Grieving from Afar: Coping with the Loss of a Best Friend

I met Rick (everyone else called him Mario, but to me he was always Rick) through a mutual friend when I was 17. We clicked immediately—one of those rare, instant connections where the conversation flows, the humor lines up, and the comfort is just… there. We became fast friends. Then best friends.

Life, as it tends to do, pulled us in different directions. In our twenties, Rick moved to Tampa. I moved to New York. We drifted, like so many young friends do. Then, twenty five years later, in the late 2000s, we reconnected on Facebook—and it was as if no time had passed. The jokes, the sarcasm, the soul-deep understanding between us—all still intact. We texted almost every day.

When he came up north to visit his dad in the city, he always made time to see me. I became his sounding board when his marriage fell apart, when he discovered his wife was cheating, and when the aftermath left him trying to maintain peace for the sake of his kids. His eldest blamed him, and though it broke Rick’s heart, he never once spoke ill of their mother. That was a quality I always admired in him—his refusal to poison his children’s hearts, no matter how much pain he carried.

In the mid 2010s, Rick started complaining about back pain. After a few weeks of brushing it off, I pushed him to see a doctor. He finally did.

It was lung cancer.

He enrolled in an experimental medication trial and endured a level of suffering I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But he never complained. Not once. Instead, he chose to live—fully, unapologetically. He bought a Mercedes and a Corvette, his dream cars. He had no interest in another relationship. He was finally living life on his own terms.

At the start of 2022, things took a turn. Rick ended up hospitalized. I wanted—desperately—to fly down and see him. But it was just after my own lung collapse and surgery. I wasn’t cleared to fly, and he insisted I stay put. “No sick talk,” he added. “From now on, we don’t discuss illness. Just life.” I agreed.

Rick always teased me about my love for Olivia Newton-John. He’d roll his eyes at my playlists and threaten to report me for musical crimes. So when she died on August 8, 2022, I expected to hear from him. Maybe a jab. Maybe a heartfelt note. Something.

The next morning, I texted him, as I always did.

No response.

Two hours later, his daughter messaged me to say Rick had passed quietly in his sleep.

I still wasn’t allowed to fly, and though I briefly considered driving, his daughter let me know the funeral would be held on Zoom. “It’s better than nothing,” I told myself. But it never felt like enough.

I attended the service virtually, holding space for my grief from a distance. The screen was a cruel barrier between me and closure.

Later, Rick’s daughter told me our friendship was unlike any other she had seen. Even separated by hundreds of miles, she said, we had one of the closest bonds she had ever witnessed. We were emotionally open with each other—no macho masks, no walls. We told each other we loved one another. We made each other laugh. We were real.

For almost two years after he died, I’d still find myself reaching for my phone in the morning, ready to send him a message or check if he’d texted first.

I still think about him every day. And I still miss him—his wit, his wisdom, his way of making things feel okay.

But more than anything, I’m grateful. Grateful that we found each other again after all those years. Grateful for a friendship that picked up right where it left off. Grateful that even though I couldn’t physically be at his funeral, I had already shown up for him—when it counted, when he needed it, and when it meant the most.

That’s what I hold onto. And that’s how I honor him.