My friend Liz Haggerty, who I have been writing about these past few weeks died early this afternoon in Saratoga Springs, N.Y.. Her mother Ann, a friend also, messaged me at dusk:

“Elizabeth died a few minutes ago, peacefully,” Ann wrote. “Thanks for your caring and good wishes. I’m so happy things were fine between you before this happened. She admired and respected you.”

My heart is broken a bit at this too short life, full of suffering and mistakes that could not be undone. I made my own such mistake, Liz was a member of my writing workshop when she was diagnosed with cancer. She deserved better than she got from me.

My caring and good wishes came pretty late.

I pressured her to make a change in her life that she desperately needed to make, and in so doing, I pushed her away from me  when she needed me the most. And she ran away from me when she needed me the most. Liz was every bit as stubborn as me, she didn’t want to change her life, or couldn’t.

I wish I had let it be.

I deal with mistakes by owning them, not wallowing in them or  beating myself to death. Before I let them go, I must own up to them.

Taking responsibility is wonderful medicine, a healing drug all of its own. I am sorry I was not there for Liz. I should have been, rather than let my ego and hubris come between us. This is why I do not tell other people what to do.

Thankfully, and with Ann’s intervention, I got to see Liz on the last day she was able to have visitors and talk with them. We did make things fine, we fell into each other’s arms and hugged and kissed.

I have never known a mother so faithful and diligent. She was Liz’s best and most loyal friend, from beginning to end. And through year after year of hard times.

Liz and I didn’t say much, there was nothing much to say.

I did get to tell her that her favorite bar and restaurant, the Bog, re-opened. It is, I assured her, much the same, better or worse. She was very relieved to hear that.

Liz was conscious when I saw her, but already in the process of what hospice calls “actively dying.” When I got home.  I  told Maria and  said I did not think I would get to see Liz again – I’d seen too many hospice deaths.

Good journey Liz, you suffered way too much in your young life, some people make mistakes and slide right out of them, you would never run away from yours or give yourself a break.

I am so glad we got to see one another and  settle up. Thanks for waiting for me.

You were stoic and uncomplaining to the end, all you said to me was “what could I do?,” which could have been your motto for life. Wherever you go, I pray it is easier and more merciful. You are due for that.

Much love to you, I write this through tears and sorrow, and some shame as well.

“What could I do?”