Dear Josh…

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

The very stages of grief that I learned about, spoke about, and preached are the very stages I am about to go through myself.

I don’t want to. I can’t. I won’t. I know I have to. Josh, stay with me, my friend.

When I was in mortuary college, I learned about death and dying. I learned about grief. More specifically, the five stages of grief, via Dr. Elisabeth Kubler Ross.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

My therapist pointed this out to me. For so long I have been on the opposite side of death, that now when it’s my turn (and it’s a turn we all will take), it will feel like I am lost.

As someone with almost a decade of funeral and cemetery service under my belt, you’d think I know what’s coming. And how to deal with it.

I found out Monday morning that I lost my childhood best friend. I lost someone that I will never be able to laugh with. To share a memory with. To play Nintendo or Zelda with. To look back on and smile, because now all I want to do is cry.

I’m in the Denial stage. I can’t believe you’re gone, Josh. I won’t allow myself to fully believe it, or face it. I’m just a friend. I can’t even imagine the pain your parents and brother feel right now.

It’s true because I haven’t known you my whole life. I’m 39 years old. In a few weeks you would have turned 39. I’ll never look at December 3rd the same again. Or November 5th, now.

What started as such a strong bond between classmates turned into longing. The last few years weren’t kind to our friendship. I take the fall, because it’s the truth.

I let my life get in the way of continuing friendship. We’d talk about getting together. We’d mention plans. None came to fruition. I will carry that guilt forever.

Josh, you were nothing but kind. Second to none when it came to a sense of humor and making someone laugh. All you ever wanted was to be someone’s friend. To belong.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

You’ve been my friend for longer than my wife has been alive. You’ll always be my friend.

I’m sorry for the pain and sorrow in your life. I’m sorry for any moment I made you feel like I didn’t care. I’m sorry for not saying you were my best friend in fifth grade over my cousin. I’m sorry for saying you owed me money for lunch.

I’m sorry, Josh.

This moment has made me realize that such trivial things are what people hold onto. And for what? For pride? For laughs? For pettiness?

I wasn’t always a best friend, and for that, I am sorry. I will forever make it up to you by defending your honor. To let the world know who you were, and how many lives you touched with your spirit.

Some have the gift of gab. Some have the gift of words. Touch. You had the gift of happiness. Whenever we hung out, you made me laugh. You made everyone’s lives a little bit more joyful to be around.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand why, or how. You had goals. You had dreams. You had more talent of things you could have accomplished than anyone I know.

Just as we were once as close as could be as friends, my wife is now the one closest to me. She practically forced me to write this, Josh. You would’ve loved this. My own wife kicked me out and told me to go get a coffee and just write.

I’m at a Starbucks right now, with tears in my eyes, writing about you. This isn’t even real life right now. You knew things no one else used to about my life. The mistakes I made. The lies I told. The things I had seen and done.

You knew firsthand how I kept things inside. My wife knows this, too. She knows that writing is how I cope with life, how I vent. This is how I came to write about you, Josh.

“That’s awesome,” you would say. “She’s a keeper,” you would follow with. I just know it. I am sorry that we parted recently, but it led me to her. And she, in turn, led me to our newborn baby girl.

I can’t be mad at that. In fact, I am beyond blessed to have them. I know you were happy for me. I know my newfound life had you thinking about your own life.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

Thank you for always commenting and listening to me, even if it wasn’t in person. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being a part of my life.

Dear Josh, may you rest in peace. May your memories live on forever. I will miss you, my friend. At least this, I cannot deny. Farewell, young Link…