What a Friend Did for Me When I Was Struggling With Survivor’s Guilt

I felt numb. Completely and utterly numb. It was the day of my friend’s funeral.

A friend who was chronically ill. Just like I was.

Before he died, he was in a good health spot. I wasn’t. But he was gone. And I was still here. And the guilt of that fact was suffocating. In some moments, it still is.

Since he moved to our town, we had always gotten along. Partially because of a shared morbid sense of humor only people with chronic illness can share, and partially because our families were so similar.

And during the funeral, the similarities of our families haunted me. I saw myself mirrored in his story. I saw my loved ones mirrored in his. It was like watching my greatest nightmare come to reality. And in the mix of grieving his life, the one thought that continued to twist through my mind was:

“You could easily be next. It could be your loved ones broken, mourning, absolutely devastated, but trying to stay strong as they stand behind the pulpit telling stories from your life.”

And that internal monologue froze my blood to ice in my veins and consumed me with guilt. Guilt for being alive and guilt for the unbearable pain my illness could cause, even though it would be no fault of my own

I was in a horrible flare during that time. Just making it to his funeral in the state my body was in was either a miracle or an act of pure willpower. But during the funeral, and through the luncheon in every limp, in every wheeze, I thought of his family. I thought of mine, and that continuous guilt crashed like a boulder in my stomach.

When it was time to leave the church and go to the cemetery, we all hopped in the car, and this silence washed  over us. When we arrived to the cemetery, the majority of our friend group whisked to the burial  site as quickly as they could so our friend who was dating the friend who passed away wouldn’t be alone.

And I wanted to do the same. I wanted to be there for her. But my struggling body couldn’t keep the pace, and I fell behind the rest of the group. As I fell behind, my mind raced. My lungs wheezed. My stomach turned as emotional pain, grief and the most unbearable guilt continued to confine me in its grasp.

But, then I realized one of my best friends (who has lupus and is one of the most selfless people I know) slowed her pace to match mine, and give me time to catch up. When we were together, I stopped wheezing and grabbed my inhaler. She didn’t say a word. She just matched her pace to mine, and we talked. I told her things I was too afraid to say, and held back tears at her gesture.

I still think of that small, beautiful gesture to this day. It was so small, but one of the most meaningful things someone has ever done for me. Because on a day I didn’t know if I could endure, even when she was probably having similar thoughts, she matched my pace. She didn’t ask a single question. She didn’t make a single comment.

She waited for me to talk. She matched my pace.

In my life personally, I have seen it seems like during our biggest struggles, we have those who walk ahead of us shouting things like:

“Come on.” 

“You can do better!”

“It could be worse.” 

“Just have a positive mindset.” 

Trying to force us to get to a “pace” we just aren’t capable of keeping at that time. Others — they walk behind us and force us sometimes to stop moving altogether. Only seeing our struggle turning our identity into broken pieces. Trying with all their might to stop further damage they could never have control over. But, in return, they stop progress and stop us from moving forward

But, like my beautiful friend, I want to be someone who “matches the pace.” Whether they are ready to start anew, or face a new challenge with courage and need the world’s most enthusiastic hype woman to run alongside them. Or, be someone who walks slowly and silently in a pressure-free way with another as they search for what to do and the right words to say. Or, be the person who, when someone so beaten down, so exhausted, holds them up when they can barley move at a turtle’s pace because the weight of their life seems like too much to bear.

My journey with life-threatening illness has taught me that, oftentimes, you don’t need somebody to fix your problem. Because the biggest problems often can’t be fixed. Sometimes, all you need is someone to “match your pace.” To be there in the good times and the bad and acknowledge you’re not alone in whatever you are facing — it makes all the difference.