Updated: Aug. 15, 2023
Originally Published: March 11, 2023
It feels fitting to reflect on this, especially since I first connected with her through Twitter back in 2009. We traded quick messages—sometimes just between us, other times including a small group of six or more. Eventually, we started planning to meet in person, or “IRL” as the cool kids say. That year, along with a few publishing pals, I organized a series of lunches where she and many others gathered. Dozens of people, who might never have crossed paths otherwise, formed connections over three-course meals and created friendships that have, in many cases, flourished over the past five years.
Some friendships faded into the background, while others fell apart. A few blossomed, wilted, and then blossomed again; some grew stronger, while others remained merely polite. Throughout it all, we knew our friend was battling illness. She shared her journey with breast cancer openly through her blog, crafting honest and heartfelt posts to show others facing similar struggles that they were not alone and still held value. Her writings radiated her core values: love for family, appreciation for beauty, and a deep commitment to advocacy and service.
In 2012, she calmly announced that her breast cancer, which everyone thought was in remission, had returned with a vengeance—Stage 4 and metastatic. I was no stranger to the realities of severe illness, which is why I knew that a dinner with her in 2013 would be one of the last times I’d see her at her best. And let me tell you, her “best,” even amidst medication and pain, would put most people’s good days to shame. She was stylish and engaging, as thrilled about her children’s last-minute dinner preferences as she was about my travel tales. Despite her struggles, she always focused on the world around her. That’s how she lived her life; it wasn’t just a performance for her final act.
This distinction is crucial now. Many people learned about her after her health declined, primarily through her blog. There’s nothing wrong with that! In her posts on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, she frequently reiterated her mantras about seeking beauty and making the most of each day, which naturally led many to associate these with her illness.
What made her remarkable to so many was that she faced death in the same way she faced life: authentically. She didn’t feel the need to alter her online persona or act differently because she was aware of her limited time.
We might be the first generation to confront mortality through the lens of social media—not just with announcements but through friendships that develop and grow in this unique blend of news, humor, trivia, multimedia, and genuine connections.
One of the first questions I was asked after her passing was, “How well did you know her?” Over the past few days, I’ve chatted with several mutual friends and others who knew how special she was to me. So, how well did I know her? I attended three lunches with her and had a few one-on-one brunches, plus I visited her at home for dinner 18 months ago. Sure, many others knew her better, but I believe our bond was genuine.
The intention behind the question is usually harmless. People want to gauge how deeply you feel the loss, whether it’s more theoretical or rooted in a real connection. But how can they measure that when I can’t even begin to quantify it? The world of online friendships allows each mourner to curate their own gallery of memories: one person may post a single line, while another shares dozens of photos. It’s both strange and inclusive yet isolating, and little of it aligns with traditional measures of grief. Someone might share a close-up photo but only know her on a superficial level, while another could write heartfelt words and have known her more intimately than most of her family.
Grief lacks a standard scale. I’m sharing these reflections so that anyone else feeling shattered by our friend’s loss knows their experiences were valuable too. We can celebrate each other’s memories, but the unique moments we each hold give depth and meaning to the rest of our shared experiences. I cherish seeing everyone’s photos and stories, but without my own, they’d feel as significant as a celebrity photo montage.
Lisa Adams passed away last week. Lisa Adams was my friend, and I miss her. I hope my thoughts resonate with you and help you understand why. If you didn’t know her, I wish you could have.
Lisa Bonchek Adams, a renowned cancer blogger, died on March 5th, 2015. You can read her final post announcing her death here, find information about her memorial service here, and read her New York Times obituary here. She is survived by her husband, Clarke, and their children Paige, Colin, and Tristan. Please consider donating to her Memorial Sloan Kettering fund here. Lisa’s two guiding principles were: “Find a bit of beauty in the world today. Share it. If you can’t find it, create it. Some days this may be hard to do. Persevere,” and “Make the most of this day. Whatever that means to you, whatever you can do, no matter how small it seems.”
Summary:
Grieving in the digital age intertwines our personal relationships with social media. As we navigate loss through online platforms, we create unique memories that reflect our individual connections. The passing of Lisa Adams exemplifies how friendships forged online can deepen our understanding of grief, emphasizing that each person’s experience is valuable.
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