Losing a Best Friend

It’s been just over fifteen years since I lost one of my best friends to cancer. She was everything you’d want a best friend to be – funny, caring, reliable and understanding. We’d known each other for eleven years and although we’d been through a couple of ups and downs (like any close relationship), we knew how lucky we were to have found each other. She could make me laugh even when I was in the depths of despair – a rare and precious thing indeed! She had no partner and no family, so I suppose I was the closest thing to all of them, looking back.

When she was diagnosed with cancer, I was determined that she would live through it and beat the illness. While I couldn’t comprehend a life without her, she was far more philosophical about it. She didn’t fall to pieces or hide under the nearest duvet (as I would have done in her position). Instead, she urged me to carry on as before – have fun, get out and see the world, go on more of our adventures together. What else could I do but be by her side, admiring her courage.

As the weeks went by, with every visit to the medical world, they eyes of those who had seen it all before began to signal a dark truth. They looked at me with a sadness that undermined their neutral choice of words. They knew it, I knew it and I’m pretty sure she knew it too – but no-one acknowledged any of the lurking darkness. That suited us, quite frankly... we wanted to keep everything as normal as possible for as long as possible. We wanted to preserve what we had until we had no choice.

One evening, after another battery of tests had been done, something in our awareness of the illness shifted. Nothing was said, but we both seemed to understand that she may not beat this illness after all. Our determined attitudes dissolved into an unspoken, heavy air of resignation. I still don’t know why that happened when it did – sometimes it just does.

That evening, we went for a walk together along a route that we’d walked many times before. It was twilight and the sun was radiating beautiful colours through the sky as we walked slowly along the shoreline. By now, she couldn’t walk particularly far or with any pace, so we stopped often – taking in the sunset, the breeze skimming off the calm sea. I look a photo of her gazing out to sea. It’s grainy and dark, but it’s one of the most precious memories of her to this day.

When the time came, she was all the things I knew she would be; brave, calm and utterly exhausted. As her spirit left her, I clung to her and simply howled into the ether. I couldn’t comprehend the finality of what had just happened. No more battling to beat the cancer, no more fun, no more her. I was livid. How could the world keep turning? Why was life carrying on as if nothing had happened?

The grief I experienced over the next few days was terrifying. I was left breathless by the pain, the searing, clawing pain that tormented me in the hours and days that followed her death. I buried myself in her things – inhaling her scent, sobbing, railing against the world for stealing my friend, even angrier with myself for not preventing it. The sheer force of my grief was overwhelming me and I was frightened that I would break from it all.

During those days, the only thing that offered solace was a flower remedy. A tiny, glass container filled with the life force of a plant. On paper, it seems ludicrous. In the real world, I knew the potency of these remedies and I knew I needed them. I took a couple of drops of Star of Bethlehem – within a few minutes, my the ragged edges of my grief smoothed a little. After another dose, my grief was still very much present, but not in danger of overwhelming me anymore. The flower remedy allowed me to grieve, to let that natural process continue and yet, to also cope with it all. I used Star of Bethlehem for many days after she died. It kept me sane and allowed me to mourn. I am eternally thankful for that “little” remedy.

A year on, I was dreading the approaching first anniversary of her death. Her absence still hurt and although the remedies had accompanied me along that rocky path of bereavement, I wasn’t looking forward to the day. The day itself brought the expected tears, a return to the place we took our last walk together and lots of memories. It also brought a bittersweet sense of letting her go. I had clung to her fiercely all year – I wanted her to magically re-appear as though her death had all been some stupid mistake. Being able to let her go on that day allowed me to celebrate her, her life, her memory. I chose this first anniversary to donate to The Battersea Dogs Home in her memory. They were her saviours in her first year and I have always been indescribably grateful for that.

I’ll never forget when I met her there for the first time – my best friend was a one year old collie cross with a huge personality and a love of life. Her name was Roxy and she was, without doubt, my partner in crime. I feel privileged to have been part of her life for those eleven crazy, wonderful years.

Sasha MacDonald

sasha@sashamacdonald.com

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