Who needs to die for you to review your life?

This weekend I lost a friend from college. The whole process took place: I disbelieved, I asked 5 different people to confirm the news, I cried, I was upset, I looked at the last messages we exchanged, I dreamed that it had just been a nightmare. But no, that was it, in this strange cycle of life.

The week before, I was talking to my closest friends from college about setting up a full-staff meeting. We wanted to do this because we miss some, but let’s be honest, also to analyze many others. I already knew what this meeting would be like. Half a dozen smiles for every two dozen whispers. We would comment on who has gained weight, who is going bald, who is earning a lot, who has lost his career. We would embrace some, we would criticize so many others (especially those that we hold small grudges or other little shits).

SEE TOO:

• Life is too good when it doesn’t go unnoticed

Until that friend died, and I realized how ridiculous this spirit of reunion was. Are we really that small? That we are not able to find ourselves with an open heart, with a little more transparency? That we are not capable of truly wishing everyone to be well and happy? That we are not able to let go of such petty resentments?

The night I learned of the loss of this friend, I called everything into question. I acted different. I looked more carefully around before crossing the street. I didn’t want to drink alcohol with dinner. I sent a peaceful message to my ex, who was also his friend. I called my mother. I looked at my sleeping boyfriend and thanked him. I stayed with my eyes open, sprawled towards the ceiling all dawn, rethinking things, reviewing scenes and thinking, anguished, about how ephemeral is this life in which you enjoy a photo of an Instagram friend in the morning and at night discover that he is dead.

SEE TOO:

• At the end of the day, you have to learn to put yourself first.

I woke up, took my thyroid medication, and respected the 30-minute fast, which I usually pretend only needs to be 10. I texted my childhood friends’ group, saying how much I love them and how much distance bothers me. One of us died at the age of 19 and it seems that, almost 10 years later, we have forgotten part of the unity and unconditionality that this gave us. We gave space to the little shits. But that morning I knew perfectly well that shit was just shit.

I scheduled a blood test and a dentist. I decided to ask my brothers not to let my nieces be an only child. I bought organic fruit. I hung the new frames and put other pictures in the frame. I threw in some old things that were in the pantry. I cut yellowed leaves from the porch plants. Reply to pending messages. I apologized.

SEE TOO:

• Time to start over.

We arranged a meeting of the faculty staff in his honor. I think we’re all going without masks.

I still don’t quite understand the meaning of these losses. I’m still a little confused by these strange decisions of fate. I’m still a little confused. It seems like the only thing I understand, for now, is that we shouldn’t have to lose someone dear to try again to be the best we can.

Ruth Manus