The Worst Week Ever

My friend, Phatiwe, passed away last Thursday after a grueling year with cancer. She was 27. I spent the next five days in Boston, mourning with my friends, all of whom came rushing up as soon as they heard. It was extraordinarily unpleasant. As were the numerous phone calls to people I hadn't spoken too since after graduation, having to hear the elation in their voices because I'd called quickly fade when they were told why. It's not something anyone should have to do. Ever.

We did send her off proper, though. She left explicit instructions on what bars we had to crawl to and made sure we wound up in Chinatown when we were done, gorging on crab rangoon and roast duck. Typical; even after she was dead she managed to tell us what to do. And after we settled up the bill at one of her favorite hangouts, the bartender told us that the first round was on Phatiwe; I think it's the first time I've ever cried in public.

She was loved by many, many people; the funeral home couldn't hold everyone who came. She had a few dozen high school friends and co-workers, as well as us. But aside from her parents, the ol' college gang was the most visibly broken up, especially Jen who had been the only one left in Boston to take care of this miserable experience for the past year.

I realized throughout this whole crapfest that you really do form something important during those late night runs to Denny's in West Lebanon. When you live together at such a young age, you get very close. You grow up together. Phatiwe, Sandra and I spent the first snowstorm of our freshman year making snow angels in front of Baker Tower. We spent the last snowstorm of senior year making snow angels in front of the New Dorms. The only difference is that, in the latter case, I had drunken a whole bottle of gin and was only wearing a T-shirt. See, we grew up.

No one deserves to die, but if they did Phatiwe should have been the last in line. She was a beautiful, compassionate person, even to the end when she didn't want anyone to have to see her losing. Which isn't surprising when you consider that she would grow her nails out specifically so she could attain maximum maiming during a game of Egyptian Rat Screw, guaranteeing that you would never have a chance to win ever again.

And yet for all the suckiness, I've come to appreciate how special my friends truly are and how goddamn lucky I am to have them. Really, really lucky. For all the growing up we were supposed to do in college, it was those stupid, childish antics that really bound us together. Well, Mom, I think I finally grew up.

And it fucking sucks.