Essay from Peter’s friend, Zuzia
My best friend Peter was diagnosed with cancer when he was 5 years old. As a kid, I remember being so afraid that it was contagious. My mom assured me it wasn’t, and that it was a very rare type of disease. I had no idea children could even get cancer. My parents told me to pray to Mary, protector of children, and that God would cure him. And so I prayed for him, every night before bed, for years to come.
Peter was my best friend since birth, and ever since I can remember we were attached at the hip.
We used to look back at old photos of us in the tub together, with sud-soaked hair, fighting over rubber duckies, always competing with each other. Memories flash from childhood of Peter’s big head rolling past me on his scooter, and me trying to catch up on foot. Being a year older, I felt like it was my job to protect him. Although we were not blood siblings, our bond was that of twins.
From a young age, I became very jealous of Peter. He always had the newest toy, or game, or console. I would love coming to his house and having him show me something new. But in reality, I had nothing to be jealous of. Anyone who knew Peter would give up all the material things in the world to have him back.
Although Peter was going through things no child should ever have to, he never asked for anyone to feel bad for him.
As a kid, I never recognized his selflessness. He was so mature for his age. It's like he could read a person inside out, and he always knew how you were feeling without having to say anything.
Growing up in Polish households, Peter and I were raised on the foundations of tough love. We used to talk and laugh for hours about how annoying our parents were. But Peter never complained. He never made it known he was struggling.
Most admirably he never let his diagnosis define him, and never used it for pity from other people.
Peter was in remission for years. I still remember when he texted me that his cancer came back. My heart sank to my stomach, and I thought I might throw up.
At that moment, it felt like the weight of the world was crushing me, and that I had failed at being his protector.
Throughout his battle, I did everything I could to be the best friend, best older sister, and the best support beam I could be. No one talks about how awkward cancer is. It’s hard to not bring up the elephant in the room. Peter never brought it up. He never wanted people to pity him. Most admirably, he listened to others even though his struggles may have been larger.
I will never forget how he defended me in any fight or how he listened to me talk about whatever.
And he never stopped smiling. He never stopped fighting. However, God’s plan for him was different.
Peter passed away on January 17th, 2022.
That day, it felt like all the joy in the world had left with him.
His 16th birthday would’ve been that February on the 11th. I still text him every year on his birthday.
Oftentimes grief can feel like a competition. The grief Olympics take place mainly on social media, where making a post or sharing a story seems like the only way people will know you’re grieving. People feel a certain compulsion to remind others that they, too, are suffering a loss. But what do we take away from loss? The truth is that most people take nothing away from loss, and continue to live their lives in the same way after grieving.
Through all this, I remember that even during Peter’s darkest moments, he never failed to lighten up my day.
His smile, although weak, was the most genuine and pure form of love I’ve ever experienced. When I’m struggling, I remind myself to act in a way that honors Peter’s legacy. Peter taught me to be kind and forgiving, even though most could agree that life hadn’t been exactly kind or forgiving to him. So as the tears drop onto my keyboard, I am reminded that people won’t remember you for how hard you cried, or how many posts you made, but instead for the lessons you learned, how you continue to grow, and how you learn to forgive.
When I was little, I didn’t even notice the very simple life lessons Peter taught me.
I always thought that I was supposed to be teaching him, but he ended up showing me how to live. He taught me to live everyday like it’s my last. He taught me to be an honest, and forgiving person. He taught me how to be humble. He taught me that although things may be hard now, they will always get better.
Peter’s little sister was 5 years old when he passed away. I made a promise to myself, and to Peter, to commemorate him in a meaningful way. I want her to always remember the kind of person he was. I don’t want her to know the bitter and angry side of grief. She still tells me about how they talk, late at night in her room, when she’s about to fall asleep. This is how I want Peter to be remembered. Not by anger or tears, but through kindness, grace, and forgiveness in his memory.
Although he will always be my little brother, he was my mentor.
He was my most experienced teacher, my dearest friend, and my inspiration.
So I carry on for him, to be understanding and forgiving, just like he always was to me.
Thank you for showing me how to live, Peter.