“I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.” – Helen Keller, American author, political activist, and lecturer
Four weeks ago, a friend of mine died suddenly, under unforeseeable circumstances. I was devastated. We were devastated.
I wish I could say that this piece is about some new-found outlook I have on life. But it isn’t. The pain of her death cuts deep; the wounds are still so incredibly raw. I cannot pretend that I have even begun to develop any meaningful perspective on the matter.
As I said, I was devastated. I still am. We were devastated. We still are.
We, is our running group – a motley crew of about 20, ranging in age from the mid-twenties to the early seventies. We are fast, slow, single, married, divorced, Christians, agnostics, entrepreneurs, employees, parents, childless, Caucasians, visible minorities, low-income, high-income, and everything else in between. We epitomize human variability.
Yet, despite all of our obvious differences, we are the closest of friends. If friends are the family that you choose to surround yourself with, then it’s entirely accurate to say that we are family.
On Sunday mornings, after a long, slow run, it’s not uncommon for us to linger at the coffee shop for hours – sometimes two or even three times longer than the actual time we spent running together. We talk about our jobs, families, activities… life. We run together. We race together. We hike together. We bike together. We laugh together. And now, we’re crying together.
Through the grieving process, I’ve noticed the profound level of care we have for one another. The morning after we received the tragic news of our friend’s death, we gathered at the neighbourhood coffee shop to share our utter shock and disbelief, and to hug, cry, and otherwise console each other. Three days later, we gathered again to share a meal, more hugs and tears, and treasured memories of our friend.
On an individual level, I’ve felt the love and care of my chosen family in the ways I’ve needed the most. In the days immediately following the tragedy, I was silently tortured with agonizing questions about my friend’s well-being and the circumstances of her death. My mind raced endlessly with thoughts about the unimaginable pain on those closest to her. I cried constantly and didn’t sleep. I was completely overwhelmed with grief. Even now, there hasn’t been a day since she died that something hasn’t triggered, at the very least, a few tears, and at most, an all-out sobbing session. So is the blessing and curse of being a sensitive introvert.
It is then, a special gift to have friends who understand you innately. It’s a special gift to have a friend sense that you want to share an intensely personal story… for them to reply to your text message and say, without hesitation, that they’ll meet you “anytime” that same day to talk over coffee. It’s a special gift to have a friend lag behind the group and run with just you… to have them listen to your innermost thoughts and expressions of pain… to have them cry with you for the better part of 12 km. It’s special gift to have a friend know when you don’t want to talk, and to have them just give you a random hug.
You, my friends, are precious. Whether you’re a run buddy, a swim buddy, a kung fu buddy, a work buddy, or a school buddy. Whether I see you every day, every week, or every year. Whether you live nearby or far away. You, my friends, are precious.
And because I may not say it enough… I love you, dear friends. Each and every single one of you. ♥
For our friend Lorraine – We miss you.
For our friend Ryan – We love you.
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