Advocating in Public; Crying in the Shower

My friend Beth died today.

Metastatic breast cancer killed her. She is in no way the first friend taken by the disease and she certainly will not be the last. Even so, her death has hit me harder than many of the recent losses in the cancer community.

I wrote those words last week, on the evening that Beth actually died, but it has taken me another week to actually process her death and figure out this new normal of grieving with absurd regularity.

Beth was a self-proclaimed warrior but she was also a pragmatic who believed that the best death came through living the best life. I embrace her philosophy but I continue to rail against premature death.

And, after nearly four years in the cancer world, I find myself grieving very differently now.

A few weeks ago, I noted a new familiar pattern in my own behavior when it became obvious that her death was near. I avoided Twitter and Facebook and instead sent her photos via text from my garden. For me, my garden represents peace and life and, projecting a bit, I assumed Beth would enjoy a little of both with her limited mobility.

And I texted other friends, just to share love. Evidently honoring my expressive self, calms my inner worrywart.

So, when Beth stopped responding to texts, I continued sending the pictures, hopeful that someone on her end was either sharing the beauty or finding their own solace in my virtual garden.

When Beth actually died, I had nothing left for Facebook and Twitter tributes. I didn’t have the words and, in all honesty, I didn’t feel like sharing my grief that way. Part of me felt guilty I didn’t jump into the fray of homages but most of me knew Beth would totally understand.

I did text another friend that evening with the bare facts.

“I’m sad. Devastated and gutted.”

As someone else surrounded by the realities of cancer, she gets it. I didn’t need to explain anything. 

And that was the entirety of what I was able to express. As someone who actively processes through the written word, I was utterly devoid of thought beyond those emotions.

With the steady flow of death in the metastatic community, I feel like my own broken record when I say, “My friend died.” When people respond with the empathetic and appropriate, “I’m so sorry,” I just feel like I am stating and restating the obvious – too young, too soon, more research required. My expression feels circular. And pointless.

So I cry by myself now. Usually in the shower where no one can hear.

In the last several years, I’ve come to accept death as the natural end to life but I haven’t become inured to or at all comfortable with suffering and premature death. And yet I know it continues and will continue. The changes the advocacy community is catalyzing are real but too slow for many people I have come to know and love.

This is hard for me to accept. This is impossible for me to accept. And so the tears come for those we have lost but also for the realization that there are so many more who will die, too young, too soon.

Now with every death, I feel exhausted. And some days I feel like my own emotional burden.

There are options. I could allow myself to become numb to the deaths. But I won’t. I know that I will spend some time in every stage of grief for every friend who dies. But I will mourn in a smaller circle of support. And then I know I will pick myself up by those well used proverbial bootstraps and get back to advocating, educating and, most importantly, experiencing the joy of life.

In the process of reviewing all my text exchanges with Beth, I discovered she has given me a cut sheet for grieving the loss of her. In one of our last exchanges she wrote the following:

Thanks Stacey. 

One of side effects of not being able to ambulate freely for me is that I get a lot of time to think.

Now I need to start writing more, to share what I have learned more.

You have done and are doing that well.

As I move forward with more writing, I would love to learn more from you as to how to best amplify my voice. Are you willing to help?

I told her I was absolutely willing to help.

Rereading that message felt like re-receiving a huge compliment and being given a grief guide.

My emotion, my energy, my love and appreciation for an incredible woman who, while we interacted mostly over social channels, knew my heart and mind at a depth few others do, can now be channeled.

This is Beth’s site. It’s brief but it’s powerful. Read, learn, feel and then, if you’ve got the energy – advocate. For research acceleration; for improved treatments; for eliminating the stigma of metastatic disease.

In her journal post from January 14, 2016, Beth said, “I've wanted to be a teacher my entire life.”

You were my friend. 

You absolutely, positively, definitely were a teacher. Thank you.

Apple blossoms. And the last photo I texted Beth. On 3/28, the day she died.