My friend Samuel drew his last breath on a freezing cold day in January 2023, only three weeks after he had been diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer. The shock and devastation of that time will be etched on my mind forever. When we left the funeral later that month, I went back to my flat – he had stayed with me recently after his divorce – and fell apart.
In the last few years, I have lost so many friends it seems like everyone is dropping off the radar. Whether it is old mates, social acquaintances or even the wife of a dear friend, funerals are becoming increasingly frequent.
In 2021, I was at the doctors when I got the call about a family friend, Bob, who had died suddenly in his sleep of a heart attack. Last year, I lost my best university pal Mandy to breast cancer. One minute we were making plans for the weekend, the next I sat holding her hand as she stared at the results of her biopsy.
As a childless unmarried woman of 64, my friends are my family and they mean everything to me. I remember at our graduation ceremony in my twenties feeling that warm glow of camaraderie as Mandy and I stood in line, making funny faces as we posed for the obligatory photographs. Little did I know that she would be taken so cruelly from me decades later.
I am finding it hard to wrap my head around the loss of all those I adored and loved. These were the people who I knew I could trust and would be there for me. Now, when I want to share a fun bit of gossip, my fingers poised over the Whatsapp screen, I realise: “Oh, I can’t, they’ve passed away.” The penny drops; I will never text or see them again. That is when the grief really hits and I find my mind scrolling back to the past.
Summer days, messing around and drinking in pub gardens, the comforting smell of Samuel’s cooking when he lived with me, and the London streets we made our own burst out of my subconscious. Our lives are so interwoven. I feel I have lost part of myself and it just gets more painful.
Replacements for our country walks are found but it still means there is one less mate standing at our local bar. The sudden gulp when Facebook brings up a birthday of yet another friend who is no longer with us. I didn’t expect to lose so many people and I can’t help but wonder when it’s going to be my turn.
“For many people in their 60s, when friends of the same age die, we often find ourselves thinking: ‘They were my age, they are no different to me – I could be next,’” says Amanda Charles, counselling psychologist and author Psychic Psychologist. “Peer loss becomes an increasingly normal part of life. Once friends begin to die and mortality moves closer, many people experience what I describe as a mortality wake-up call. For some, particularly when losses are repeated or traumatic, this realisation arrives very directly as a fear of death.”
This resonates. After Mandy’s death which had been so sudden and so awful to bear, I found myself investing every niggle and pain with invasive thoughts of dying. When I had a health scare last summer, I begged the hospital technician to tell me the results of my emergency ultrasound, convincing myself that her refusal (they are not allowed to anyway) and the fact she didn’t smile meant I definitely had the big C. After two nail biting weeks, on a sunny day in August, when I was finally given the “all clear” I was so relieved and shocked that I burst into tears.
After that scare, I made a decision to stop ruminating about the “what ifs” and I am trying to let things go. Life is short and too precious to waste on worrying about the little put downs, disappointments and resentments. All I know is that I am still here and so many friends aren’t.
This was brought home to me when I found myself scrolling through photos on my phone and chanced upon one of Mandy at the beach near her family home in Cornwall. She was standing in the sea, giving her trademark crooked smile that lit up her face. I missed her so badly it felt as if the ground was undulating underneath me.
Dr Lucy Atcheson, a counselling psychologist specialising in bereavement, reassures me that these feelings are entirely natural. “As humans, we tend to take for granted what we have, and it’s only when they are gone that we suddenly miss them.”
She adds that we often cancel plans we can’t make today without really knowing when we can – only a vague future. This chimes with me as I regret having cancelled so many todays; the conversations I didn’t have with friends I have lost. Why didn’t I visit Samuel in the countryside when he invited me to lunch one weekend? A month later, he was gone. Why did I leave so many messages, calls and invites unanswered? I always thought there would be a next time.
From now on, I am determined to show my love while my friends are here and work on creating new, fun memories with those I haven’t seen for ages. Last month, I reinstated the group Sunday lunches that had been cancelled when Mandy fell ill and we raised a glass in her honour.
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Only a few days ago, as I was watching Netflix, an old mate texted to ask to be friends again – he had blocked me after a silly disagreement. So often in the past, I had struggled to forgive, unable to get past the hurt. So, this time I “heart”-ed his message and told him how happy I was that he had reached out. I have known him for 30 years and he was over the moon. It’s weird but, after forgiving him, I felt a sense of calm and peace wash over me.
Yes, we’re all busy in today’s hectic world and we are pulled in so many directions at once on the home and work front that it is difficult to carve out time for a pee, let alone a conciliatory glass of red with an old pal. But, wiping the slate clean with the friends we’ve still got in our lives feels positive.
Before Mandy died, at her last chemo session she told me to stop crying and to promise that I would have fun – not only for me but for her as well. So last week, feeling one degree under, I forced myself to put on my new frock and attend a friend’s birthday drinks in Soho. The old me would have stayed home and consoled myself with Netflix and hot chocolate but I’m so glad I went. I had a blast and I thank Mandy for giving me permission – and a push – to be happy.
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