The Worst Life Milestone

Yeah. It sucks.

I can’t speak for other countries, but if you live in North America there is a general pattern for each stage of life.

It became apparent after graduating college. Almost immediately, my friends in serious relationships got engaged. My weekends and budget were spent going to weddings. They all began their new careers. I could see what was coming next.

Once most of my friends got married, I entered the We’re-Having-a-Baby Phase. My weekends morphed from weddings to baby showers.

I knew once the lull from the new parenting mode was over, the next phase would be divorce. I should know; my divorce was finalized last year. I’m still early in this phase of life and I expect a few more divorces will pop up in the next few years.

The last stage is inevitable. The All-My-Friends-Are-Dying Phase. In my head, this was long after the phase of divorcees getting remarried. I had at least another 25 years before hitting this point.

I was wrong.

Last year, my boss passed away. He was in his early fifties. Cancer was the asshole that took an amazing human from this earth.

Yesterday, someone I vaguely knew during my We’re-Having-a-Baby Phase died. She also had cancer. Her children are so young. I can’t imagine their lives without their mother.

Those had to be two anomalies, right? I’m still far from the death phase of my life.

And then I got a text.

A close friend of mine, who has been struggling with cancer for two years, shopped for cemetery plots with her husband.

In my naïve head, Nancy will beat this. Or at the very least, she’ll be in maintenance mode. But there’s no question: she will live to raise her young children.

I mentally dismissed when a mutual friend explained about Nancy’s aggressive cancer. It had spread to another organ which, I have learned, is a very bad sign. I was concerned but still believed all will end up well.

Heck, I’m a cynical and a skeptic. But I still had faith. Or at least I did, until today.

Nancy’s text about cemetery shopping was like a sucker punch to my body and my psyche. It’s not like the emotional insurance of writing a living trust which is something you hope will happen decades from now. This is different.

Shopping for the spot where your dead body will lay is something I’m struggling to form into coherent thoughts. That’s the stuff of grim tales, where Ebenezer’s third ghost shows the hole dug for a body.

My brain is all over the map.

I begin thinking of things I’ll say at her funeral. That seems so fucked up to think about. My brain goes to her best qualities and odd quirks that need celebrating.

I think about her kids growing up without a mom. Kids need their moms. I can barely breathe imagining her youngest one not getting stories before bed. My brain imagines him alone in bed, surrounded by Little Golden Books, no mother to read to him.

Which makes me think of her husband. Andy became a dick overnight when he learned about her diagnosis but it’s not my place to judge (okay, maybe a little) someone’s reaction when they learn their spouse has aggressive cancer. He’s not going to snuggle with the kids the way Nancy does. Andy can’t soothe them when they’re crying the way only Nancy can. I think of how all of us friends will try reaching out to help him after her death and him brushing us off.

I think of how many memories I made with Nancy. Have I really known her for eighteen years? How is that possible when I remember the day we met? She ordered an Arnold Palmer; it was the first time I learned of such a drink. Nancy is also the only person I’ve ever known who orders it. I remember going to Vegas. I remember going to clubs. I remember her baby shower. I remember her wedding. I remember drinking with her after a bad breakup. I remember the kindness she extended year after year, inviting my family to her parents’ house during holidays because we didn’t have any relatives here.

Will I still attend those holidays after she’s gone? With Covid, her parents didn’t host those big holiday dinners. Where the fuck will my kids hunt for Easter eggs and eat all those Christmas Eve desserts?

Holy crap…her parents. What about her mom and dad? What is it like to lose a child before you die? That goes against the order of things. Parents are never supposed to see their children die. Plus, Nancy is the only child who wasn’t a fuck up. She should have the golden ticket to live through her old age.

I’m angry this pandemic kept me from hanging out with her for over two years. She’s maintained strict social distancing due to her compromised immune system. Even when we were busy, we’d find time to meet at a halfway point between our jobs to catch up on a quick lunch.

Tears are pouring down my face. I only cry when I’m frustrated at my inability to change things. I want to fix this. I want to go back to yesterday when I still believed she’d see all her kids graduate highschoool.

The problem with entering the All-My-Friends-Are-Dying Phase is the unknown of who is next. I feel like the Squid Game players when hopping on the glass bridge. Am I next? Or am I lucky to make it to another stage and someone else falls instead? I spend each day feeling relief that myself, my kids, and their dad don’t have cancer while anxiously tiptoeing through life to not break the glass.

I’m ill-prepared for this phase. All of the other ones are joyous occasions. I mean, even divorce can be joyous and provide hope for the future. Where are the lessons on how to handle this? There’s only so often I can ask someone how they’re doing and offer to bring over dinner. I constantly tell Nancy that I’ll watch her kids if she and Andy need time alone. She replies that laying in bed sick from chemo fills her with Mom Guilt.

I need someone to navigate this stage of life for me. I have no idea what to do.