“Dr. Rainer describes this kind of distancing as “stiff-arming” — creating as much space as possible from the possibility of trauma. It’s magical thinking in the service of denial: If bad things are happening to you and I stay away from you, then I’ll be safe.”

They are not bad friends. They are terrified and coping the way they know how. Some people feel helpless, and can’t deal with that feeling, either.

I know this feeling. Five years ago one of my best friends got a terrible diagnosis for her husband. He had cancer. Not a good cancer (is there really such a thing?), but an incurable cancer with a terrible prognosis. Our kids were 20 months old. As one of her best friends I was with her the entire time — physically. Emotionally, I can only say it was 50-50.

When she first got the diagnosis in June 2005 we spent hours and hours on the phone. She cried. She questioned. She stormed. During that time, even though I was sitting there on the phone I was slowly — mentally — moving away. Her trauma was pushing all my crazy buttons. (She’ll be a widow at 35 — like my mom! Her then 5-year-old daughter will have no dad — like me! Her youngest will never know his dad — like my sister!) In the beginning, she never knew. I was able to hide it by staying and listening and getting involved in other ways.

I did everything in my power, physically, to help her. I threw a second birthday party for her son in my backyard. (She couldn’t fathom having a celebration when her world was falling apart.) I kept her kids whenever her mother couldn’t. I organized a dinner drop off. I collected money for a cleaning lady. I provided news and updates to other friends, encouraging them to call her. I took her out whenever possible. I found stuff that she needed — snow boots, for example, when her daughter outgrew the ones she had. I introduced her to the local Mother’s Center, which became an excellent resource for her.

I sound like a great friend, right? Yeah, not so much. The stress of her stress was like an anchor around my neck. I felt like I was drowning. I started compartmentalizing my life. The first order of business: I didn’t want to invite her to playdates. I decided that I didn’t want her to come to the smaller playgroup I had that was a subset of our bigger 11-person playgroup. I didn’t want to hear about the cancer. I wanted to forget that life is fragile and scary. So when she would ask what I was doing, I never lied, but I didn’t invite her.

Yes, physically, I was there for her. I held the phone and listened to her cry. Emotionally, though, I was trying to get away whenever I could. I was so angry. For her, at her, at others.

Case in point: One of our friends, my friend’s long-time other best friend — let’s call her Jane — was also distancing herself. Jane had her own issues (alcoholic family members) that made her check out, too. She didn’t offer to help. She didn’t want to listen to my friend cry. One time Jane said something to the effect that her husband had broken his ankle and no one was there for her. I ended up battling Jane, who had been one of my good friends. I wrote a scathing letter about her selfishness, and as a result, severed the ties between us completely. I can look back now and see that I was chastising Jane for my own lack of empathy, my own fear. I was mad at myself so I judged Jane and convicted her, throwing her out of my life. Jane was doing what I wanted to do — she was walking away from all the pain and suffering. She was protecting herself. Instead of understanding, I was jealous and indignant and sad all at the same time. That is a relationship loss that I regret to this day. I am so sorry I was so immature and judgmental.

My friendship stayed intact with my other friend, though, despite my behavior. We made it through that terrible period. My husband’s friend went into remission. After some time I actually apologized to my friend. Yes, I was a good friend to her, but I was also a bad friend, too. I told her how sorry I was that I tried to exclude her from our playdates. How sorry I was about some of the things I said. (Probably not a good idea to tell someone dealing with cancer that you’re sick of hearing about cancer.) I told her how silly and childish I was. I told her that I loved her and that I would always be there for her. And now, as her husband is once again out of remission at the same time her mother was just diagnosed with ovarian cancer, I am hoping that I can be there for her without being so afraid. I’m hoping I will remember that her pain and suffering isn’t catching. I’m hoping I can be a good friend.

Well, there’s almost nothing more that I can say about the extremely disturbing story that was in The New York Times: E. Coli Path Shows Flaws in Beef Inspection. You’ve probably read it or seen a friend’s Facebook post about it. The well-researched and achingly depressing story starts out with a woman — a dancer — who is now paralyzed from the waist down because she ate a hamburger. Then it explains how that hamburger was made, and why that process is a flawed one. I could go through the story paragraph but paragraph to summarize, but I don’t have to. The Times sums it up best pretty high in the story: “…tracing the story of her burger, through interviews and government and corporate records obtained by The New York Times, shows why eating ground beef is still a gamble. Neither the system meant to make the meat safe, nor the meat itself, is what consumers have been led to believe.”

I will highlight one part of the process, though: The fact that the $1.99 pound of beef you buy is actually comprised of trimmings that come from multiple slaughterhouses in multiple states and countries — some of which has been soaked in ammonia and all of which was possibly contaminated with feces. “Federal inspectors based at the plant are supposed to monitor the hide removal, but much can go wrong. Workers slicing away the hide can inadvertently spread feces to the meat, and large clamps that hold the hide during processing sometimes slip and smear the meat with feces, the workers and inspectors say.” This feces is the main culprit in E. coli cases, which causes stomach and intestinal distress, and can lead to death in some cases. Uggg.

What’s even worse is that even if you cook beef to the proper temperature, which is 160 degrees, you’re not guaranteed to kill all the E. coli. And even if you did, you may have transferred it to your salad inadvertently when you were preparing it. E.  coli is like a cockroach: It’s hard to kill. Plus, it’s so virulent that all it takes for you to get sick is a few cells left on a cutting surface, sink, or counter.

While all this is enough to make anyone want to be a vegetarian, for most of us, it’s just not possible. There are ways, however, to avoid getting sick. Here are some tips to cut down on the amount of feces in your chopped beef.

1. Buy Grass-Fed Beef. Notice I didn’t just say organic. Yes, it’s more expensive, but those cows who are fed grass or forage have less E. coli in their systems. Grain feeding, according to one study, contributes to the growth of E. coli. And that’s coming from the USDA and Cornell University.
2. Get a Grinder. Beef isn’t inherently dangerous. It’s the meat grinding process, which adds tiny pieces of fat, trimmings, and leftovers to the mix. Buy your own food processor and some beef and you know exactly what’s in your hamburgers. (Of course, you’ll need to take the same cooking and handling precautions that you would with any meat.)
3. Use a Thermometer. Beef might look done, but unless you check the temperature, you really can’t be sure. Meat thermometers are inexpensive, and don’t take a lot of time. Stick it in, if it says 160 degrees, you’re done.
4. Get Some Bleach. My organic mommies are going to disagree with this one, but remember, this blog is Natural as Possible. If you’re goingto have raw meat in your kitchen on a regular basis, you have to protect yourself. Bleach is one of the things that has been found to kill E. Coli. Obviously, you’re not going to spray your meat, but you should wash down counters and cutting boards–anything that may have been contaminated.
5. Patronize a Local Butcher. If you don’t have the time or the stomach to grind your own beef, your local butcher (as well as stores like Whole Foods) can do it right in front of you, often for no additional cost. I get my ground beef (the hubby loves meat sauce) from Whole Foods, and it only costs me $2.99 per pound. Not bad for grass-fed meat.

My choice: Skipping the burgers all together. I’m lucky, though. I was never a burger lover save for an annual All American Burger run. It’s o.k., though. From now on I’ll just stick with the fries.