Sometimes There Is No Do-Over

Sometimes There Is No Do-Over

A friend from my early twenties called me out of the blue. I hadn’t heard from him in 4 or 5 years. I have no idea why he ceased contact—why he deleted me from Facebook, stopped calling, or ignored my messages. I reached out several times to clear the air, but he never responded. One thing I’ve learned is to cut your losses early. I no longer waste energy trying to figure out why people do what they do. Often, there is no “why,” and searching for one is just a way to stay connected or validate yourself. The same goes for chasing apologies.

This call? It was to tell me he had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), or Lou Gehrig’s disease—a terminal illness. I’m familiar with ALS; I’ve read Tuesdays with Morrie five times. His news caught me off guard, but I didn’t say much—I’m not about negativity. He talked about his diagnosis and its impact on his son, and I mentioned I saw his son was playing basketball in Europe. My way of saying, “Yes, I wondered about him.” He’s still a very opinionated person, maybe even more now. I wished him well and moved on with my day.

No hard feelings, no bitterness, no anger. I didn’t ask for an explanation or mention our disconnect. But let’s be real: you didn’t think of me when your son graduated from college, moved to Europe, or when you got married—all milestones we once talked about endlessly. Yet, you felt compelled to call me now? To share your diagnosis? Interesting.

Here’s the truth: sometimes there is no do-over. If you didn’t respect me before, if I wasn’t worth your time or energy, keep that same energy now. A terminal illness doesn’t reset the past, and it doesn’t change how I feel. I don’t need to call him back. I’m not mad, I don’t wish him harm, but I also don’t feel obligated to make space for him. Being the “bigger person” has gotten me nowhere, so I don’t do it anymore.

I’ve stopped making excuses for people’s behavior and tolerating disrespect. When things go sideways, I reflect on my role, but I only try to fix things with people who deserve it. He chose silence. That was his decision. So, guess what? I’m good.

ALS is terminal—I know that. The average lifespan post-diagnosis is 2 to 3 years. I won’t be at his funeral, and I’m at peace with that. Some may not agree, and that’s fine. I don’t follow the crowd, especially when the loudest opinions come from people with the messiest lives. I value myself and expect others to do the same.

Be careful how you treat people—because not everyone will give you a second chance.