Appreciating Those Close To Me

I have been fortunate enough to not have to deal with a lot of death in my life. Other than my two grandparents, no one close to me has passed away. I’ve never had to say goodbye to a close friend or family member, and my high school class was the first one to graduate without losing someone in years.

In spite of all of my good fortune, however, I’ve known six people in the last three years who have committed suicide. I counted.

First was my freshman year of college, she lived down the hall from FriendBoy.

Then there were four boys from my high school — sophomores and juniors, and they all did it the same way, within 18 months of each other. One of them was my friend’s little brother and lived down the street from me.

Then a year ago, while I was having the time of my life in Madrid, a girl from my abroad program committed suicide, casting a dark shadow of reality over our fantasy world of fun and debauchery.

These people weren’t my closest friends or family, but I still knew them. They were someone’s son or daughter, best friend, grandchild, boyfriend or girlfriend, brother or sister. My life wasn’t drastically impacted by their deaths, but someone’s was.

Each time I hear about someone else, I’m filled with questions of why, what happened, how come no one noticed they were struggling?

I had to do a double take on Saturday when I saw Jarnold’s name pop up on the caller ID. I was so excited to answer the phone — one of my best friends from my semester abroad a year ago, and I hadn’t heard her voice in months.

“So I hate to be such a downer on your Saturday night, but we got an e-mail this morning saying that Lisa died…”

What?

No.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

But she did.

A girl from my program of 90 students is gone, and she’s the second one. Two percent of us, just gone.

I have no idea how she died yet, but it doesn’t matter. I’m scared — terrified — that one of these days it will be someone from my family, one of my best friends, that I get a phone call about, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’d like to think that my friend and I are close enough that we’ll notice when something is off, when someone is struggling more than usual. I’d hope that we would confide in one another, seek out support and not let someone off the hook with an “I’m fine, don’t worry.” I’d like to believe that I could see through the veil of denial.

But what about accidents? What about disease and illness and drunk drivers and airplane crashes? What about the millions of things that are out of my control?

So today, because there is little else I can do, I vow to fully appreciate those around me, and enjoy everything they bring to my life. I promise to embrace their energy and their passion and their quirks, because I love them for them. I commit to embarking on adventures with them, surprising them with visits and cards and cupcakes, having impromptu dance parties and staying up late to share secrets, even when it means being tired in class the next day. I refuse to let a day go by without them knowing how much I love them and how important they are to me, because I don’t want to regret not saying it.

Some say death reminds you of our humanity, of our own limitations and finite existence. They say it inspires us to live each day to its fullest, because we never know if it will be our last.

But I say death reminds me of my friends’ humanity, and it inspires me to live each day to its fullest with them, because really — who am I without them?