What Do These Things Have in Common: Ed Sheeran, Outlander, The Bay City Rollers and Losing Your Best Friend?

Over the last couple of evenings I watched Ed Sheeran's The Sum of It All, a four-part documentary that I've been wanting to see ahead of his concert in August -- I've had tickets since last October!  I didn't expect it to be about anguish and loss but it is -- he talks about how many of the songs on his latest album were written from his broken heart after his best friend, Jamal, died suddenly.

I want to tell him: Ed, I've been there.  It will be a few years before you can get through a single day without thinking of your best friend.  It's been, incredibly, seven years since I lost my best friend, Margaret, and it's a little easier now.  Except when it isn't.

This past week on Outlander, Season 7, Episode 4, there is a scene of someone is driving in a car in Scotland in the 1970's and the song playing on the radio is I Only Want To Be With You by The Bay City Rollers.  It brought a smile to my face and my first thought was, "I can't wait to tell Margaret!"  But a split second later the joy fell flat because I realized that, of course, I couldn't tell her.

Margaret and I thought we were the world's biggest Bay City Roller fans in 1976.  We were just 12, and had become friends in 7th  grade and then discovered a mutual appreciation of the Scottish band and 16 -- a fan magazine full of color photos of them and other teen idols like Shaun Cassidy and Leif Garrett.  But we only had eyes for the Rollers; we stalked the magazine racks at Walgreen's twice a day looking for the latest issue and on the days we found it, we each bought one and read it together, cover to cover.

Every few Saturdays we had a Roller Day: we would dress up in whatever we had that was made of tartan or mimicked something we'd seen the guys in the band wearing in a photo -- like those thick, colorful toe socks. Suitably attired, we'd spend the entire day listening to our Bay City Roller albums in chronological order on the floor of her bedroom. We'd talk about which of the Rollers we wanted to marry: for her, Les the lead singer; for me, Stuart "Woody" Wood who played the bass.

We learned everything we could about Scotland, and if in our small city in California we happened upon something plaid or Scottish, we scooped it up and celebrated it.  I bought an Avon room freshener called Scottish Heather that stunk to high heaven, but it was all I would use in those days.

On Roller Days, we only drank hot tea, and for lunch we warmed up a can of Campbell's Scotch Broth soup which we ate with "chip butties" -- a sandwich made from frozen french fries and ketchup on white bread that 16 had told us was the Rollers' favorite food.

Everything about those Saturdays was dedicated to the Bay City Rollers and we somehow never tired of talking about them, crooning along to their songs, and day dreaming about meeting them.  The  rest of our friends rolled their eyes and thought we were ridiculous; they called us teeny boppers and made fun of the band.  Well, they did dress kind of weird, and their songs were corny, and they spoke with crazy thick brogues -- but Margaret and I were faithful, until one day when the fire in our hearts went out and we outgrew them.

But we never outgrew each other.  We would spend entire days playing together -- or shopping, or going to movies, or whatever kids did. And then after 8 or 9 hours of that, we'd go home to our own houses and get on the phone and talk for hours.  I have no idea what we had left to talk about, but it was all we wanted to do.

Soon we were wearing out other albums on Margaret's phonograph, like Rod Stewart, Alice Cooper, and The Eagles -- but by then, we were concentrating on the music and not the men.  Margaret and I stayed best friends throughout middle and high school and had the times of our lives together; every important moment either happened with her or was discussed in detail with her afterwards.  I showed up on her doorstep the morning after a pivotal night of my young life--I sat on her sofa and told her all about it and there was no one else in the world who I would've wanted to tell, or who would have cared.  Even though we went our separate ways in our 20's, we stayed in touch and were important in each others lives through all the main events: each of our weddings, the birth of our babies, and all our trials and tribulations. Even into my late 40's I would call her to help me remember something that had happened in our youth; it was like we held each other's memories.

Margaret was an only child, and I had brothers but no sister.  She was the closest thing to it.  She was the first person I called when my father died, and she was there for me in all of the moments of my life that mattered.  When I moved from CA to CO, I would return to visit not just my family but Margaret, too. And although we saw each other and spoke less in those later years, she was always my number one.

When she passed away, I sought out and spoke to the guy she was spending her time with.  He didn't know her very well, but he knew who I was and told me that she spoke of me often, and that I was her number one. Margaret was an alcoholic and she would not agree to get treatment.  Her loved ones and I tried for some years to get her into rehab, but it wasn't something she wanted.  She was hospitalized, unbeknownst to me, and the doctors told her she would die if she didn't stop drinking.  So she drank even more, telling her boyfriend it would be better that way. And she did die later that year, when we were 51.  No one called me; I found out a couple of weeks later when she wasn't returning my calls and I emailed her at work.  The email was returned to me because they'd closed down her account.

In Ed Sheeran's documentary, he talks about how he'd lived with his best friend early on, and they shared a room when he was out of money.  He jokes about how people thought they were lovers, but they were just friends.  It reminded me of when Margaret laughed at me when I played her the Queen song, You're My Best Friend the first time when we were 14 or so; she was embarrassed because the lyrics say, "I really love you."  She didn't like people teasing us about our close friendship -- saying she was my Iron Lung -- so, those were words I never said out loud to her in our 40 years of friendship.  But, I did love her; she was my soulmate and I wouldn't be who I am, if not for her.

Ed, I know just how you feel; I talk out loud to Margaret and I cry whenever I remember all the fun we had together, and all our dreams and plans. She was the one who taught me how to be happy. I can't believe she's not here to grow old with me like I always knew we would.  From time to time I post the Pink song, Who Knew on Facebook; Pink sings about the disbelief of having lost someone she loved and it is exactly how I feel whenever I think of Margaret.  Some may think it's weird for me to play that song for Margaret, because it talks about a last kiss and is obviously about a lover, not a friend.  But I don't care about those words any more than I cared about the words of You're My Best Friend all those years ago.

It's been seven years and I finally believe she's gone; I know I can't pick up the phone to tell her that they were playing our Rollers on Outlander -- how we would have loved watching that show together!  I may make it to Scotland to eat a chip buttie, someday, but it won't be with Margaret and that breaks my heart.

So, give yourself about three years, Ed, for it to stop hurting so badly.  The pain diminishes but it will never leave you.  You will always miss your friend.