“ I assume she must have been listening. Either way, our talks were always fortifying.

So I’ve wondered about the current situation, and my role in it, and whether or not I’ve really been in the ballpark. When I compare the two circumstances at hand, I recognize the errors in my equation: Susan was not dying, nor should friends necessarily mimic one another. If we can balance each other ”“ where Susan offered energy, I provide steadiness ”“ that makes for a truer mix. We don’t reinvent ourselves for a crisis; we call upon what we are.

Susan called me back last night, right before midnight, before her birthday officially ended. She wanted to convey the results of her latest x-rays. Word is that everything is clean and negative, with no traces of danger. In a matter of weeks, her chemotherapy will end.

While birthday gifts and greetings were the order of the day, this news clearly took the cake. What other gift could even come close?

”“ Joan Silverman is a writer in Kennebunk. This column appeared earlier in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.