And then she’s gone.


It’s hard to believe the friend I’m talking to in this photo is dead. She was 11 years younger than me.

When she reached out to me several years ago after her cancer diagnosis, she took comfort in knowing that I’d had cancer and was doing well. I offered assurances her in her first days after the diagnosis. I was fine. She’d be fine too.

Except she isn’t.

My grandmother died of cancer. I sat next to her holding her hand. I’m not sure she recognized me. She was terrifyingly thin. Her breath rattled. Her hands were cold. She was a shell of the grandmother I knew.

And then she was gone.

My friend is gone too.

One thing about surviving cancer (so far) is that people call you when they receive a similar diagnosis. You’ve survived, so they can too.

Except sometimes they can’t.

My friend prayed so hard. She prayed so much.

Cancer has no religion. It just takes and takes and takes and takes.

And it is not fair.


Thank you for reading.

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