The Death That Hurt So Much

It’s my dear friend, and it’s hitting me so hard…

I’ve walked that valley in the shadows of death. I’ve watched my husband’s father die right after he retired, which wasn't fair, but when is death ever fair? I stood in front of a deep hole on a very warm, late November day and committed my grandmother, that dear woman, to the ground; the earth. My aunt, only thirteen years older than I died when she was forty-one, when lupus attacked her poor, beautiful brain. I’ve said good-bye to plenty of people. So why does it hurt so much that Amanda* is dying?

I think she’s the first really close friend that I met with regularly over lunch, for a play, and going out with our husbands as couples that makes this different. I’ve known her since we moved to Ohio and signed our daughters up for soccer, and Amanda’s daughter played on the same team. Our daughters both played Varsity soccer and basketball together. We talked on the phone. In the stands. In the hallways.

Last week I was sick. Not cancer sick, but enough to keep me at home. Amanda’s adult children had planned a surprise birthday for my sweet friend with cancer, and my husband went. I was really having a bad day and trying to get better in time for a family reunion of sorts, so I stayed home. When my husband sent me a photo of my dying friend reaching out to hug those who gathered to celebrate her birthday, I was so stunned to see how weak and awful Amanda looked.

That photo, shared via text, was enough for me to put on some shoes and head out with no makeup and in yoga pants and a huge shirt. I had to get to Amanda, because we weren’t saying, Happy Birthday. We were saying good-bye. Well, that was unspoken. And the group was smaller than I thought it would be, since Amanda touched so many lives. What an honor then to be asked to be there last evening. I’m so glad I huffed as I walked the 100 yards to the front door and went inside.

I looked like hell, but she looked like death. My sweet friend, the one who did Pilates with me when we both wore younger bodies, sat back in a plush chair. I was hoarse due to the lupus and Sjogren’s which was annoying, but when I had said hello to those by the door and made my way to Amanda, we finally spoke in person. The woman who sent her daughter off to a Division One university to play soccer was still in there. The one who could make me laugh until I cried sat in front of me, and I knew. She was already slipping far away from me.

I don’t know how many days Amanda has left on this earth, but her husband knows it’s coming. He’s great friends with my husband. Death has its hands on my friend already, and she looks gray and fragile. The family had to pump her full of medicines to get her to the party, and when her daughter told me she was having a home birth in five weeks so her mom could be there, I was flummoxed. I think she’ll be pushing her baby into a world without this fabulous grandmother who makes the most intricate scrapbooks for each child and now, grandchild. But I don’t think this little one is going to have a wonderful scrapbook, because I think we’ll get the call very soon now.

I remember having the deepest conversations in the stands at our girls’ basketball games. I must have been sitting by myself at the soccer games, because I only know she and I sat together and talked at basketball. Deeply. About things that really matter, while taking the time out to yell at the ref. We figured out so much together, and who will be there to tell me the stories I beg to hear over and over? I’ll miss that.

She went on a trip to London to see her sister. They landed on Christmas Eve, and when Amanda unpacked she realized she had left her own suitcase at home in Ohio. So she gathered her family and assigned them each a type of clothing to procure before the shops closed on Christmas Eve. With less than an hour before closing time, her dear husband was tasked with finding Amanda underwear. He bought her sexy, skimpy panties that she would never wish to wear, ever! But it was wear the sexy ones or go without. My friend learned never to let the husband buy the underwear.

She’s slipping away so quickly. Just last May 2020 we stood downtown talking, when I was told not to hug her, because her surgery was set for the next day, and she had tested negative for Covid. She had no immunity, and though she was dropping off her vacuum cleaner (isn’t it amazing the ordinary tasks we complete even in moments of crisis?), I had to keep back and wear my mask. And so I did. She was so full of energy and optimism back then. That’s been stripped away.

I want to shake her and tell her to fight. Fight the cancer! But Amanda has always been so easy-going, content, patient, kind and peaceful. She’s not a fighter. Never was. And so I’m so glad I went yesterday. We met, and this time we hugged. I wrote her a long note in her birthday card. She said she had to rest, and I was breathless from the kidneys? the heart? who knows? And so I said we could catch up more later, and I think it won’t be here. I’ll see her again. I have faith, and so I believe.

But this one hurts. Oh, I know when my parents leave this earth it’s going to hurt a lot too. But I didn’t want Amanda’s kids to lose their mother this way. We have our tickets to Scotland all purchased and ready! We are supposed to go see plays together, and have progressive dinners at our homes. That won’t happen, I know. And too soon, I’ll hear that she’s gone. Passed away. Passed over. Gone home to Jesus. Left her husband, her children. Left me.

Those of us lucky enough to live long lives will say many good-byes to loved ones. I’m not sure I’m ready for this, but who ever is? Thank you, Amanda, for being a dear friend who loved me through so many years. I’m going to miss you for the rest of my life.