There has been nothing to write until I was ready to write about her.

She was the light in any room.

She loved being alive, her two young boys, her husband she’d loved since high school.

She was felt by all who knew her, with an unstoppable smile, unflinchable optimism.

She was quick to laugh, and when she did, it was with her whole being.

She easily appreciated the art and work of others, liking, commenting, and cheering on.

She had an effect where strangers and friends longed to bask in her radiance, her joy.

She told me she loved me every day.

She was my only cancer buddy, and our sisterhood deepened in that acknowledgment.

She was.

How is it possible to speak of her in the past tense? Not her. Her vibrance was seemingly immortal. That vibrance never dulled as she faced the dark uncertainty of treatment, our weekly chats focused on my treatment, my processing of the uncertain future, of the physical pain, of the relationship with God, with friends, with traditional and integrative approaches to healing. A mirror opposite of my own choice, she chose the path of quiet resilience, telling only a few closest to her what was happening.

“I have to show you something before I see you.” It was last Thanksgiving, I was back in Iowa from Oregon, and we were meeting for coffee that weekend. On FaceTime, she unwrapped her beautifully tied head scarf to show me her bald head. I wept. Why us? Why at 40 when life is just beginning? Did we not love or eat right enough, or was this a fluke? “We are miracles,” she told me - and I believed it. I was in remission at the time, and so was she. We spoke of our restored empathy for others, our renewed passion, and appreciation for living, the urgency to express our love now, living with uncertainty as we will, at least we’re weathering it together. She showed me the scans, the before and after where the stage IV breast cancer had consumed her organs, then POOF! Where there was once disease lighting up her body, there was darkness, sweet normality. We were miracles. We would grow old together, unraveling the experience.

We’d both received our original diagnosis the same month. Chosen sisters, we’d shared much of our suffering over the years. She was the first call I made when my dad died. The first call when I was leaving Iowa. When I was afraid, she had a way of sitting with me in the pain without trying to talk me out of it, just offering herself and her love. It was always enough. Some of my favorite eras of life were spent with her. Working together at a cell phone kiosk in the mall, we worked less than we laughed and goofed around, making friends with the mall security guys and other mall workers, we felt at the center of this family of oddballs. When I felt at my most lost after getting out of the military circa 2006, she was the one who told me to apply at US Cellular, where we spent years slinging cell phones in the early Blackberry days, gossiping about our bosses and customers at Bennigans where we’d fill up on post-work potato soup. Laughter came easily together, her nature of making everyone around her feel seen and loved was a model of living that so many, myself included, looked up to and felt damn lucky to be around.

It must have happened fast. I spoke with her days before when she mentioned she was facing dark times. I asked her what felt dark. In her way, she wrote how everything was going to be okay, that she just needed to surrender and calm down. My best guess is she didn’t want to tell me while I was in the hospital that her cancer was back. My best guess is she thought it would distract me from my healing or make it about her somehow. Classic Candace. Sweet, sweet Candace.

Two days after this message, Evan and I are waiting in the oncology office for a long day of transfusions. I open Facebook to see a mutual friend post that we lost her.

Since that moment, the grief has come in waves. I want to know what the fuck happened, how we all lost her so fast. The outpouring has begun, she was so loved by so many. We are all shocked. There isn’t a world without her in it, that idea feels absurd. I’m angry and hurt. She was supposed to watch her boys grow into men. She was supposed to have time away from work to grow her beautiful thick hair back, dance in the living room, relax into a quiet life, and sort through what had happened to her surrounded by love. We were supposed to grow old together, to be the manifestation of the miracles we said we were.

The day she died, classmates, old co-workers, and strangers who were friends began reaching out to me to check in. Maybe they knew our sisterhood. Maybe they are wondering if I’m next. And I could be. Naturally, her loss makes me contemplate the thin margins I walk between life and death - how much is luck, how little I can do, and how little I/we get to decide. In moments it scares me, like maybe I am right behind her, that maybe we were chosen for some unknowable reason.

The absence of Candace is everywhere. No more daily “I love you’s.” No more comforting exchanges of “get this shit” cancer trials, symptoms, and thoughts only a fellow cancer patient would understand. No more running into her downtown with the boys, always over the top excited to see anyone. Facebook is an in Memorium with stories like mine, stories of how she was loved, how she loved, how there is a massive hole in the world where she once stood.

While her absence is everywhere, so is her presence. The only comfort is this feeling of her in everything beautiful. The yellow butterfly dancing in the grass on my walk yesterday. The sepia fall sunsets that, every night since she passed last Thursday, have filled our house with warmth, glowing light that takes our breath away. I’m held by the idea that if I am not the miracle we dreamt of together, I will see her again very soon. I hope heaven has a decent potato soup and at least a few characters to giggle about.

You are loved SO big, Candace. May we all continue your legacy of love and laughter, light and hope, relentless joy and fierce friendship in all our days. Until I see you again…

The death of a friend.

You’re alive. Act like it.

My life is never going to be the same.