I hate this

It only took a little over 5 1/2 years.

Five years and nine months (to the day, actually) until someone I know personally--a good friend of mine from college and one of the nicest, kindest, sunniest people I've ever met--became a widow too.

She's my age. Thirty-three. We've been friends for over 15 years, and her husband was only 34. And that is way too fucking young for someone to die.

This is the same friend whom I blogged about back in November, whose husband had been battling (how I wish there were another commonly used term for it besides "battling"!) Hodgkin's lymphoma for over 4 1/2 years. Greg had taken a sharp downturn right after Christmas because of complications from other illnesses and side-effects, and in the end of January he was released to hospice because, while he wasn't imminently close to dying then, his body wasn't strong enough to withstand any more curative treatments but he needed palliative care for his extreme pain. He eventually got to go home and had a relatively stable couple of months, but over the past weekend, he had another severe turn for the worse. My friend notified their friends and family on Monday on their CaringBridge site that Greg likely wouldn't last more than a few more days, and he died early yesterday evening, at home and surrounded by his wife and family.

And my heart hurts so for them. I didn't know Greg well, but I was always impressed by how friendly and interested he was in his wife's friends, even back when he'd come visit her in college when they were dating. And my heart hurts because their dating story followed much of Charley's and mine in the earlier years: they started dating in high school too, continued dating through college--despite being in different states--and they married just after graduation. They were high school sweethearts too and had been married for 12 years, together for 18 years. And I'm so thankful for my friend that they had every minute of those 18 years, because I know how keenly I've mourned that Charley and I never had enough time together.

I only got the news that he'd died about an hour and a half ago, right after I got Anna up for school. And thankfully, Anna is at school right now…because trying to pay attention to normal morning and child routines this morning was difficult. I don't know how I'm reacting, but I know that I am. Partially my reaction is for my friend and her loss, and because Greg was such a warm, kind, friendly man…but I can't deny--even to myself--that his death triggers my own grief.

Because I know what lies ahead for my friend.

And that knowledge rips open my own memories of those first few days and weeks after Charley died--from a time I can only partially remember and that, most days, is a vague, passive, detached recollection. But Greg's death knocks that carefully packed and locked box off the shelf where I'd subconsciously placed it a few years ago, and now the contents are spilled in my lap, their ghosts and vapors finding their way into my head and my heart.

It hurts to remember all of it.

And while the circumstances and details are different, I know it's what my friend is feeling right now…and I know what the next few months and years may look and feel like for her. And I can only hope and pray that her friends and family, as well as Greg's, are as gentle, kind, and patient with her as possible and that they go above and beyond what even the most wonderful of supporters can do. Because she deserves every second of it…and I hope and pray that she doesn't have some of the demons I had to face in the first few years of widowhood.

Thirty-three. It's way too young.

And as I dropped Anna off at school this morning, I watched her in the side mirror of the car as she walked up the sidewalk and into the building, watched as she hoisted her bright pink Disney Princess backpack onto her shoulders and adjusted the straps--the same view I had as she walked into school that first day of kindergarten seven months ago.

Yet this time I watched her from inside my car, parked along the curb, and I followed her path like a hawk tracking its prey, as I do every day to make sure that she makes it safely into the building. A young boy was kidnapped from his school in northwest Portland last May or June, and I think of his disappearance every day as I wait at the curb and make sure that Anna makes it safely into the school doors. (That the boy's stepmother--someone he knew--likely kidnapped him is irrelevant to me; lightning and tragedy already struck my life once, and I have the leftover irrational fear that something else equally freakish and unpredictable may happen to my child.)

But today, I didn't think about little Kyron Hormon as I watched Anna in my side rearview mirror, and something else caught my attention-- the words etched on the mirror's surface:

And as I watched in the mirror as my daughter fiddled with her backpack and walked away--as I stared at the only link I have left to my own lost, dead husband--and as my friend's fresh loss swirled in my mind, I had to realize that the words on the mirror apply all too closely to my own emotions today.

It may have been over five and a half years now, but today, loss--my loss, my friend's new grief, my grief--is much closer than it may appear.

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P.S….

And separately, the other college friend--the one whose father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer last August--also has suffered her own loss recently. Her father died almost a month ago. I imagine our next brunch with the three of us, whenever it may be, may be an emotional one.

I know death, and loss, are two of the most natural, normal things in life…but they sure hurt.