Dear Dearly Departed

I hardly know how to write this letter because it defies expectations in every manner, and if you knew me better, you’d know that I don’t like failing to meet expectations. This contest’s expectations are to write about a hometown hero. Society’s expectations are that this person should be a family member, friend, teacher, pastor, first responder, even a celebrity or fictional character. Even I expected that I would write about one of those people. I tried to write about those people, only to hit a wall every time as memories of those people dredged up emotions best kept locked away.

Now after so many failed attempts, so many crumpled up pages, so many unfinished drafts that never got past the first paragraph, I’m writing to quite literally the last person anyone expected. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I find it easier to express vitriol than vulnerability. Or maybe it’s because against all expectations, you did inspire me.

We never had much interaction in life. We only crossed paths in person once, and at that time, I was too shy to talk to anyone. We crossed paths more frequently online, and from what I saw there, something about you struck me as phony and attention-seeking. Your social media profiles were an endless barrage of complaints about your illness and how hard your life was for it. Your every struggle painstakingly documented, your every vulnerability shouted from the rooftops, and what enraged me most was the way everyone applauded you for it.

Your story and the reactions it got were a bitter reminder of a double standard in the way our society treats people with disabilities. The harsh reality is that we show compassion to those with common or evident conditions while diminishing those with rare or invisible ones. I’ve seen it happen to members of my family, and I’ve experienced it myself. Like you, I suffer from a chronic illness that may kill me one day, but unlike you, I never got the luxury of support for it.

If I were to open up about my struggle the way you did, I’d be met with suspicion and ridicule. I’ve been mocked for my inability to do the things others can. I’ve been accused of faking my illness. I’ve been berated for “milking the system” because I don’t “look disabled”. There were no prayers and well wishes plastered all over the internet when my father was dying. There was no fundraiser to help when his medical bills threatened to make my mother and me homeless. There was nobody to congratulate me, to brag about how brave I was, to call me a warrior for pushing through the days when I was in so much pain, I could barely stand or even see straight.

Every time our friends rallied around you, every time the person I love most acknowledged your struggle and only yours was like a knife to my heart. It honestly boggled my mind that everyone was so quick to fawn over you, and I decided that I wasn't going to do that. You had the support of our entire friend group. Surely you didn’t need mine. Whatever happened, you should have to face it on your own, just like my father did, just like I do.

There were times that I wished you would just die already so that my struggles and those of so many others would no longer take a backseat to yours. Those thoughts scared me! What would our friends think of me if they knew? Surely they’d side with you and hate me. It’s socially taboo to think of a terminally ill person that way. That’s the way evil people think, and while I may be a lot of things, I’m not evil.

So I kept those thoughts buried deep inside and stood by, allowing you to have the spotlight you so obviously needed more than I did. For our friends, for him.

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I always thought that when I heard you were on your deathbed, I would think, good riddance! But when that happened, I didn't. All I could think about was the people who would be devastated by your passing, and I realized I didn't want that. Whatever I thought of you, I didn't want some other person to feel the pain of losing a family member like I once did. I didn't want our friends to feel that pain. Most of all, I didn't want him to feel that pain.

Had either of us had the time or inclination to get to know each other properly, you would've known that I'm not the type to waste time on tears and sappy words. That's why I didn't say anything when I heard the news. What could I have said anyway? That I wished you well? You'd received so many well wishes from so many people that it seemed superfluous for me to repeat them.

That I was praying for you? I don't pray for anyone, not even those closest to me, because I’ve had too many prayers go unanswered to see that as a viable option. Too many times have I prayed only for the situation to turn out worse than I could’ve imagined, so much so that I’ve started to think that whatever higher power exists doesn’t like me. And if that's true, I don't want my prayer to bring further misfortune upon you.

That I expected a miracle? I wanted a miracle to happen, for our friends’ sake if not yours, but it would’ve been a lie to tell you I expected one. I learned the hard way not to expect miracles. Miracles happen only for the young, the good-looking, or the affluent, not regular people like us.

No, it was obvious that words weren’t enough. When someone I care about (or in this case someone I care about, cares about) is in pain, I don't just feel for them. I fight for them. So I did something I never expected I’d do: I tried to help you. I donated to your GoFundMe as much as I could afford as often as I could while you were still alive to know. And I did so anonymously because what I did was not a ploy to make myself look better, nor was it a commendable act. Believe it or not, I genuinely did want to help you. I hoped my donation would prolong your life, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.

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I trust you, like most of our friends, know the story A Tale of Two Cities. That probably sounds like a random thing to bring up, but I promise there’s a point. I was watching one of the many movie adaptations the other night, and it occurred to me that you and I were like Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton, respectively. Each a reflection of what the other could’ve been in a different set of circumstances. You were what I might’ve been if my illness had been treated with compassion; I am what you might’ve been if yours had not.

Like my literary counterpart, I would gladly have traded my life for yours if it were possible. Whatever our differences were, we both cared for the same person, and I love him more than I could have ever hated you.

Looking back, I don’t think I really did hate you. I hated the sheer injustice of seeing someone else receive the compassion I and so many others have been denied, and I still do. I’m not sorry for that hate, but I am sorry for misdirecting it at you. More importantly, I’m sorry I couldn’t save your life.

When I look at your profiles now, I no longer see a rival. I see an ally, someone who beat the odds not only in the fight against your illness but in the fight against society’s bias toward the disabled. I expect you heard this a number of times in your life, but you inspired me. Not in the generic, hollow way people generally mean when they say an ill person inspires them, but you inspired me to become a better person. You inspired me to put petty differences aside for the greater good. You inspired me to see the good in others and not judge so harshly in the future.

Most of all, you inspired me to take charge of my health and fight harder to overcome my own illness. On those days when I feel like giving up and staying in bed, I think of all that you accomplished despite your struggles and remind myself that whatever pain I might feel pales in comparison to yours. Each day, I stand a little longer. I walk a little farther because of you.

Although I couldn’t save your life, I can make you a promise. I will carry the lessons I learned from you with me. If by some weird chance this letter wins any prize money, I won’t spend any of it on myself. Whatever I don’t use to give back to you and others like you will go toward our friends. I know I’ll never mean as much to them as you did, but I will always be there for them. I will always be there for him if and when he needs me. I think I speak for all of us when I say we will.