Remembering My Best Friend

I still think of him in the present tense.

Something funny will happen, or something irritating, or something completely ordinary, and my first instinct is still to tell Ed. That reflex does not disappear just because someone is gone. It lives in you quietly, like muscle memory.

Ed was my BFF. Not casually. Not loosely. He was my person. The one who knew me without explanations. The one who showed up exactly as he was and expected the same from me.

He loved sports, especially baseball. The Braves were sacred. Florida State always mattered. If there was a game on, he knew the score, the stats, and probably what the announcers were going to say before they said it.

He loved country music, the kind that tells stories. I was slowly and proudly introducing him to more modern pop music, and he would pretend to tolerate it just to make me happy. That was Ed. Loyal. Patient. Game for whatever mattered to the people he loved.

He was a devoted dog dad. The kind who talked to his dogs like they were children and meant every word.

And he always ended conversations the same way.

I love you infinity times three.

I’m sharing this today, on March 4.

Ed’s birthday.

A Wednesday. An ordinary day of the week that now carries so much meaning for me. Birthdays are strange when the person you are celebrating is no longer here. You feel the absence more sharply. You replay memories. You imagine what they would be doing, who they would be watching play, what music would be on.

This year, honoring Ed means telling the truth about what took him, and what he unknowingly taught me.

In 2017, Ed died of colon cancer.

It did not come crashing in. It did not feel dramatic at first. It crept in quietly, disguised as being busy, being tired, being human. Symptoms that were easy to explain away. Days that felt manageable until they were not.

Ed was 49 when he was diagnosed.

That number still sits heavy with me.

At the time, 50 was the age people were told to begin routine colon cancer screening if they were considered average risk. One year away. A technicality. A number that feels impossibly cruel when you lose someone you love.

He thought he had time.

So did we.

The Things We Ignore

Looking back, there were signs. There almost always are.

But life teaches us to push through discomfort. We tell ourselves we are just tired. Just stressed. Just busy. We convince ourselves we will deal with it later, when things slow down, when it feels more convenient, when we have time.

Ed was doing what so many of us do. Living his life. Showing up. Loving his dogs. Watching his teams. Taking care of everyone else. Putting himself last without even realizing it.

Colon cancer does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it waits patiently while we keep telling ourselves it can wait too.

Until it cannot.

The Call That Changed Everything

There are moments that divide your life into before and after. Losing Ed was one of those moments for me.

Grief does not just take a person. It reshapes you. It changes how you hear the world, how you listen to your body, how you understand time.

After Ed died, I started paying attention differently. Not in a fearful way, but in a deeper one. I stopped brushing things off so quickly. I stopped assuming discomfort was something to power through. I started asking myself harder questions.

What if this matters
What if waiting costs more than acting
What if listening now saves something later

These are lessons I wish I had never needed to learn this way.

What Has Changed Since Ed

In the years since Ed’s death, something important has shifted.

We are seeing more people under 50 being diagnosed with colorectal cancer. Because of that increase, screening recommendations have changed.

Today, average risk adults are advised to begin colon cancer screening at 45, with earlier screening recommended for those with higher risk or a family history.

I think about that often.

Not with anger, but with a quiet ache. The kind that comes from knowing how close he was to an age that might have prompted someone to look sooner.

One year can matter.

Remembering Ed Means Speaking Up

I am not sharing this for sympathy. I am sharing it because stories save lives in ways statistics cannot.

March is Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Awareness does not have to be loud or clinical. Sometimes it is simply one person saying, this happened to someone I love.

If you are 45 or older, talk to your doctor about screening. If you are younger and something feels off, speak up. If you have a family history, ask questions. Advocate for yourself.

If telling Ed’s story encourages even one person to listen sooner, then his life continues to matter in a way that reaches beyond me.

That matters.

For Ed, On His Birthday

Ed thought he had time. I wish more than anything that he had.

I miss him still. I always will. I hear his voice in my head. I imagine his commentary during games. I still feel the comfort of knowing someone loved me infinity times three.

Today, on his birthday, this is how I honor him. By telling the truth. By asking others to listen. By carrying him forward in how I live and care for myself and the people I love.

If something inside you has been whispering for attention, please listen.

This is for Ed.
Happy birthday, my BFF.
I miss you and love you infinity times three.

Brandy