Why It’s So Hard To Support a Friend Who You Know Is Dying

Maybe it’s because we think we have time

CW: suicide

My friend Andrea hanged herself from her apartment window in 2017 after battling breast cancer. She was 44 years old.

It was the same apartment where I brought red lentil curry and rice she didn’t end up eating, served in a pretty bowl I didn’t get back and thought about with guilt after she died. I also thought I could’ve brought her something more palatable, even though she’d just had surgery the day before.

It was the same apartment where we gossiped about guys we’d dated years earlier while her visiting orange tabby brought her random shoes and flip-flops. One time the cat brought a matching pair. She’d return the shoes and warn the neighbors not to leave them out. She appeared to be a stray, so she named her Ginger Snap and took her in.

I don’t know if Ginger found Andrea that day. I don’t know nearly enough.

I found out she had breast cancer from Facebook and texted her. She preferred calls, but somehow texting felt better. Maybe it was safer so I wouldn’t have to hear her pain and fear. I don’t know. When I went to visit, I brought my young kids. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t as honest about what she was going through.

Other than participating in her meal train and coming to see her once, I didn’t — or couldn’t — do more. How did we drift that far apart? If I hadn’t seen the Facebook post, I wouldn’t have known she had cancer.

The night I brought the food, her mother answered the door. Her dad was there, too, and they surrounded Andrea in bed. Her uncle had just died, and I had no words to convey my concerns and condolences. It was the second time I’d met her family. The first time was when Andrea had graduated from acupuncture school. I didn’t know if her surgery was a mastectomy, but I knew it was serious.

I got in my car and heard a voice say, “She’s not going to make it.”

Eyes filled with heavy tears and sobs escaping my lips, I drove with my toddler and 7-year-old back to our studio across town.

If I knew she was going to die, why didn’t I try harder to help her? I felt awkward doing something and helpless not doing anything. I wanted to show that I loved her and was here for her, but how?

I believe now that I was already grieving her death, thinking cancer would take her. I might’ve been subconsciously protecting myself from inevitably losing her. Either that or I was in denial, thinking it would never happen to someone our age.

Still, we had been close in the past. What was I doing tiptoeing around her like that? I vowed to be more demonstrative the next time I could be of service to a friend.

Besides sharing milestones and birthdays, our dating status and overall lifestyle choices coincided. She used to surf, which is the one thing we didn’t have in common. We both enjoyed walking on the beach together, though.

The last time we took a beach walk, my oldest daughter was maybe five. Although we were close friends, there were times we didn’t hang out much. When she developed breast cancer was one such year.

When she appeared to go into remission, she got enough energy back to walk around her neighborhood. I didn’t know until later that she’d struggled with insomnia and depression, perhaps related to cancer treatment. These walks prolonged and improved her life.

One afternoon, I saw her at an AA meeting, wearing a ball cap to cover the gorgeous platinum blonde hair she’d begun to grow out again. She shared and I cried, thinking I should talk to her afterward.

I told her I felt bad for not reaching out when she was struggling. I admitted that I didn’t know what to do. She said, in her usual no-nonsense way, “You could have just asked.”

She nailed it. Why didn’t I ask?

I acknowledged her with a promise to ask from now on and invited her on a walk at Shoreline Park, a short yet breathtaking stroll overlooking the Santa Barbara coastline. She said she was free to walk right away, but I wasn’t. I had planned to shop at Trader Joe’s, then I’d be available.

We never got to go on that beach walk, because I was too late.

One day soon after we’d talked, I prepared for my morning in our tiny bathroom, aimlessly scrolling Facebook at the sink. That’s when I saw the news and crumpled to the floor.

Andrea died on January 22nd, one month before her 45th birthday, the day before I turned 45. She never had a chance to go into remission for more than a few months or hit her 14th year sober, only one month before mine. It took us a day or two to find out she had died by suicide. After a few false rumors, we heard the truth.

When I agonized over what I could’ve done better, I shared my feelings publicly. I told social media friends about our beach walk that never came to fruition.

A woman I’d never met before said she had a message for me. Andrea told me to stop beating myself up about it and to take our beach walk as planned, and she’ll send me a sign. That was, incidentally, the first time I’d heard a dead person talk to me. Whatever the woman relayed, I believed it was Andrea.

Intrigued, I went to Shoreline Park the next day and watched for her signs. I proceeded to meet a woman with a brother in Portland who’s single. We walked and talked for twenty minutes, wondering if I would be a good match for him. That made me laugh since Andrea and I always talked about finding boyfriends.

Then, I rounded the corner and met a brown dog that looked exactly like Andrea’s pup, Slim, who passed in 2014. And guess where the people were from? Colorado, where Andrea used to live before she moved to Santa Barbara.

Andrea continued to send messages for about a year postmortem until she seemed to move to higher realms. She’d talk to me when I thought of her and always assured me she was at peace.

Once, our mutual friend was convinced Andrea knocked over her Rockstar in the bathroom before an AA meeting. She always used to tell her it was bad for her. We both found it amusing and comforted to know Andrea watched over us.

In life, Andrea would always tell you how she felt. She was a firm believer in leading with good actions, and she didn’t put up with any bullshit. I remember once telling me she stopped dating a guy because she wasn’t in love with him. Other times, she’d end a relationship when the person didn’t want marriage and kids. She knew what she wanted, and they weren’t it. I admired her honesty and integrity.

She was a Christian church-goer but never tried to force evangelical Jesus on anyone. Instead, she did what social justice warrior Jesus would do. She volunteered at soup kitchens and clothing drives for people living outside, traveled to other countries to build houses, and fought against child trafficking.

Of all the things she told and showed me, however, she never said once she suffered from depression. I don’t think anyone knew she’d thought of ending her life. I wonder if anyone could’ve noticed if we’d only asked?

Death is inevitable for us all. Even though we know we aren’t getting out of this place alive, we act as though we’re guaranteed another tomorrow. If only I’d acted like we only had today. Maybe I would’ve enjoyed each and every moment with Andrea as if it were our last. Perhaps I would’ve asked the hard questions and could’ve helped her walk through difficult times.

If Andrea were still alive today, I wouldn’t wait to tell her I love her or ask how I can support her. She taught me to be more honest with the people I love. She reminded me that humans mess up and that it’s still okay.

I miss having her here, but can rest assured I did what I could with the tools I had at the time. She knows I love her, and I know she loves me.

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