Forever Friends

When a Small Hill Brings Back a Big Loss

Over the last few years, my forever friends have been through it all. We’ve survived COVID, life upheavals, and the unimaginable. Last year, we lost one of our own—the most beautiful soul. He danced to his own tune, both literally and figuratively, always with a witty response that you might have missed if you weren’t paying attention. But for those who caught it, you’d be laughing—either with him or at yourself.

He wasn’t afraid to tell a joke or be the joke. The first one to dive into the ocean, the first one to make you feel at peace. It’s no wonder he faced his greatest challenge head-on. Losing him to pancreatic cancer—the K2 of cancers—was devastating. Pancreatic cancer isn’t just difficult; it’s the deadliest, most unforgiving mountain you could ever climb. Watching someone so incredible take on that fight, with love and care for everyone around him even as he endured so much pain, was both inspiring and heartbreaking.

And his amazing wife, the true definition of strength, has spent this year navigating life without him. Every day is a battle to find balance in a world that feels off-kilter without him in it. Her grace and resilience are remarkable, but it’s a strength no one should ever have to call upon.

He showed us how to live with love, to face the unthinkable with courage, and to always find room for laughter, even in the darkest moments. His impact remains immeasurable, and the void he’s left is impossible to fill. But the memories of his wit, his warmth, and his unwavering spirit will carry us forever.

Cancer is always a fight, but some are Backyard Brawls and others are World Wars impossible to win.

Survivor’s Guilt and the Pain of Cancer

And now here I am, bringing the “C” word back into the mix. It’s not a comparison—because, honestly, this isn’t even in the same league. My situation is a hike up the hill at 32 Berrywood Lane, a walk through the Project Adventure paths, and a climb up the stairs to the old Nike Site. Yes, it’s inconvenient and disruptive—a year-long journey of surgery, chemo, radiation, and infusions. But it’s not unforgiving. It’s manageable. It’s beatable.

Still, having to say that word again—having to assign it a stage—feels wrong. It feels like reopening wounds that haven’t had time to heal. I know it brings back memories, fears, and trauma for everyone who loved him. I see it in their messages, their care, their support. They won’t show me their fear, but I know it’s there.

The hardest part of all of this isn’t the diagnosis or what’s ahead—it’s knowing that I’ve unintentionally stirred up this kind of pain for the people I love. The guilt of knowing I’ll be okay, that my cancer is manageable, while his was anything but—that’s hard to reconcile. Breast cancer and pancreatic cancer shouldn’t even share the same breath. My fight is real, but his was the kind of war that leaves a permanent scar on everyone who witnessed it.

At the end of this year, I’ll climb my hill. I’ll make it to the other side. But knowing he had to face K2—the deadliest, most vicious mountain imaginable—makes my climb feel insignificant. And yet, my hill has sent ripples of pain through the lives of the people who’ve already been through too much.

That’s what weighs the heaviest on me: the knowledge that I’ve caused waves of hurt for the people I care about most, even unintentionally. While I climb this hill, my hope is that we’ll all keep moving forward together, carrying his memory, his spirit, and his legacy with us every step of the way.

To my forever friends: You’re my reason for climbing. You’ve carried me through so much, and I’m sorry for the pain this diagnosis has brought back into your lives. I’ll get through this because of you, and when I do, it’ll be for you—and for him.❤️