Goldilocks and the Three Stages of Liver Cancer

Aug 03, 2025

In 2014, when I was in my early thirties, a childhood friend of mine, Aaron Goldsmith sent an “awkward mass email” explaining how, after months of issues, he’d finally seen a doctor who could explain his ailment. It was Stage-A liver cancer.

I was horrified, but optimistic. “You can beat this, Goldilocks!” I emailed, texted, and said to his face. “I hope so,” he replied, always the realist. He had a Master’s in public policy and worked in electioneering, making sausage for bigwigs like Gavin Newsom.

A year later, I remember exactly where I was when I got “the email” from Aaron. I was in Phoenix, for Thanksgiving, with my parents. Sitting in their living room, full of delicious dinner, his email took away all my joy, and it never returned.

The email didn’t say, “I’m going to die,” but it was devoid of all optimism, and it included jargon like "Stage-B symptoms" that sounded terribly depressing. Even the part designed to give us hope (“I’m applying for a trial at UCLA”) came across as dour.

My heart sank and I cried a lot, in front of my parents. My childhood friend had given up! I could tell that he was no longer going to fight with full force, a choice that’s impossibly hard to relate to your friends, parents, fiancé, and sister at 35-years-old.

The cancer was going to win. Aaron was going to die. Life was unfair.

To say Aaron was one of the best people I ever knew would be a lie. He wasn’t one of them. He was literally the best. And by this, I don’t mean he was a saint. Far from it. He was just actually the best human I ever knew (and it’s true today) at living life.

Aaron hosted annual taco eating contests. He was social to the nth degree, never flaking on any event, for any reason, and always showing up with gifts, games, and more enthusiasm than required. He was the definition of fun and friendly, without ever crossing any lines. Everyone I know who ever met Aaron remembers him fondly.

My favorite memory of him was the time he sent out official invites for this huge murder mystery party at his new apartment. We were required to RSVP a month in advance and to dress up for it. His plans sounded almost too difficult to pull off.

Suffice it to say that I was beyond pumped, as I’m competitive, love games, and I’m also hopelessly in love with kitschy stuff like murder mysteries. I couldn’t wait.

The big night arrived and my (now ex) wife and I picked up another couple for the long haul to South San Francisco. When we arrived, there were already 20 friends cramped in the living room of his one-bedroom. He told us to mingle as we waited for the rest to arrive. When everyone was there, a hush fell over us as he led us down a hall to a room he’d sealed off with police tape.

He opened the door and we single-filed into this tiny, poorly lit bedroom that featured a very fake skeleton on a bed and a few other lame Halloween decorations. The lazy mis-en-scene looked like it had been prepared by a five-year-old.

I was still excited, but something felt off, and I remember reading that vibe on the faces of the few guests I could see in the dim light.

“First of all,” Aaron announced, “I want to thank you all for making the long drive out here.” He nodded at his fiancé. “We were pretty sure none of you would come for a house warming party, so we decided to amp up the invite to get you all to come.”

He smiled as I frowned. I’d known this lovable asshole since childhood. I’d seen him do this before. He’d make us watch avant-garde movies after we got too drunk and high to drive home at the end of his legendary house parties. He’d once convinced me to sneak beer into a Giants game, which led to my only arrest: for underage drinking. I’d even directed him and his shenanigans for four long months to make my first film.

I loved the guy, but on this subject, we were two peas in a pod. We both loved pranks, and I was now sure we’d all just been duped. He’d made all this up.

“So anyway,” Aaron finished. “There’s no murder, and no mystery. Just the best people I know, in a small apartment, with tons of food, beer, wine, and drinks. Enjoy!”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” A surly, now quasi-famous radio personality yelled, getting up from the bed. “I left work early and drove in two hours of fucking gridlock traffic for this! I’ll fucking kill you!” he yelled, storming off to his car.

“You’re kidding, right?” A newer friend asked, utterly failing to mask her fury.

“He’s not kidding,” I said with a laugh, trying to see how pissed my partner and our other two friends were, so I could know if they would let us stay or not.

An epic evacuation ensued. I’ve never seen anything like it. Legions of well-dressed Millennials stormed outside to vent. Non-smokers were hitting up smokers for cancer sticks, hoping the minimalist act of suicide would somehow cure their bitter mood.

But me? I couldn’t stop laughing. It was the greatest thing I’d ever seen. And I was the person who should have been the most pissed off, as I’d been posting non-stop shit-talk on the evite about how I would “make Hercule Poirot look like Forrest Gump.”

But I wasn’t pissed. I was just blown away by my friend’s love of all his friends, and his overall mission in life: to have fun, not take anything too seriously, and take risks.

I think about my friend every day of my life. Not only did we grow up together, but I spent two years flying out to see him every other month after I’d moved, to help him cope with what was happening. But that’s only half of it. I was also flying out because he was an amazing friend, who, even while on chemo, was willing and able to help me deal with the abduction of my son.

Towards the end, he thanked me for helping him deal with the guilt of knowing he was going to die while the people who loved him said things like, “You can’t quit!” “You have to keep fighting!” “You can beat this!” In retrospect, I was his death doula.

Aaron passed in July of 2018, a few days after my birthday. He was in Stage-C and looked like a tiny yellow fetus when I last saw him, two days before he died. It was awful. I can still see him, smiling and crying while hugging me as I leaned in to say, “It’s OK. You can die now.”

I could write a million other great stories about Aaron, but the one that matters the most to me is that as he was dying, I was a divorcee, trying to date and fall in love, so he’d always joke that my big mistake was never dating Jewish women (he was Jewish).

I’d say, “They sound difficult.” (Note from the future: they are). And he’d reply, “So are you.” (Note from then and now: I am). But I always said I wouldn’t change my mind.

Well guess what? Yeah, that’s right. Aaron got the last laugh. Here’s how:

Aaron was an atheist, and I had a fun time teasing him about it, since he was dying. “Why taunt God?” I’d joke. “What if they send you to hell for saying they didn’t exist?”

“Come on Mike, we both know you just want there to be an afterlife. Besides, if there is one, I’m obviously going to hell. That fake murder mystery alone would do me in.”

All jokes aside, Aaron didn’t like my bad attitude, and really wanted me to succeed, so he eventually made me a deal that shows you just how enormous his heart was.

I was always asking him to try and send me a message beyond death, so one day, a few months away from death, he rolled his eyes and said, “Tell you what, Mike. If I do turn into a ghost, I’ll send you a bunch of Jewish girls to date. That will be my message.”

I said, “thanks, but no thanks,” and we left it at that. But then, less than a month after he died, something truly strange happened. I got a dm from a cute chick on a dating app, asking me on a date. This had literally never happened, so I said yes, and we had a good first date, and then, on the second date, she told me she was Jewish!

Sadly, the first Jewish girl was too alcoholic, so it didn’t work out, but a month later, a cute girl showed up to a hiking group I attended. She was new to town and flirted with me, so I asked her out, we went on four dates, and she was also Jewish! Unfortunately, she was too narcissistic.

After that, I was still not convinced that my dead-friend had turned into a ghost, but then, a few weeks later, a different app tricked me, and I ended up meeting the love of my life, a third Jewish girl(!) with Orthodox Jewish parents(!!), and she was "just right!" And now we’re married!

So thanks, Aaron, you fucking asshole. We both win. Death isn’t the end, and Jewish girls rule. I truly love you, and I hope you’re eating amazing burritos, wherever you are.

This week on Coffin Talk we interview a psychotherapist, Dr. Katie Eastman. She’s spent over 35 years helping individuals, leaders, and organizations navigate grief, loss, and major life transitions, by integrating the Kübler-Ross Change Curve and her Re-Create model to transform loss into growth. This one is like free therapy! Listen here.