When my dear friend Natalie passed away a few years ago, my world was rocked in a way that I had not anticipated. I had woken up at 3AM and groggily looked at my phone to browse social media; I had to open at my job then at 4AM, and I used to wake myself up by binging on social media for a few minutes while I woke my mind up. That was the last day that I did that because I saw post after post on her timeline, tagging her, or photos of her - all inscribed with the words, “rest in peace”, “rest in paradise”, “rest easy”, “I will miss you”.
“I will miss you”. I was too sleepy to really feel anything that early. I was still waking up. I don’t know what I felt in that moment, but it wasn’t anything deep. It was just shock. On my drive to work, the shock slowly faded into understanding what I had read. As I opened the store and worked, the understanding turned into the realization. And that realization turned into grief. I took my break at work and I sat at the desk at work, reopened Facebook to see the posts, and realized it: she’s gone.
One of the longest shifts ever (even though it was only 4 hours) and an awkward encounter where my coworker came into the back to see my crying later, I went home and let myself fully grieve this loss. One of the most vibrant souls I have ever encountered lost her battle to cancer. She had set up a blog when she found out so she could log her journey through chemotherapy. I felt naïve; her posts were so uplifting and optimistic that I had no doubt in my mind that she would overcome it. Yet, here I was, grieving this loss. My heart ached. I started to recall every memory that I could, almost like picking them up one by one from a pile before a gust of wind would blow them away. I remember how she would call me at 6AM to wake me up to go to my previous job that I hated so much. I remember talking on a walky-talky app (I forgot what it was called, I think it was Zello) and talking to each other throughout the day. I remember how she would laugh at the silly things she did - things I similarly did but felt a lot of shame and embarrassment - and appreciative of how she could just love herself enough to laugh.
That was all gone. I felt so much guilt. Why didn’t I keep in closer contact with her? Why didn’t I tell her how much I appreciated her? Why didn’t I do something to help her through her battle? It was every “why” under the sun going through my mind. Was I feeling guilt only because she passed away? Would I have felt guilt for missing so many opportunities to connect with her if she survived it? Ultimately, I reached a conclusion that it wasn’t my fault for not knowing how it would tragically end, but also realizing I do the things I should be doing when they’re too late. We never had a falling out, but we both started living busy lives. Why was it so hard to take time out of my day to just send her a text? To say hi, to ask how she’s been, to ask if she’d like to just talk on the phone for a bit?
These emotions are still raw. I still feel them very fucking vividly. I still think about her almost daily.
I think about her even more now, because on Monday, October 12, 2020, I received a text from my mom regarding my cousin, Fariba, in Iran who was fighting cancer. She had been fighting it for 3 years but it kept coming back. This last time that it came back, chemotherapy wasn’t working. 2 months ago, she was given 3 weeks to live because the cancer progressed and she was in pain. Last week, she was admitted into the hospital for internal bleeding.
The text: “She’s in heaven now”.
I felt it all again. Every. Fucking. Emotion. Every single thought, every emotion that I could discern, was the same when Natalie died. I questioned why I didn’t keep closer contact. I questioned why I didn’t visit Iran more often; sure, there’s political reasons that made me feel unsafe as a gay Iranian man to do so, but the familial obligation should have been greater. Why didn’t I talk to her more?
On top of the guilt, I felt a moral and familial obligation to comfort my grieving family. I didn’t grow up close with her because we lived in different countries, but they all did. My aunt cried. She screamed. She sobbed. Through her wails, I remember her saying, “nothing brings my relief. I just want Fariba” - and my heart sinks and breaks every time I think about it.
Why do I wait until it’s too late? And why do I feel guilt for asking to talk about this? Why do I bottle this up? Is it because I feel like I deserve to feel shitty for not doing things to show my appreciation when these wondrous people are alive? Is it because I don’t want to share these feelings or thoughts because I don’t want anyone to feel even a fraction of how awful this feels? Or, am I just being selfish and this is my coping mechanism - to withdraw and isolate?
I’ve lost two people to cancer. And the losses feel so deeply profound. I started adapting the same outlook in live as Natalie: there is always something to live for and look forward to. How will I honor my cousin, Fariba? Can I honor her? Who else can I lose to cancer? I think about this every time I talk to someone, look at someone, or think of someone I have a connection with - could they be diagnosed with it? Will I lose them, too? Will...I be diagnosed with it?
I am afraid. I’m afraid of who I could lose. I’m afraid I will never get over the loss of Natalie or Fariba. I’m afraid I’m losing myself in the grief.
