My friend died of cancer — and I’m still not OK
My friend died in 2015. And silently, I’m still grieving.
I hadn’t seen Rachel since we were about 23 years old. We had lost touch since art school and she passed away at the tender age of 30. I hadn’t seen her in years. I was no longer amongst her inner-circle. What right did I have to grieve?
Rachel and I met at college when we were 16. She was petite, quiet, self deprecating and a gifted artist — and had a cracking sense of humour and a laugh to go with it.
Between the ages of 16–19 years old, our formative years, we were close friends. We spent weekends at each other’s houses, bonded with each other’s families, got drunk together and had plenty of deep and meaningfuls. We had our whole lives ahead of us.
We went to University, met boys, and lost touch. And then, not long after, she died. On 15 March 2015, of lung cancer. And I didn’t know. I didn’t even find out until the following year, when on a dark night on the platform at Surbiton station, I found out the truth. With Rachel being a gifted textile artist, I liked to check in on what she was up to on her blog. It had been a while. And the blog said the site was a ‘A tribute to Rachel.’ A tribute? I stared dumbly at the words. I Googled her name, and saw funeral details dating back months ago. I stood, chocked and in shock as several trains heading back to where I lived in Zone 3, passed. What had happened?
Lung cancer. Rachel, a non-smoker, who had been training for a half marathon, died of lung cancer. Her new doctor didn’t think a fit young woman could get lung cancer, and her cough was dismissed. She had been robbed of her life. Her talent was emerging and making itself felt in the world. She taught art in Cambridge. She had found a partner and settled down. They built a summer house she never got to work in.
And I feel… regret. The heavy feeling on my chest when I realise I can never reach out to her to apologise for not staying in touch. For being a dick sometimes. Like the time she came to see me in University Halls with her boyfriend and I mocked him for bringing his own tea bags. Not in a funny way either. I guess I was silently angry at him for taking my friend away, but I didn’t have the emotional intelligence to recognise that back then.
Some of my fondest memories of Rachel are where we spent time together opening up our minds listening to new music and watching films. When you’re 17 your brain is like a sponge and you feel everything really intensely. I remember the evening we danced like mad things to The Streets — Original Pirate Material in her parents’ front room. Of her introducing me to Amelie. And watching Y Tu Mama Tambien together in an art house cinema. I remember thinking at the age of 17 how raunchy it was, how I wanted to travel more as a result, and how sad it was that the protagonist died of cancer in her 30s. Little did I realise how art would come to imitate life.
To celebrate her life and work, Rachel’s parents put on an exhibition with all of her incredible pieces. She was prolific. I have a piece of her art, an owl in the woods, framed in our living room. I miss my friend.
