That is the simple, elegant status update that a college friend uses to mark the passing of the ex-wife of former Senator, presidential candidate and philanderer John Edwards.
I will not belabor her passing too much. I’m sure the blogosphere is full of both elegies and criticisms of Elizabeth Edwards. I don’t know if she was the main intellect behind John Edwards’ rise, if she was bitchy, controlling and power hungry as she has been portrayed by some, or if she was the serene, strong, inspirational breast cancer patient that many admire. I would guess, but don’t know, that she was a bit of all of those things.
For me, though, her death this week from breast cancer, in her North Carolina manse, surrounded by her family (including John Edwards!) is a scary reminder that there are no guarantees with this disease. Elizabeth Edwards’ tumor started out the size of a half dollar. Eventually it filled her whole body.
You can do your best, you can get the best care. The cancer can still come back. Most of the time, we try not to think about that. In this, we are like everybody. As my 91-year-old father-in-law likes to say, “No one gets out of this life alive.” But the end of Elizabeth Edwards’ life makes that joke more than a joke. It makes it real.