I got to know Flo more than a decade ago when we were both part of the Malaysia bureau of the Asian Wall Street Journal. She worked in the business office, selling ad space in the paper to the biggest companies in the country. I was a reporter, writing the stories that sometimes irritated her clients so much that they pulled those ads.

Yet we were friends. We were both young and single. We shared our dreams of chucking our day jobs and commiserated over romantic tribulations with copious glasses of wine.

She, the French transplant, ended up marrying a Malaysian. I, the Malaysian, married a Minnesotan and moved to his hometown, becoming a transplant myself. When I told her I was marrying Chris, she laughed. “Your baby will look like mine!” she said. We kept in touch over the years. On our annual trips to Malaysia, Flo’s daughter Sophie played with my Zoe. They were two years apart, but when they played together, the two little girls - each a blend of east and west - reminded us how small the world was and how unpredictable the forces that shape our lives.

Last fall, I heard from Flo. Sophie was very sick. She had a particularly aggressive form of childhood cancer - neuroblastoma. “This thing is a real pis of shit, May,” Flo said in her French-accented English. She scoured the web for medical information. They researched doctors around the world. She and her husband were on the one hand despairing; on the other, inspired by their little girl, who became a source of strength with her sunny outlook even as the adults around her fell to pieces. When I told Zoe that Big Girl Sophie was sick, Zoe made her a get well card.

We planned our next trip to Malaysia to coincide with Chinese New Year. We fly in three weeks. But there won’t be another playdate with Sophie. Last week, the news came. Against all odds, the chemo and surgery were successful. But after she came home, Sophie contracted an infection. She died just after her sixth birthday.

I’m at a loss for words. It’s just unimaginable. So here’s an e-mail from my friend Doug, who always says it better.

When Tracy and I visited, about two days after Sophie died, Flo was amazingly composed - she and S.P. were busy making arrangements and putting together photos to show at the service. Sophie was laid out in a casket in the living room, surrounded by her stuffed animals, flowers everywhere. There were friends and family.

Flo said all signs had been good that Sophie had beaten her cancer, but a few days after her sixth birthday, she went into shock, and died. Flo recounted how Sophie had told her she would beat her cancer, “for me.” Heartbreaking.

It’s amazing how people somehow manage to bear the unbearable.

Hope all is well in Minneapolis.

Doug

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