my magnificent friend who taught me how to live while dying

a guest post about death, life and true love by Erica Tanamachi

The following essay was written by my cousin, Erica Tanamachi, one of the most remarkable women and caretakers anyone will ever know. Erica helped me navigate Hal’s death, held me in the days and nights afterward and validated every feeling I had — even the ones I ‘wasn’t supposed’ to feel. She made me feel safe. She makes everyone she loves feel safe. And it is my honor to publish this meditation on death and friendship, a love letter to one of Erica’s best friends, Janet, who is no longer in a body but lives on in so many other ways… I love you, Erica. I love you, Janet. I’m so glad you two found each other on this side of life…

Some people feel impossible to write about—words don’t seem to be able to justify the perfection of the human, the relationship or the feelings of my heart. Janet is one of those people and finding the words to explain who she is and who she is to me almost feels ludacris. A best friend. A favorite person. A soul mate. Someone I’ve loved from the first moment I laid eyes on in the back of a bus in Chile twenty-five years ago.

Being with Janet was living in each moment like it was your last—getting lost over and over again to be found in a perfect place where everything feels right in the world—even if it is not. She made it feel right. She gave meaning and purpose and intention and love to every single act and thing. Together we survived some of the most intense and difficult moments of my life—and being with her made the experiences beautiful and meaningful—her existence and acceptance that everything is exactly as it is supposed to be. She carried a depth and wisdom from the Buddhas, while living life like she was on an improv stage—saying “yes, and” on repeat. Curious and kind. Always so kind. She was in love with the world and the world loved her right back.

Janet spent her twenties traveling the globe—from South & Central America to India to South East Asia to Europe, Turkey and beyond. She would come home to work and then the moment she saved enough money, she’d be off on another adventure. From a very young age she had the ability to listen to her intuition and go where she needed to go to learn and grow. She was one of the smartest people I knew—adapting to foreign lands with ease and fearlessness. And with every tearful goodbye—we never worried when we would see each other next—because we always knew we were forever. Soul mates.

The moment I graduated college at 22—I was on a fast track to build my career and start a family. While Janet was traveling the world, I spent my twenties getting my MFA, getting married, buying a house, starting a fashion company, working as a filmmaker and having babies. And for about 8 precious months, our lives overlapped in San Francisco when she decided to come back home to San Francisco and apply to colleges for Journalism. Lucky for me, she also needed a flexible job and I desperately needed help with my first born, baby Jade. During this time, I wrote to my family:

And, as RIGHT things just happen so seamlessly in life, one of my best friends (and I think one of Jade's in a past life) is watching her for now before she prepares to leave for NYC to begin a master's program in August…Janet is super fun and joyous–-and Jade enjoys every moment with her as they go to museums, reading groups, play dates and walks in the park. Jared and I feel so lucky to know that Jade is so well cared for while we are working.

Janet holding Jade

Jade holding Jaye

Then, Janet moved to New York to start her budding and brilliant journalism career at Columbia and her life continued just as magically and beautifully as always—and we went more than a decade of trying really hard to see one another at least once a year.

Three and a half years ago she was diagnosed with an extremely rare cancer called Gynecological Carcinosarcoma. She texted our little “Chile Girls” group to schedule a call. I thought she was going to tell us she was pregnant. I was partially right—she was pregnant—until they found the tumor, which then triggered another miscarriage. In the darkest week of her life, as she bled on a hospital bed in an overcrowded hallway sleeping next to her fiancé during Covid, she somehow wrapped her brain around this disease and became determined to survive. As she relayed to us the news in a calm and collected manner, I was, yet again deeply impressed by this human in front of me. Teaching us all of the lessons on how to live—even facing death. I got off the phone and collapsed. I tore open. Not Janet! Why Janet?

You never really know how you feel about a person until something like this happens and then you know. Soul mate. Every bone in my body screamed—I couldn’t sleep, I was restless and for the next three and a half years, I showed up in every possible way—countless trips—SFO to Newark on repeat. I was there for her first chemo all the way through to her final breath.

In fact, I think I surprised us both as to the extent of how much I showed up amidst my insane documentary production schedule and kids and life. I made her my priority because as much as she needed me there, I needed to be there, too. Something in my bones wouldn’t be still until I was in action supporting her. And, between me and another best friend (who also is my cousin because she married Rebecca’s brother, because of course), we rallied her troops, raised money, hired house cleaners and surrounded her with all of the support possible to allow her to just focus on fighting the cancer. Which she did. Every time. Her mom died of the same disease a few years before and she desperately wanted her mom. We couldn’t be her mom - but we could be the best friends standing in for mom and do the mom things as best as we could.

In her three and a half years of living with cancer that came back 3 times, surgeries, chemo, and CT scan galore—she continued to live more life than most. She worked as a Director of Photography for Cosmopolitan—filming every celebrity imaginable—even Oprah. She got married, bought a house in Upstate NY, traveled a ton both domestically and internationally, made time to visit friends all over the country, did CrossFit, made new friends, had a perfect baby (via surrogate-which was its own intense and magical journey) and spent her last burst of energy on this planet celebrating his first birthday–-despite debilitating pain throughout most of it.

After one of my last visits with Janet, I wrote this on my flight home:

There isn’t a proper word for friends like these - friends that are family. Friends you fly across the country to show up for when they need you. Friends you cook for, wash dishes for, do their laundry, walk their dogs and hold their baby while they sleep. Friends you drive in snowstorms to get medicine for. Friends you face the conversation of death and dying without any real answers or knowing. Friends you cry with. Friends you laugh until you cry with. Friends that see the weight of the load you carry and inspire you to keep lifting and you do the same for them. Friends who know your truth and remind you who you are. Friends that you get to admire as they become mothers, as they did with you many years ago. Friends you sit with as they take a bath to help ease the pain. Friends that consistently repeat how lucky we are. Friends that understand the beauty of the full catastrophe of life. Friends that keep each other awake in deep conversation until you just can’t keep your eyes open anymore. Friends that carry your pain so you don’t have to hold it alone. Friends whose pain you carry for the same reason. Friends you are quiet with. Friends you happily lay in bed with while they sleep so they don’t feel lonely. Friends that hold your hand. Friends that know your mind without you saying a word. Friends that you cry with every time you say goodbye. Friends that are essential like water. Friends that make you whole. Friends where you can honestly say, there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be. Get you some friends like these and it will make all the difference.

When the cancer came back for a third time, we learned it would never go away and she had to find a way to live with it. Wrap her brain around this reality and also come to terms with death.

I was her death person. Losing my father at 26 years old to a 5 year battle with cancer, I learned a lot about death and how to organize around it, what people needed to move through it and how to process it. Sometimes she called in a deep panic and I spent hours talking her down—speaking from my heart all of the truths that I know—yes, she will die, but she is not dying right now. Reminding her that she is her greatest intuitive guide—no scan will tell her more than what she already knows deep down. In my visits during this time, I brought my essential oils, sage and Oracle cards and did readings with her to help remind her of her truth and her focus. We fell asleep talking about the complex and crazy reality of the life she was living—the life she always lived and questioned what is this human condition? How do you live while dying?

She soon stopped working and made it to the birth of her perfect baby Jaye. After he was born, she focused all of her energy on just being with Jaye and her incredible husband, Derek. She found nannies and a perfect home daycare and had the energy to be with Jaye in the morning before daycare and sleep and take care of herself during the day and then be with Jaye and Derek in the late afternoon/evening. A perfect simple existence that she soaked up every second of. Every cry, every laugh, every word that came out of Jaye’s little body gave her purpose and love. She would look at me and say “This is still a good life, right? I still have a beautiful life. I’m making this work. And when I don’t—when my body gives out, I won’t want to be here anymore.”

And soon enough, the time came when she had to face that she would not be able to live in her body anymore. On April 1st, Janet called me on her way home from the dentist (I know) to tell me her final trial didn’t work —she had exhausted all resources and she was going to hospice. The only available option left. I told her I would come visit. She breathed knowing I would. We shared visions of our future together—her finding me in my dreams and me finding her…we talked about where she was going and how it makes sense she’s the first one to leave - to figure out the unknown alone - the biggest question of humankind. The question that tears humans apart and begins wars would be hers to know. She was scared—what if her mom couldn’t find her? I assured her that there would be a time where I will be in a room with her and her mother and she would be the only person who sees us both. She cried a little. She also said, “Oh, Erica, I just got a little excited.” Later, I’ve ran that conversation over and over in my head—wishing I had it recorded—not knowing it would be our last at the time and wondering if I should have cried with her instead. Sobbed my eyes out and screamed to the Universe—so she would know the pain in my heart of losing her. But, what I do know is that it wasn’t meant to be— that wasn’t my role or my place at that moment. I was there to help give her hope for her future and gently nudge her to the other side— like wiping your kid’s tears and encouraging them to stay in the classroom in Kindergarten and have the best day ever— even though everything in your bones wants to swoop them up and take them back home. That was my role and there were others who collapsed with her in sadness. And I am grateful for them. For everyone in her village that surrounded her with love and everything she needed to both live and leave.

In the past year, she talked about the kind of death that she wanted—one that felt like her mother’s—best friends and family surrounding her, making food, eating and living while she died.

She also knew that once she chose hospice, she would die fast. Both were true. And the poem below is the story I really wanted to tell, because Janet's death was the most magical and transformative experience of my whole life.

Janet’s death exemplified her life—and it was pure magic that I hope can provide comfort to whomever reads it. Because the big spoiler alert of this human existence is that each one of us will die one day and may we all face our death with intention like this…

Saying Goodbye To A Friend Like You.

I had plane tickets to say goodbye to you today. Monday. The day after Easter.

Your incline to leave your painful body quickened.

I flew on Good Friday instead. I brought Jade with me.

You waited for me. Us.

You waited for all of us.

I whispered my extraordinary love for you, even though you knew. I told you everything I create will have a piece of you.

I held your hand. I kissed your face.

You breathed short, shallow, fast.

Jade thanked you for watching over her as a baby and told you she’d watch over Jaye.

I held Jaye. I kissed his face. His toes.

Putertinker.

We surrounded you with vases of flowers. So many flowers.

Photos of ancestors rested near you.

The day was hot. Felt like summer. We put cold compresses on your perspirated face.

I rubbed your feet.

I burned sage and Palo Santo.

I put my Clear Quartz crystal in your hand. You held onto it through the end and beyond.

The night fell.

The winds blew.

The door flew open.

Your mom flew inside.

Your breath began to rattle. Loud with the wind.

I sat with you in the early morning darkness. I closed my eyes. I saw where you were going. Looked like the Aurora Borealis. I saw stars. I saw you entwined with your mama. Dancing energies in the sky.

The Universe spoke. Everything matters and nothing matters.

The birds sang.

The sun rose.

You went on breathing—now deeper with a swirly swishy sound like a womb.

Candles burned.

The day was crisp, cooler now. Still.

Easter Sunday. We ate eggs. We laughed quite hard.

We enjoyed the sun. Talked about you.

Sat with you.

Time moved both quickly and slowly.

We waited.

You waited. For your sister, another close friend.

We encircled you. All of us now.

Jade took Jaye outside to play in the cool sun.

Your breathing shifted again.

Derek sat beside you. Prayer beads in hand.

His guru on your bed.

Closed eyes.

Jade gave Jaye a bath above us.

We all sat around you.

Presence. Love like no other.

Derek, me, Alyssa, Lania, Jen, Caroline, Jessica.

You knew we were there.

Your eyes open now, looking beyond us.

Another dimension.

Clarity.

Breathing shifts again.

We stood up.

Your eyes widened.

Standing at the edge. Waiting. Knowing.

You opened your mouth once for air that no longer served you.

You clenched your teeth.

We leaned in.

Our eyes wide open and closed.

You opened your mouth for a final breath that didn’t land.

We held our breath. We grabbed hands.

6:39 on 4.20.2025.

Silence.

Glassy eyes spilled tears.

Still. Silence.

Jaye cried above us. Jade held him.

We felt his cry reverberate.

We breathed in and exhaled with ecstasy.

You did it. You crossed over.

And the magic was undeniable.

We hugged each other tightly.

Golden hour.

A perfectly timed production - but this time you were the talent. No longer behind the camera. Framed center stage.

Illuminated by the setting sun’s light.

A cinematographer’s dream. Your dream.

Synchronicity. (Of course)

Magic.

Our hearts continued pumping and we celebrated; rejoiced for your freedom from a body that no longer served you. A body that caused you so much pain. That didn’t allow you to be you.

We adorned you with flowers. All over your body and bed.

You died with a smirk on your face.

The sun set. Darkness.

We sat in meditation led by Derek. Closed our eyes and visualized you on your journey to Enlightenment. To be with the Buddhas.

Where you belong.

Free from all suffering and pain. A place of pure love. A universe of light and joy.

We kept your body overnight.

Derek slept next to you. We slept above you.

I woke up to the ever-present giggling Jaye.

He saw you and reached for you.

I held him and kissed him all over. Your little Jayebird.

You poured into him all of you. Every. Last. Drop.

He is your greatest creation and will live knowing that.

It’s now been 24 hours since you passed and it’s beginning to hit me. You are gone.

You’ve passed into another realm that deserves you. The extraordinary you.

I’m going to miss laughing with you. Traveling with you. Dancing with you. Talking until the wee hours with you. Holding you. Letting you hold me. Getting your advice. Crying with you. Swimming with you. Watching movies and critiquing them with you. And most of all living “best days ever” with you.

Twenty-five years of friendship. Over half of my life shared with you.

Right now, I’m going to let myself collapse.

Just for a little bit. Don’t worry.

I’ll pick myself back up again soon. And I’ll be okay. We all will be okay.

But, forever I’ll miss you.

When I see you in my dreams, I’ll cry my way out of them, remembering you are no longer in my waking.

I’ll see you in the stars and remember you.

It’s been three and a half years since your cancer diagnosis. So many tears have been shed and still so many more to come.

Sobs purging in waves.

But just to be clear—I’m not sad for you.

I know you are safe and protected.

I’m happy for you. Ecstatic, even.

I’m sad for me. The world. Your friends, cousins, aunties, uncles, nieces, nephews, in-laws, sister, dad, husband, baby.

You died young. Your circle is big. And we have to live so much more life without you.

It’s the living that has to process life without you and learn how to live again after losing you.

Live with hearts that are broken and full at the same time.

A red jigsaw puzzle that’s being taken apart and put back together over and over again.

One color puzzle. Impossible to solve.

Thank you for being you. For crossing paths with me. For being my person. A favorite one.

I believe the Universe is a remarkable and magical place because it created you, Janet.

And now, you are Light.

Magic.

And, to close this essay, I’ll let Janet say the final words that she wrote while living in South East Asia - because reading her words now feels like she’s speaking wisdom to us all from the other side:

“I am proud that I continue to do things in my life that bring me joy. Even if it means I had to leave home and loved ones behind for a while. Even if it means that my life comes completely derailed. I only have one of these lives, and I am determined to live it my way. And I swear, it’s off the rail that magic happens.”

Janet Upahyde, 1979 -2025