I Miss My Friend

Life is full of before and after moments. The ones that leave such a strong impression they symbolically partition your life. You remember what things were like before and how they felt after. If you are lucky, you only have a few of them. But when they hit, they usually hit without warning. And leave you struggling to get back up and find your footing again.

I’ve written about several heavy topics, because writing is a therapeutic outlet for me. This post is no different - it’s full of emotions that are still raw and fresh, and it serves as a band-aid for an open wound that is deep and painful. As life goes on, it will continue to heal, leaving behind a scar that fades with the passage of time. But for now, the feelings remain pervasive.

Saturday, September 21st, was a before and after day for me. My oldest is playing high school soccer this fall, which means my weekends are free from the obligations of club soccer. I decided to take advantage of the extra time and meet up with a friend for lunch and a movie. This is a luxury afforded to me again, now that my kids are older, and weekend activities are minimal. Even so, I was still checking my phone periodically during the movie to make sure nothing was (metaphorically) on fire at home.

I noticed I had a missed call from someone who has never called me before, but whose number I have in case of emergencies. She is the daughter of a childhood friend that I grew up with. At first, I thought it was a mistake, but then I saw she left a message. My heart sped up and my palms grew sweaty as I realized I was likely to be on the receiving end of bad news.

I stepped out of the theater, nervous. I listened to her message, and I called her back.

The exact details of our conversation are a bit foggy to me because my mind was racing, trying to process everything she said while still offering a coherent response. At the end of the call the outcome was the same regardless of how much information I absorbed – my friend (her mom) had suffered a medical emergency. The doctors couldn’t save her, and she passed away.  

At 43 years old.

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I’ve known Nancy since I was about 9 or 10. She used to live down the street from me, and we spent many weekends at each other’s houses and many weeknights on the soccer field under her dad’s coaching tutelage. As we hit our teens, her family moved about 10 minutes away, and she transferred to another local school. But we remained friends. When we could both drive, we would often go out roller skating on Friday nights at a local entertainment center.

One night we were there skating with our friends, and she noticed a guy. She told me she thought he was cute, and eventually I went up to him and relayed the compliment. That’s how we did back then – we sent our friends as messengers. It was the 90's version of an indirect salutation, akin to simply liking someone's Instagram post without entering their DMs. Unfortunately, he had a girlfriend, but he was flattered.

I don't remember exactly how much time passed, but eventually, he and his girlfriend broke up. Nancy and he married a couple years later in the fall of 2000. Their first daughter (the one who called me) was born shortly thereafter, followed by their second daughter. By the time their oldest was 4 years old (2006), Darren and I were engaged to be married. We asked her to be our flower girl, and she did it perfectly.

As the years passed, we stayed in touch. I planted roots in Missouri, and she built her life in Colorado. Every time we made the trip out west, we did our best to see Nancy and her family. Sometimes, we would even stay at her house, because she loved opening her home to other people. And as our family grew, so did the arms with which she welcomed us. We spent more than one Easter at her house when we were visiting for the holiday, and somehow it still felt like we were spending it with family. She was always ready and willing to adventure out with us, too. Whether it be to the mountains for skiing and alpine sledding, or to a local museum my kids had never been to. She (and her family) always made the effort to see us, no matter what else was going on in her life.

The last time I saw Nancy was this past March, when we were visiting for spring break. We met for breakfast and planned to meet up again during the week, but our schedules never aligned. She was juggling working full time and going to nursing school (while also taking care of her family), and I was trying to maximize time with my dad. Plus, I knew we would be out this summer for a couple of weeks. And we did return in July, but our trip came and went without us meeting up. We tried back and forth a couple of times to make it happen, but again found ourselves with conflicting commitments.

Of course, had I known then what I know now, I would have made it happen. I am haunted by the fact that I assumed we’d connect again over our next visit, not knowing this would be our last opportunity. Yet that is the harsh reality of life and loss - never knowing when the current opportunity is truly the last one.

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I have so many memories with Nancy, but one of my favorites is from the summer of 2023. It was a Sunday. We attended church with her family followed by lunch at Culvers. (She knew my son has celiac disease and was happy to accommodate him, a testament to her gracious personality.) To put a bow on our day together, she was going to bring her family over to my dad's house for an afternoon swim in his pool. I took the kids home, we put on our swimsuits, and waited for Nancy to arrive.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, a couple hours later, she pulled up with her husband and girls. She was ‘late’ because she went to get a last-minute pedicure. I laughed at the time – it was just like her. She had places to be but nothing was going to come in the way of her sparkle. It was fitting behavior from someone who had earned the nickname ‘Fancy Nancy’ from her friends and coworkers.

Nancy wasn't just a beautiful person (inside and out), she was also tenacious. Nancy made it a point not to just live, but to thrive. No matter what obstacles got in her way. She suffered a brain tumor in 2012 and despite the resulting physical limitations, she fought back with fierce perseverance. Back to walking. Back to cooking. Back to working. Back to hiking. Back to paddle-boarding. Back to school involvement. Back to being the mom and wife her family needed. Back to building her future once her kids were grown. Back to more than all of this, which was only a small part of what she accomplished.

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The thing about loss is that you don’t lose someone once. You lose them over, and over, and over again. Because the moment you forget, even for just a minute, that they are gone, reality cuts like a razorblade and you are back where you started. The sting feels less intense over time, once the shock wears off, but you still absorb it.

I have watched Nancy’s children grow up, and I always thought she would celebrate with me when my children hit key milestones. Their first dance, their first job, their high school graduations. Eventually starting families of their own. I also assumed she would be there when the inevitable but unthinkable happened and I found myself saying goodbye to a parent. We weren't in each other's daily lives, but we were childhood friends with a shared history, one of the rare cases where friendship is maintained and nurtured over decades. We may not have interacted with each other but a few times a year, but our lives were intertwined.

Perhaps that is why this loss is so hard. Of course, the suddenness of it brings everything into perspective and forces me to face my own mortality (and that of those I love). 43 years old is young…too young. Death at this age doesn’t follow the natural order that we have all begrudgingly accepted. But also, Nancy represented a connection to my childhood and teens, someone who knew me then and knows me now. That kind of relationship is rare outside of immediate family.

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Nancy’s memorial was on Monday, October 7th. After careful consideration, I made the decision to wait and make the trip to Colorado as a family when we could spend some intentional time with Nancy’s husband and daughters. We plan to go out in December, around what would be Nancy’s 44th birthday. I feel sadness at missing out on the community commemoration of my friend’s life, and getting to see in person just how many people knew and loved her. From what I've seen online, it was a beautiful celebration, attended by many people from all different circles. I have watched the tributes pour out and learned so much more about what she meant to others.

There is comfort in knowing a congregation of people will be looking out for her family. Celebrations of life are for the living, because there is catharsis in community grief. I know that well from my experience post-Columbine where the shared trauma was easier processed by others who knew and understood my anguish. I look forward to seeing Nancy’s family and hugging them, as much for myself as for them. But I also understand that their pain is very different from mine, and their daily lives are impacted on a much greater scale. While I acknowledge my own sadness, I recognize it is simply a fraction of what they must be experiencing.

The experience of loss isn't unique. Many of my friends have experienced deep loss, and I have talked to some of them over the last several weeks. They all say it gets better with time. And I know it does. Once there is some distance in the rear-view mirror, things are a bit less potent. But for now, I find myself frequently reliving my favorite moments with Nancy, simultaneously recalling her unique personality traits and remembering her kindness. And while I have tried to accept that she is gone, I can’t help but think of what our next visit would have been like.