We were never great friends when we met. I think you approached me and mentioned something about spreading my name around and how you’d not lied about me. Honestly, to this day I have no idea! But I know you’d never be cruel or nasty to me.
Fast forward 6 years and we saw each other so many times. Out of work, at our local doctors surgery. I knew you’d been ill. The whole office knew but kept it hush hush. Out of respect. The least they could do. You were so bold, like cancer was just a blip. Something that you’d conquer and move on to the next stumbling block.
I’d left by then, no longer an exclusive member of the postal clan. Climbing the ladder of nursing in a hopeless trust, hoping for the best and getting nowhere. ‘Don’t give up, you’re a natural’ you said. But I had, disappointingly. I was tired, stressed, beaten. But you still carried on. Still fought. You were so young. Just a few years older than me.
I remember, 2016, you were at the finish line, cheering on the runners in the Race for life. We chatted and said ‘you’ll run it with me next year’. That was the last year my mum could run it too. In 2017, she was too poorly. But she went. She stood guard of the tent, guarding the samosas the lovely Tesco lady had made. The thought of these delicious samosas, gave me my PB of 30 minutes (yes, I know, it’s crap, but if you’ve ever seen me run, you’ll know why I was so elated). But no Kay at the finish line.
Roll on a year. Various bumping into each other at the doctors, me for mental health, Kay for bloods and other stuff. She looked tired. Still like Kay, but like someone had worn her down. We chatted. I’d lost my mum. To the disease that was slowly taking every inch of her soul. I could see in her partners eyes, he was already broken.
Race for life 18. No mum. No Kay. I wasn’t in the mood. The first time in 10 years, and my mum wasn’t there. I won’t lie, I cried like a baby at the start line. Maybe blame it on the jet lag from traveling to Canada and back from seeing my aunt in a micro amount of time. The one person, aside from me, who was closest to my mum. She felt the loss, the emptiness, the void like I did. The gaping hole that death leaves in its wake. I didn’t want to run that day. I wanted to crawl. Like I was expanding all my limbs across hot coals and burning every single entity. Because the loss of my mum was so raw, it hurt like like the biggest burn you could ever imagine. Exposing every vein, every wound that’s ever been inflicted. Every thing I’d done wrong and never righted. Grief. What a fucker. I’d heard from ex colleagues, Kay is very poorly. I was to, ashamedly, grief stricken to see her. A few texts and phone calls, but to see her face to face would have ended me.
So 2019. No race for life. I’m struggling with my own life. My own mortality. Word from the docs is, I have the manky gene. I’m doomed. But I’m ok with that. I’m not afraid. What will be, will be. But Kay. There’s nothing more anyone can do. She’s so young. A life cut short.
I never got to run the Race for Life with her. But I will run it for her. I will run it for my mum. My cousins, taken at a ridiculously young age. Because we can’t fight genetics. We’re just predisposed. It’s life.
She died on my birthday. A legacy I’ll never forget. I’ll play some Stevie Nicks and raise a glass in her name. Rest peacefully Kay. Thank you for being my friend and teaching me real humility. I hope you’re up there chatting with my mum, the most dignified, beautiful human I was ever lucky enough to know.
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tetheredinthedeepend 