I don't know Bill well, and didn't in high school. We have lots of friends in common of course, so I keep track of things on the periphery. He has accomplished a great deal in his 57 years. He's also been through an awful lot and still manages to smile, to share, and to love.
I can't engage with this. I just can't. I don't have it in me. Since my cancer diagnosis, then the wreck, I have alternating survivor guilt, suicidal ideology, dissociation, and a great deal of anger. I'm not strong like Bill. I'm not ready to be done. I'm not accepting even my little limitations, let alone his passing. I. Will. Not. Believe.
That is, in a way, unfortunate. I will miss the chance to reconnect. Truth be told, it doesn't matter to him if I do or not. Hell I don't even know if he remembers who I am. I know he has terrific people around him. People who can give what he needs to get through this. I have nothing to offer.
I will hold him in my heart, and hope his journey is not too unpleasant. I will pray he has peace, and that when it gets bad that last time he goes fast. I will send mental love, support the friends who are closer to him as they walk this by his side, and above all else, I will be angry.
I already am. I'm angry that cancer exists. I'm angry that it only seems to take the good ones. I'm angry that things don't taste right after chemo and I'm left with little hair. I'm angry that I hurt all the time. I'm angry that I am sitting here weeping when I am trying so hard not to care.
I'm going to continue stuffing these feelings away because I just have a whole heap of can't right now. It could have been me. Maybe it should have been.
Cancer only takes the good ones.
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