What I Learned About Life While Watching My Best Friend Die

By the time I turned 25, I had all but given up on the idea that I would ever have a female best friend. I had a big circle of friends, but I had never really found my person.

Then one chilly fall day, the universe aligned, and I met Amy. We became an inseparable duo after our snot-nosed 2-year-olds got into a pushing match on the playground at our local park.

Our first conversation was about making female friends as adults and how damn awkward it could be. We decided it should be considered an art form. That mutual confession was an honest moment of bonding — unusual for playground moms in my neighborhood who are usually more interested in one-upping each other.

She was an attentive mom who didn’t raise an eyebrow when I threw the occasional explicative into the conversation and was equally repulsed by reality TV and neighborhood mom-gossip.

For over a decade, we fundraised for our kid’s schools together, enjoyed summer trips with our families, and shared every one of our favorite recipes. We snuck away for girls’ nights, shared our mental health challenges, and talked about our childhoods. We encouraged each other to foster open and honest relationships with our kids because neither of our moms ever did that with us.

We did all the things you would expect best friends who live only a block from each other do, and we knew just how lucky we were to have found a soul sister.

Then she was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of cancer.

It was already stage 4 by the time they found it, and her diagnosis was grim.

The cancer was terminal.

I’ll never forget the peaceful expression she had on her face when she first casually used the word “terminal” in conversation.

She was all strength and had stubbornly resolved to make a graceful exit from this world.

While her husband fell apart, I tried to balance things out by staying strong. I sat with her, summoning every bit of courage I could. I refused to break down in front of her or her kids.

I did not want to burden her with my grief.

The night she finally told me it was terminal, I remember running home from her house and cleaning my kitchen from top to bottom. I spent hours franticly scrubbing and scouring with tears streaming down my face.

I kept my hands busy because I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting with the weight of grief overwhelming every bit of me.

When my husband got home from work, I fell into his arms and cursed a God I was sure no longer existed. I couldn’t understand why the world just continued turning when everything around me had just fallen to pieces.

Amy and I saw each other every day after that, and I watched helplessly as she gracefully and peacefully danced with death.

Don’t discount the trauma of losing a friend

When you lose a grandparent, mother, father, or sibling, your grief is easily communicated and recognized. There’s a certain amount of weight and importance that comes with those familial titles that don’t necessarily translate when the one you lose is a friend.

Ironically, some friends are closer and more intertwined with our daily lives than our family could ever be. The connections we make with those we choose as friends give our lives meaning and sustain us through some of our darkest and most challenging times.

But you can’t expect everyone to understand the grief you’re experiencing. You may not get the same level of support or validation when you lose a friend.

I want you to know that your grief matters. I know how much it hurts to lose a friend, and if I could reach out and give you a hug, I would. I would tell you I’m sorry and we could talk about the friends we lost.

What I learned about life watching my best friend die:

1. No one is going to save you from the pain you’re feeling.

Amy was the person who always got me through the truly tough stuff in life. She was nearly 10 years older than me, and I swear that age difference came with 20 years of wisdom.

When the person you always call first is dying, there’s a feeling of sadness and isolation that settles deep in your belly. At first, you’re not sure it will ever go away. It slowly fades, but the waves of grief will be present for years to come, and the loneliness lingers.

You have to learn to push through it and cultivate gratitude.

Some of the most painful moments will come when everyone around you is happy, and they’ve forgotten about the pain you are feeling. Don’t blame them or compare your different approaches to grieving.

Lean into gratitude.

2. There is no inner peace without gratitude.

When Amy realized she wouldn’t see her children graduate from high school, go to college, or get married — she miraculously still found something to be grateful for.

As I pushed her around our neighborhood in her wheelchair in her final days, she explained how grateful she was for the resilience her young children would build once she was gone.

She was grateful for something that I found unimaginable — her own death and the knowledge that her children would become stronger because of it.

After that, I knew she had found peace by discovering slivers of gratitude along her brief, but exhausting dance with death. Her courage gave me the strength to eventually find my own peace and search for my own silver linings.

I spent the summer after Amy died immersing myself in nature. I hiked, biked, walked, swam, and ran as much as I could. Being outside and experiencing life around me made it easier to develop a grateful mindset.

Was I still angry at the world and upset my friend wasn’t there with me? Yes.

But as my chest rose and fell with each breath, I couldn’t help feeling grateful that I experienced such an incredible friendship. I was still alive to carry on Amy’s legacy and take on the role she requested of me in her children’s lives.

That was something to be grateful for.

3. Laughter is the best medicine and the ultimate distraction.

We spent a lot of time in her final weeks laughing our asses off and gossiping like the dramatic school girls neither of us ever really were. I was always the blunt friend, and she was always the one who softened me.

But facing her own mortality had given her a fresh outlook on gossip and drama.

We made fun of the neighbor who kept bringing over green smoothies she claimed cured her uncle’s cancer back in 2004. We rolled on the ground laughing as we watered a tree with the baby food container labeled “holy water” that her mother in law sent via USPS.

We had a running tabulation of how many people brought up their own mortality during their visits while she was actively dying. The selfishness of some people was shocking, so we turned it into a joke and kept track.

She would screenshot me with a laughing emoji when people who didn’t give her the time of day when she was healthy posted on Facebook about how “their friend” had cancer.

She didn’t have time for sympathy seekers or those who came to visit for their own selfish motivations. But instead of getting mad, we just laughed and felt super grateful for these final giggles we shared.

(Secretly, I might have told green smoothie neighbor to f*ck right the hell off after her 3rd smoothie delivery in one week after the terminal diagnosis.)

4. Tangible memories and photos are more precious than gold.

After Amy died, her husband asked me to go through my photos and send him the ones I wanted to be included in her funeral.

I only had 5 photos of us together.

There were nearly 1,000 photos of our kids and husbands together, but we were moms — we had never prioritized photographing ourselves.

That realization added another layer to my grief.

It also taught me a vital lesson. Take the photos and get in the damn pictures. It doesn’t matter if you’re not wearing make-up, you feel bloated, or you haven’t showered in days — someone will cherish that photo.

Amy bought me a top and necklace last year for my birthday, and it brings me so much comfort to wear them when I’m missing her. I kept all of her notes from those final months and saved screenshots of every one of our messages. Reading them reminds me of our connection and of those final promises we made to each other.

When a friend’s memory feels far away, having tangible items to touch and look at can remind us they are always closeby.

5. Friendship is eternal.

In her final days, Amy told me she “hoped I would always feel her presence.”

Since she died, there hasn’t been a day that I don’t feel her presence in my life. For a long time, it was the painful reminder of loss and the heavy burden of grief. Now, I feel her words and selfless actions guiding me back to center when I get too far away from the person she knew.

I still cry at least once a week when I think about her. The truth is, you never recover from the pain of losing your best friend. You learn to deal with the hurt, and the sharp sting of loss slowly gets more manageable as the days go by, but you don’t ever get over it.

As you process the grief, you remember all the good your friend brought into your life. The laughter, love, understanding, and friendship begin to outweigh the pain of suffering, and the good stuff starts to shine through again.

You realize your friendship still exists, just in a very different way. You might even still talk to them, and you’re always aware of their presence in your life.

You find strength, and you push through.

You text their parents and brothers to check-in. You hug their children and share stories that remind them of just how incredible their mother was. You make sure their partner is eating and remind them to schedule an appointment with a counselor. You stop by their house every chance you get so you don’t forget that familiar scent of them that still lingers in the air.

You keep living and loving hard because you know that’s what your friend would have wanted.

Grief is painful, but it's beautiful too

The agony of grief, like the kind you face walking alongside your dying best friend, has no cure. At its worst, it’s inconsolable. At its best (and after time), it can humble you with love and gratitude.

Nothing helps you understand and value the beauty of life more than death. You realize the connection, love, and memories that we share are truly the greatest gifts of life.

We learn to take hold of life because we’re aware that nothing lasts forever.

No one can save you from the pain you feel, but please know things will get easier. You can find inner peace by clinging to even the smallest sliver of gratitude.

Cherish the memories you shared and the gifts you’ve kept. Use nature and laughter to heal your weary soul, and remember, friendship is eternal.