The other day, I came across a FB newsfeed of an old acquaintance. Someone I vaguely remember from high school and was never close to, but her posts would occasionally pop up and I’d scroll by. The typical sorority group shots, stereotypical girls moments living life in a southern town, with a bunch of other similarly normal, southern belles — from the cowboy boots to the white dress parties to the floral bridal showers. This time, her post shared a sadness and grief in that apparently one of her best friends has passed away. One of the girls who undoubtedly was a frequent face in the majority of her previous posts. She did not specify whether it was an accident or illness, not that it matters. Fourteen years of friendship cut short of a lifetime.
My initial reaction was curiosity and a slight “oh that’s sad, too bad.” I felt like I should have felt more sad or sympathetic to this painful post, not that I knew either of them. No one deserves to lose a person they loved, much less at a relatively young age. Instead, my next series of thoughts proceeded as such: Firstly, I realized that death is increasingly more common now among my age group — we’re tracking past the midpoint of life expectancy. The six degrees of separation for people who have died is shrinking. Secondly, I noted that she still got fourteen years with her best friend, which is six more than I did with my best friend. That included many wonderful milestones (from photos she shared) such as weddings, house purchases, babies. She was lucky enough to have experienced those together.
I started to turn bitter, in a way I wasn’t expecting. Part of me was satisfied that another perfectly normal life was suddenly shattered and will suffer through a terrible period of grief and sadness. Another part of me was deadpan towards the (un)fairness of such a parallel experience. It is not unheard of to lose a best friend. She is now also part of this morbid club for Those-Whose-Best-Friends-Died-Too-Soon.
This emotion led me to feel really bad about not feeling bad. It’s like I lost the ability to be sympathetic, even when I want to. It was not schadenfreude because I didn’t feel happy about her friend’s death. I just didn’t feel terribly sorry for her, maybe in a way, I still feel sorry for myself, and that made me feel bad.
I think life has turned me into a cruel person. I don’t want to be cruel, yet I find myself feeling increasingly less sympathetic or generally wondering, why aren’t some people getting the tragedies that the world had set out for them? Instead, they seem to experience miracles of survival. These make me angry and annoyed because they were granted an extension on life, yet my best friend was not. For what? Why? How is that fair?
Appendix:
Exhibit A — I know someone who recently survived a terrible accident. For all means and purposes, she should have died. Honestly, I’m glad and relieved that she’s alive, that’s genuinely true. And while she has a disability (for the indeterminable future) and her life is by far tragically changed as a result of the accident, she’s doing relatively fine. She’s taken this second chance at life and turned it into a motivational thing, inspiring many people I’m sure, and doing good in her own way while she strives to recover. For all these reasons, I am happy for her and hope to see her again one day.
She has fully turned her accident into a positive influencer lifestyle, as a survivor, and that’s good for her. However, a part of me also wonders. She should have died. Her accident was a result of actions that she took, purposely. Living a chill life in the tropics, being adventurous, taking unnecessary risks, and of course an accident is an accident because no one wants it to happen, but at the same time, it was entirely a result of her own doing. She chose to vacation on a remote island of an undeveloped country. She chose to ride a motorcycle over hills with unpaved rubble paths. Yet, miraculously, she survived and [the world, fate, God] has given her a second chance. How is that fair?
Exhibit B — I know someone who’s husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer. They have a family, two young kids. It’s awful. Much upheaval has occurred for their family, and I do feel bad. They’re making the best of the lot they were dealt, and truly, they’re doing an amazing job. I also know he’s probably going to die sooner than he deserves. At the same time, he’s already well into year three of diagnosis and so far seems to be doing okay. Medicine and the oncology research seems to be advancing at the same pace or just enough to keep him ahead of the destructive cancer cells.
It is grim to have cancer and the constant uncertainty is harrowing. Yet, he is still alive. They’re on borrowed time as they constantly acknowledge, and try to pack into what time there is to create family memories and treasure what they can of their father and husband. I sometimes wonder though, he was supposed to only have two years to live. Why is [the world, fate, God] still giving him more time? My best friend was recovering from chemotherapy, she was on an uphill path with her illness, and yet, her time was cut short. How is that fair?
I don’t want people to die. I just don’t understand why it is that some people get to survive while others do not. Am I cruel or is [the world, fate, God] cruel?
