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In my mid 20s, I lost a lifelong friend of the same age to a tragic car accident.

It was one of the first times I experienced that type of shock and loss.

I turned to writing to process my grief, in the same way I do now, and I wrote a letter to his parents. They responded and sent a picture of the two of us as toddlers sitting together on a sunny day—me in pink and very chubby; he in blue and much thinner, looking at each other, smiling, and holding hands.

It took a good bit of time before I was finally able to visit where he’s buried because I didn’t believe that I needed to go there to “feel” him. I went because some part of me felt he wanted me to acknowledge, accept, and maybe even smile while thinking about the ways he made me laugh, imitating my goofy, “too-attentive-eyes-on-the-road” driving style or how concerned I was with my hair.

Maybe this would help me to heal just a little more.

After my time alone with him, while walking home through the cemetery and looking at the years etched on various headstones, the oddest thing happened: I briefly pictured what mine would say and the year 2023 flashed in mind.

I thought to myself, “How old would I be? Forty-nine if I did the math correctly. That’s forever away and ‘old’ anyway.” (“Old” if you’re not even 25 years old, I suppose.)

I’ve thought about this moment only a handful of times over the past 20 years, giving it little mind space and not mentioning it to anyone until the night before my 49th birthday.

After back-to-back hot yoga and dance classes, I stopped by my then fiancé’s house to pick up my children who were there to have dinner and hang out with their soon-to-be step-siblings. My fiancé asked, “Are you ready for your birthday tomorrow?” I answered, “As ready as I’ll ever be,” and then it dawned on me that this was the year, and I shared with him what had happened more than 20 years ago in the cemetery.

He was understandably uncomfortable, which reminded me why I’d only ever mentioned it to a few people. Death is not something we “do” well in our culture, and talking about it, even less so. Although, we are intrigued by it. (You might even be reading this because of the title alone.)

I packed up my kids and we drove home. Less than five hours later, I was driving myself to the emergency room where, despite my best efforts to be home by my birthday at 6:49 a.m., I was admitted to the hospital, oddly enough where it all began 49 years ago.

The nurses felt bad that I was there and gifted me with a medical glove birthday balloon. The “cemetery moment” didn’t cross my mind once that night—but has many times since.

Following my birthday, a series of events happened that now, 10 months into my 49th year, I can see have led to and are still leading to parts of myself dying…hopefully for the better, even though at times it feels like it’s for the worse.

This year has been the most emotionally, mentally, and physically trying time of my life. I’ve been forced to look at old patterns that are so deeply ingrained it feels like I’m drilling to the earth’s core to get to them, sometimes with a toothpick because I’m not strong enough to manage the oil rig. I hope I can lay these unhealthy patterns to rest and find joy in a rebirth of sorts, but honestly, I know some of these patterns will be with me until we leave this world together. So, I have to do my best to manage them.

During my most recent move (three in the span of four months), I came across an old box of pictures. Sifting through it, I found the one my friend’s parents sent me long ago. I cried looking at it, knowing that he won’t be here with the rest of our friends who are celebrating their milestone birthday this year.

Looking at us as toddlers with the sun shining on us, him holding my hand, I thought to myself maybe that’s why he wanted me to “go there” to see him. Perhaps he was giving me a heads up that although some deaths are quick, as we know his was, others are longer and take time.

In his death and rebirth, I find comfort that I can ask him for help from wherever he is, and although it’s through tears when I feel like I can’t go on, I know how lucky I am to be here to experience this thing called life—even while holding that toothpick.

I’m a woman of due dates and wrapping things up on time, and so although I hope in these last two months of my 49th year that I get everything magically resolved and in place by the time July 14th rolls around, experience tells me I’d better have a backup plan.

And let us remember that not all deaths are scary or sad or grievous. After all, the French have a nice phrase for such a death, “la petite mort.”

Here’s to more of those, too.

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