I'm Mad at my Friend

I’m mad at my friend. Mad, angry. I suppose angry is the more politically correct word, but I prefer mad. I’m mad at her. She shouldn’t have done what she did. She knew better; she knew I wouldn’t like it. So, I’m mad.

She’s intelligent, has common sense to boot, and cares. How many people in this world are like that anymore? She and I worked together as therapists for nearly a decade before I retired, and we discovered that we had similar personalities. ISTJ’s they called us, using the Myers-Briggs categories. That means we’re introverts who are sensing, thinking and judging if I remember the descriptions correctly. It really isn’t that important except knowing we were in the same box made us good friends.

She was the best therapist I’ve ever known. She cared about her clients, knew their physical problems better than anyone, treated them with expertise and, best of all, understood them psychologically. She saw people as wholes and parts – the complete portfolio. Who can do that? Not many.

Every Christmas we’d find a present from my friend hanging on a bush in the front yard or setting pertly on our front step, the giver slipping away undetected. One year it was a spent shotgun shell decorated as a Santa – her hunter husband collected his shells and they both created a Santa and hung it on our forsythia bush next to the driveway. Another year the mystery gift was a beautiful homemade kerosene lamp – I remember that one especially because she called me the afternoon she delivered it (without us knowing until she was gone) and told me to wipe the lamp down thoroughly before we lit it to make sure the kerosene was completely cleaned off.

The other day I reached into my cupboard and pulled out a blue and white mug with a silly snowman dancing around on its side. A matching hand towel and a potholder had come with it one Christmas. The hand towel is faded because I’ve used it so much, but the mug is just like new. I’ll always keep that mug.

My friend lost her sister, her mother, her dad, and a stepson just within a few years; yet she, as most ISTJ’s do, plugged along, organizing funerals, resolving problems, settling estates while still working and helping others.

So, why am I mad at someone that interesting and that giving?

Well, believe me I have good reason to be mad. My friend died a few days ago. She died. Now, I’m not really mad at her for dying – I mean, really, I’m not that tweaked - yet. What I’m mad about is she didn’t tell me she was dying. I talked to her on the phone just a few weeks before she died. Our phone conversations usually took at least an hour and that talk was no different. We discussed her dad’s estate, selling her dad’s house, her quitting her job, her looking for another job, my little dachshund being attacked by another dog, her little Welsh corgis and how she got a kick out of them even though she was allergic to dogs.

Do you think she said, “Oh, by the way, Lynn. My liver is failing and the kidneys feel they should go along with it. Not sure how long I have, but it’s been great knowing you?”

No, she said nothing. How did I hear about it? In an email. AN EMAIL!! From a coworker thoughtful enough to remember that about a decade ago, my friend and I worked together. Apparently my friend requested no funeral and no obituary. I don’t even know where she’s buried. Now, what kind of friend is that?

A private soul, I guess. I knew she was a very private person; no one really knew how old she was. A lot of secrets in her life and her death. Secrets even from her friends and probably from her family. I try to reason out her actions or lack thereof, and I try to understand, but I’m not ready to let go of being downright mad at her.

Someday maybe I’ll let go.