“Do you struggle with survivor’s guilt?” The question caught me off guard. It was the first time anyone had asked, and the answer is complicated.

The short answer? Yes.
The long answer? No.

Survivor’s guilt happens when you live through something that others do not. In my case, it’s mesothelioma. Every week—sometimes multiple times a week—someone from our small but mighty mesothelioma community dies. Some I don’t know, others I am acquainted with, and a few I consider dear friends. Each life precious.

One of those dear friends was Kendra. We were diagnosed within months of each other. Less than a year later, she was placed on hospice. The first message she sent to my wife Allyson after entering hospice read:

“Thank you so much for the love and prayers, they feel just a little more potent coming from a family that knows exactly what we’re up against. I’ve gotta admit, though, I hate that you’ve had to read this… I send out the biggest prayers and love for Shane and the rest of the meso sexies every day. I hope whatever successes I miss out on find their way to him.”

That last sentence wrecked me. It still does.

Over the next several months, we stayed in touch. Some of our messages:

Me:
Hi Kendra, you continue to be in my prayers. I’ve been reading a book of true stories about facing the unknown. One of the stories, “It Matters a Great Deal,” reminded me of you. There’s a quote: “We all fall, and it matters. But when the fall is all you have left, it matters a great deal.” Take care, my friend. Wishing you all the best.

Kendra:
Thank you, Shane. I’m currently inpatient at hospice and not doing super hot. Still here!! But I needed some uplifting, so thank you. I love that quote. Thank you for sharing it with me. ❤️ You’re in my prayers as well—I really, really, really hope you’re not just holding steady but thriving! And for a loooooonngg long time. All my love to you and your beautiful family.

Me:
I’m so sorry, Kendra. I know you don’t need any more sadness around you, but ugh!!! We love you and are always here for you in whatever way we can be. I hope you’re not in too much pain. Hugs.

Kendra:

Please don’t think that you’ve brought any kind or amount of sadness into my life. Quite the opposite! I’m so grateful our paths crossed! I’m better for the camaraderie of course, and for the insight I’ve garnered watching our parallel yet opposite journeys through this shit unfold.

We talked about the beauty of last moments—how a single moment takes on profound significance when it becomes the last. The last time you watch the sunset. The last time you hug someone you love. The last treasured conversation.

Kendra wrote:

“I had my last breakfast with old friends from out of state this morning, so I have lots more to say on doing things for the last time. I’ve been thinking a lot about that…”

Two weeks later, I sent her my last message:

“Just wanted to say hi. I’m in the Dominican Republic now, thinking of you and Joel. Here are a couple of sunset pictures I took last night.”

I don’t know if she ever saw it. She passed away a few days later. An unfinished conversation.

Mesothelioma is a thief. It steals health, dreams, and friends along the way.

So, back to survivor’s guilt. My short answer? Yes. After each clear scan, I feel it. My relief is tinged with the knowledge that others won’t get clear scans. Sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, a voice in my head whispers, “Why are you alive when others are not?“

But my long answer? The no? It is a gift from Kendra. Along our parallel yet opposite journeys, she reminded me to keep living. To not waste the life I still have.

I realize the best way to honor those who have died is to live. We will all be outlived by someone. And when my time comes, I don’t want anyone to feel guilty for surviving longer than me.

One day, each of us will see our last sunset. Until then, I hope you—especially you, my fellow meso sexies—live without guilt.