The Betrayal of Memory

My friend died of cancer. I didn't even know she was sick.

Fifty-four days have passed since my friend died of cancer I didn’t know she had. My boyfriend and I were whimsically prepping dinner in an Airbnb that can only be described as wild when my phone lit up. My long-time friend's voice on the other end cracked and gasped for air as the words clawed their way through my cell phone speaker. 

Her life was taken by breast cancer in less than a year of diagnosis. I didn’t even know she was sick.

Her funeral shined of purple and a crowd of hundreds filled the doors all the way out to the front parking lot. In the pews, I sat hand in hand with friends both new and old, wiping the tears from our overwhelmed eyes hidden behind crappy sunglasses. After the service, we stood in the sun caressing one another.

I felt twisted and confused.

Each time I saw a loved one I was filled with joy, and then was quickly reminded why we were there together. Usually, our gatherings are dedicated to joy with empty beer cans and silly-themed birthday parties. Today, we mourned someone we loved deeply.

Death has historically overwhelmed me. As a child, I wept in the night to my parents, fearful of my inescapable mortality. Today, I no longer dread the assuredness of death, yet the concept of an untimely or unfair passing causes an indescribable rage. 

The night before I received the news about my friend, I watched an old movie: The Dark Crystal, a peculiar fantasy film crafted with puppets. In the story, a Skeksis emperor slowly dies while others covet her throne. As the Skeksis passed away, I wondered what it truly takes to halt the breath of a body. One moment she clung to life, and the next…

During this time, I was reminded of the perpetual ramifications of my years of competitive horseback riding when my three herniated discs pushed their way even further into my spinal canal. For weeks I had been suffering, hardly able to walk or bend over, yet I hoped somehow I would magically wake up one day, pain-free, launching hi-kicks, or at least take out the trash on my own. Rather than improving, my body broke underneath me. 

While at home, in my hobbling state, if I needed to eat or get to the bathroom, my headboard became a sort of bouldering wall as I clutched onto its bars, yanking myself off my bed, rolling down, and sprawling across the floor in an army crawl type maneuver. Every movement, breath, or smog-induced sneeze resulted in an agony I had never experienced. On the worst night, I devoured sleep-inducing painkillers, desperately begging to escape my awakened suffering, but not even the chemicals could shut out the pain. 

At 9:30 pm, I screamed into the phone to my mother. “I need to go to the hospital, I am going to wake up paralyzed!” 

By 11 pm my mom sat next to me as I trembled and wept under the crushing nerve pain. The MRI confirmed my condition, and the ER doctor handed me a substantial prescription for nerve painkillers, steroids, and anti-inflammatories. 

The prescriptions were dense, and one in particular stood out. I’d heard of the drug before - my mom regularly gives it to her older dog for his pain. I was desperate to stop the pain. When I started the medicine, the fog in my head rolled in quickly, yet discretely.

My sister had moved a few weeks before and given me one of those mechanical beds that raise up and down. To relieve the pressure off my spine I lay in the so-called “zero gravity” position with pillows everywhere. Under my knees, behind my back, two propped up behind my head, and one across my stomach to squeeze when the pain zapped. Guzzling down the pills, I hadn’t even thought they had the potential to do anything other than help. 

With no ability to move, I became much like the Skeksis emperor, engulfed in the bed, curtains closed, and lights off. The medicine had now kicked in fully. I floated in and out of consciousness. My body, brain, and spirit began to part ways. Late one night, my phone began to vibrate. The screen displayed a familiar face, but it took moments for me to recall. The contact photo was me alongside a man with blonde curly hair and a vibrant smile. I squinted and pulled the phone close to my face to inspect. 

“My boyfriend! That’s Ansis!”

The realization brought me immense joy since he was away on a camping trip with hardly any cell phone service. His voice rang out in sorrow and compassion. I stepped through my mind to remember who he was. Through the fog, it became clear that I had only faded memory beyond my dark bedroom. My own name would’ve been doomed to disappearance if not for the Teams messages tagging me to offer my attention to insignificant scheduling demands for a job that pays poverty wages. Screens became a cloud of Tetris and any sentence I read was lost to the abyss as soon as I hit the next. 

My friend and I had been different before she passed. Distance began to grow between us. For years a photo of me, her, and another close friend graced the cover of our phone screen savers. We shared clothes, and cuddles, and even lived together for a time. After Miss USA, she was the first person to look me in the eyes and tell me how proud she was. She consistently offered support and praise, and when she said “I love you” you felt it with every part of your soul. The distance developed as our lives changed. There was no blow-up, no fight, no reason to drift. But over time our screen savers changed and the calls became less frequent. When we saw each other we were happy, but never made plans just us two. A few weeks before her untimely passing I wrote out a text to her: 

“Hey, I was just thinking about you and wanted to let you know I love you.” 

I never hit send. 

As the medicine made its way through me, my presence in reality drifted. Its purpose is to lessen nerve pain by slowing down your body's receptors, which in theory is great. The problem though is that by slowing down your receptors, it also slows down your brain. Instead of freely gliding through the water, I faced a butterfly-style swim test in a dense pool of muddy marsh. My pain began to fade, and so did my mind and everything that was stored inside of it; including the passing of my friend. 

As my body regained some strength, I was finally able to walk. One afternoon, I hobbled out of the bathroom, using a single crutch for balance, taking small baby steps across my studio home. Leaning against the door frame, I lowered my head to take a deep breath before embarking on the journey back to my bed—and that’s when I noticed the pamphlet. Her smile is undoubtedly the most beautiful I, or anyone else has ever seen. And there she was, smiling across the glossy print of a pamphlet that read “A Celebration of Life.”

Horrified, I grabbed the pamphlet and read it over and over. My hands trembled and eyes stung as the memory of the service slammed into me. I had forgotten.

And I continued to forget.

And subsequently, repeatedly reminded.

Group texts dedicated to her.

Social media posts.

Clothes we bought to match for festivals and parties.

Even my phone offered photo displays, jolting me back to times of smiles and full-body cuddle squeezes. (you know, the iPhone photo memories that show up on the far left swipe of your phone that can be…triggering…)

Over time, my existence became blank. I lay on the mechanical bed detached from all reality. The pillows surrounding me became weighted, heavier, and heavier as I shifted positions every so often to relieve the spinal pressure. She began to visit me in my dreams on a nightly basis. She’d dance and wink, and I would reach out to her.

I’d ask: “What happened to our friendship? Where did the distance come from? Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

Without a word, she’d disappear.

And then come back again. 

Forced to reorganize my memories in a dream state, I’d wake in a rage, fight in frustration, and end in desperation. If I ever reached the stage of acceptance, it vanished quickly. Thrusting me not into denial but into unawareness. To deny would imply I held the information, yet in truth, I knew and retained nothing. On repeat. I was forced to say goodbye a thousand times. A goodbye heavy with regret. 

If I had hit send a few weeks prior…

You think there will always be time. That you’ll always be able to do the thing later, call the person later, and that everything will just work out eventually. Sometimes it doesn’t. There isn’t always time.