My friend might have cancer
I almost didn't let her in. And now that I have, she might die... and there's nothing I can do about it.
My friend Amanda might have cancer.
Might.
That’s such a heavy word, all of a sudden.
She’s 40 years old. Single mom of 2. Recovered addict. Her husband walked out on her so he could move in with a stripper. Her cousins pick on her and probably call her names behind her back.
Her whole life, she’s been dumped on by the people closest to her. She left home at 14, and got taken advantage of by men who should’ve known better.
Her mother has her convinced that nobody cares about her. That she’ll never do anything right.
Most of her childhood friends have abandoned her. Some have forgotten her. Some outright despise her.
Some still come around, though, but more often than not, it’s not to check on her — it’s to try and get something from her.
Her grandmother adores her, though.
She maybe doesn’t always know how to show it, but grandma thinks she’s the best one in the whole family. The most kind, most loving, most aware, most likely to leave a lasting legacy. If she doesn’t die first from cancer.
When I first met her, I almost wrote her off, myself.
She was just so weird… and she had so many problems that I couldn’t even relate to… and she just talked all the time…
The first time we ever video chatted, she talked for three hours. And I almost didn’t let her in, at first… but after three hours of conversation, yeah, she was starting to grow on me.
What’s weird is that, at the start of that call, she presented as shy, and withdrawn — skittish, almost. She was like this caricature, this scared, confused, frightened, beat down little girl, trying to survive in an adult body but still stuck in a teenage mind.
She looked like if I said the wrong word, she’d curl up in a ball and cry for her mama — and I’d feel like the biggest bully to ever enter her life.
She scared me a little, with how scatter-brained she seemed.
It felt like it was all she could do to just have a conversation, without descending into utter and complete madness.
In short, she was my mirror image.
Outside of my family, she was the first person I’d spoken to in probably seven years. And I was every bit as scared, confused, frightened, and skittish, as she was. I was just better at covering it all up.
That first time we spoke, I don’t honestly know who was more afraid: her, or me.
I’d been withdrawn and isolated for so long, I was honestly afraid to just talk to another person. Afraid of how she would see me. Afraid of what might go wrong, if I accidentally said something ridiculously stupid.
Afraid that, on seeing me, and speaking with me through video instead of just text… she would decide that I was as big of a loser as I’d already convinced myself I was.
And yet, despite the fear, and the awkwardness of it all… and both of us being so worried about what the other person was going to think…
We talked that first time, for three hours straight.
I guess we both had a lot we’d been waiting to share with somebody.
I went into that video chat wanting to protect myself from possible harm, or rejection. I believed I was such a mess that, if I ever talked to anybody — really talked, about things that truly, deeply matter — I would give myself away from the beginning, as a total nobody. I was afraid I’d say one wrong thing and that would be the end of everything between us.
All my walls were up, and I went into it looking for any possible reason I could find to disqualify her as a potential friend… so that if one of us was going to get hurt, at least it wouldn’t be me.
I was critical of her every word… every look… every facial expression.
She was so incredibly weird…
But behind all the weirdness, the shyness, the awkwardness of that first call…
When it came to finally hang up, I didn’t want to stop talking to her.
And since that day, roughly two years ago now…
She has become the best friend I’ve ever had since middle school… and I never want to stop talking to her.
We talk, now, for hours on end, almost every week. We text each other a hundred thousand times a day. We share all our secrets. We cry, we laugh, we fight, we make up.
And now…
She might die.
I might be months — maybe a few short years — away from losing the best friend I never knew I needed, and it’s not fair to our friendship to have to face the real possibility, so soon, that she might be taken away and it’s not either of our fault, but still there’s nothing anybody can do about it.
I need Amanda in my life.
I’ll be lost without her.
Every time we talk, it’s like the whole world disappears into the background, and all that exists is me, Amanda, and our friendship. Our love for each other. Our mutual respect, support, and encouragement.
When I’m talking to her, time itself stands still. Everything fades away, and our beauty is all that remains.
We’ve helped each other through so many things in the past two years. I wouldn’t be who I am today, if I didn’t have her to talk to. She always meets me exactly where I am, where I need her to, so that she can help guide me through the storm… and help me find my own answers to my own problems, so that I can finally start moving forward again.
After 30 years of keeping everything to myself, and letting nobody into my own inner circle, Amanda owns my secrets. Between her, Sara Jones, my therapist, and God… there’s nothing I haven’t revealed now, to somebody who can help me start to make sense of it all, and let go of the broken pieces that aren’t even mine to begin with, but that have kept me buried under so many failures and frustrations, and so much disappointment and devastation.
Because of her, I know, for the first time in my life, that I’m not going through it all alone. I will always have at least one person now, in my corner no matter what. One person who sees everything about me — and loves me exactly the way I am.
Even when we fight, I always want to love, honor, understand, and support her.
The one time we fought and I thought it was truly over, it was like I didn’t even know how to breathe anymore. Here I am, forty-eight years old, and all I could do for a week was lie in bed, listen to the Smiths, and stare at the empty wall in my bedroom and sob because I didn’t believe I would ever talk to her again.
I never want to go through that again, with her, or with anybody.
I flew to California to meet her last summer.
I won’t go outside my apartment except to go to church, or to take my walk… alone… away from anyone who could possibly get close to me…
And I flew to freakin’ California to meet her in person, and to spend a weekend together. She was so captivating, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Every moment we got to spend together felt like a miracle. It was like we were in our own little Hallmark movie, about to reach the happily ever after.
(Whatever that looks like for friends.)
I showed her Zorro, the Gay Blade, and I’ve never heard a woman laugh that hard or that loud. Sitting next to her, watching one of my favorite movies from my childhood, to this day is one of the happiest moments of my life.
And for the fourteen years I was stuck in Mom and Dad’s house, I never dreamed I could ever be happy again — not even for one small moment.
That weekend with Amanda saved my life.
I love her so, so much. I tell her all the time.
I wondered, at first, if we might be more than friends. But what we have is exactly what it's supposed to be. It doesn’t change the way I feel about her for one second. It doesn’t change the fact that I would drop everything for her, any time she needs me.
It doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready for her to die.
And I know; I’m getting ahead of myself. She doesn’t have the cancer diagnosis, yet. But just the “maybe.”
Just that cloud, hanging over it all.
I don’t have any answers to this one. There are no insights. No lessons that I can offer, that make this easy at all.
Except this:
I’m a better man for knowing Amanda. Every interaction we have had, has taught me something essential to my own growth and happiness. If I had shut her out in the beginning… I wouldn’t be who I am today.
So you can bet your bottom dollar I’m not going to cut her out now, at the end. I’m gonna stay her friend, and stay in her life, and do every last thing that I can to love her and to learn from her, all the way until her very last breath.
Because that’s what true friendship is — refusing to let go, in spite of the fear and the pain and the awkwardness of it all.
That’s what I need more of in my life. And that’s the only thing that I know is always worth fighting for… and always worth holding onto.
My friend Amanda might have cancer.
But whether she does, or not, I’m not going to lose her friendship, ever.
She brought me back to life. I’m going to honor that, every day that we have left.
Whether that’s two years, or two hundred. (You never know with modern medicine.)
I hope that cancer doesn’t take her.
I don’t think it will. I don’t really have that feeling about it.
But it still makes me afraid, either way. And I feel like this is one of those times, where that’s the absolute right response. I am afraid she’ll be taken too soon.
But I’m not using that fear to push her away; I’m using it to hold her tighter in my heart than I even know how. And I think that’s what is going to get me through.
When Someone You Love Might Not Make It
A Guide to Loving Through Uncertainty
The Weight of "Might"
That single word changes everything. Not "will" or "won't" - just "might." You're caught between preparing for loss and hoping for the best.
What you're feeling is normal:
Anticipatory grief (mourning someone still alive)
Emotional whiplash between hope and despair
Urgency to say everything important right now
Guilt for making their crisis about your feelings
The Art of Present-Moment Love
Stop Rehearsing Goodbye
Your mind wants to prepare for loss by imagining it repeatedly. This steals time from actually loving them today.
Instead of future-focused fear:
"What will I do without them?"
"How much time do we have left?"
Try present-focused love:
"How can I love them well today?"
"They're here with me right now"
Daily Choice
Every morning, consciously choose: Will I love them as if they're dying, or as if they're living?
Both acknowledge uncertainty, but only one lets you enjoy their presence.
Ways to Show Your Love
Small, Consistent Acts
Text them something that made you think of them
Share inside jokes and references to your history
Ask about their day like you always have
Make plans for next week, next month, next year
Take photos during ordinary moments
The "Just Because" Letter
Write (but don't necessarily give) a letter expressing:
What they mean to you
Favorite memories you share
Ways they've changed your life
Keep it for when you need to remember why this love is worth the risk.
Supporting Them Without Losing Yourself
What They Need From You
Normalcy - continue being who you've always been
Consistency - don't disappear because you're scared
Space to feel - let them express fear without fixing it
Future thinking - make plans assuming they'll be there
What You Need
Permission to be scared
Your own support system
Professional help if needed
Self-care to maintain your ability to help them
When You Want to Pull Away
Your fear whispers:
"Distance yourself now to avoid future pain"
"You're just making it harder on yourself"
Your love knows better:
They need you most when things are uncertain
The pain of loving and losing beats the pain of not loving at all
You can handle whatever comes if you face it together
The Bottom Line
Loving someone who might not make it is one of the bravest things you can do. You're choosing vulnerability over safety, connection over protection.
Whether they have months or decades left, the love you're giving them today matters.
Keep showing up. Keep loving fully. Keep holding them close in your heart.
The possibility of loss doesn't diminish the value of love - it makes every moment more precious.
"The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief. But the pain of grief is only a shadow when compared with the pain of never risking love."
- Hilary Stanton Zunin
Loving Through Uncertainty: A Self-Reflection Worksheet
Based on "My friend might have cancer" - A guide for navigating relationships when facing potential loss
Before You Begin
Find a quiet space where you won't be interrupted. This work might bring up difficult emotions - that's normal and okay. Be gentle with yourself as you explore these questions.
Take as much time as you need. Some questions might require coming back to later.
Part 1: Understanding Your Situation
1. Who in your life are you worried about losing, and what specific fears do you have about this potential loss?
Your answer:
2. Are you pulling away or drawing closer because of your fear? What's driving that response?
Your answer:
3. When you think about this person, what word comes up most often: "might," "will," or "won't"? How does that word make you feel?
Your answer:
Part 2: Your Love in Action
4. What's something you've been meaning to tell them but haven't yet? What's stopping you?
Your answer:
5. What ordinary moment with this person do you want to remember forever?
Your answer:
6. What's one small thing you can do today to show this person they matter to you?
Your answer:
Part 3: Moving Forward
7. What would change if you decided to love them as if they're living rather than as if they're dying?
Your answer:
8. How can you honor both your fear and your love without letting fear win?
Your answer:
9. Complete this sentence: "Even if the worst happens, I will never regret..."
Your answer:
Your Personal Mantra
Based on your reflections, write a personal statement you can return to when fear threatens to overshadow love:
When I'm scared of losing _________________, I will remember that _________________.
Today I choose to _________________ because _________________.
Quiet Reflection
Look back at your answers. What patterns do you notice? What surprised you? What feels most important to remember?
Your insights:
Remember: The goal isn't to eliminate fear - it's to love fully despite the fear. Every moment you choose presence over panic is a victory.
Final Thought
The hardest part about loving someone isn't the possibility that you might lose them. It's the realization that you almost lost them by never letting them in at all.
I almost wrote Amanda off after that first conversation. Too weird, too much baggage, too many problems I couldn't relate to. My walls were so high I was looking for any excuse to keep her out.
Thank God I didn't.
Because here's what I've learned: The people who scare us the most - the ones who mirror our own brokenness back to us - are often the ones we need most in our lives. They're the ones brave enough to show us that it's okay to be a mess and still be lovable.
Amanda might have cancer. That "might" hangs over everything now. But you know what doesn't hang in the balance? The choice to love her fully while I can.
The fear of loss will always whisper that it's safer to keep people at arm's length. That getting close just sets you up for heartbreak. That vulnerability is weakness.
Your love knows better.
Love anyway. Let them in anyway. Show up anyway.
Because the opposite of love isn't loss - it's never taking the risk in the first place.
And that's a tragedy no amount of safety can justify.
I hope everything turns out to be all right with your friend. It's good to have people like her in your life.