When a Friend Dies

I have dealt with death before.  After my grandson died (5purpleoranges.org, established in his honor, if you want to help children whose activities we now support), I was grief-stricken, then numb.  No one expects a grandson to die, especially one so beloved by me.  But, “life” went on, day followed day and the years accumulated.  No other death seemed to matter.  Not my brother’s, who chose to die in Spain, causing yet more trouble for the family; not my mother’s, who lived to 102, not that she was aware.

Then I turned 80.  I suddenly realized I was mortal.  That my time on earth might be coming to an end.  I have no fear of death.  There are things I’ll miss, like the changing of the seasons, my garden, and books by my favorite authors, but—80.  Let’s face it.  That’s old!

A friend of mine recently died.  She had Parkinson’s, and her husband said she was in a lot of pain.  I knew things were getting bad for her when her emails became less chatty, the last one just two sentences.  She lived in another country.  Because of the life I’ve lived, I have several close friends in countries other than my own. This friend—I was with her when she got pregnant and then the trauma of a miscarriage.  I was with her when she had her first son.  We walked, we talked.  She had a wonderful sense of humor and was very empathetic.

I visited her whenever I traveled to her country.  She was an absolutely great cook.  Now I remember one of the last times I was with her, she stumbled, just called herself klutzy.  Who knew?  We had promised one another that we’d go to Petra together.  We never made it.  I probably never will.  Now.

What do you do when you lose someone so tangential and yet so integral to your life?  How do you accommodate that loss?

There’s a saying that everyone has one novel in them, waiting to be written.  But let’s for a moment think of our lives as novels.  Each person we meet opens up another chapter.  Some people reoccur throughout the chapters, while others make a quick escape after a few pages.  But they’re all a part of us.

After high school I moved around a lot.  There’s no place I really call home.  I think the people I carry in my heart are my home.  I have two college roommates I’ve known since I was eighteen.  Eighteen!  I know there are people who’ve lived in the same town all their lives and know people from day care on up.  But for me it’s unusual.  I sit here in my aged state and wonder about some of the people I really cared for and what happened to them.  Where did their stories lead? How many chapters did they have?  Do they think about me as I think about them?  Or have I floated away on a tide of too many memories?

I’m basically a solitary person.  As my daughter says, the pandemic made little difference in my life.  Well—that’s not quite true.  But when I make a friend, it’s not superficial.  It’s someone I value as part of my life.  So to have that part cut away leaves me diminished.  My friend’s not there anymore.  And soon I won’t be either.  But of course that’s a whole different chapter of my novel.