If you see me at the market sobbing over a box of raspberries, please excuse me. Randomly crying is my new thing. It is unpleasant and unexpected and I apologize in advance if I cry on you.
We wear a seatbelt because it is supposed to keep us safe,
but do we ever expect to be in a vehicle accident? We know our children are going to leave the
nest, but do we expect the nest to feel so vacant when they are gone? A friend is diagnosed with ovarian cancer,
the diagnosis is not good, but do we really expect her to die?
Expectations and reality do not always coincide.
I have known Wendy since our sons were infants. We met at a playgroup. I was wearing stretch pants and a
ponytail. She looked like she just
walked off the runway. That never
changed. No matter what, Wendy was always strikingly gorgeous. Hair.
No hair. Wig. Pregnant. Her beautiful, blue eyes and her
brilliant smile would take your breath away.
Meeting her was by chance.
Getting to know her was a gift. If
you were fortunate enough to know her and receive that gift, you would have
quickly realized that Wendy’s outer beauty was only magnified by her generous
and loving heart, her strength and determination, her wit and intelligence, and
her grace.
A few days ago, I was able to tell her that her photo should
be next to the word grace in the dictionary.
She smiled and replied “That’s
sweet.”
I cannot wrap my brain around the cruel fact that she is
gone. When Marty told me Sunday morning
that he feared it would be her last, I did not believe him. Even when he told me exactly two hours later
that she had passed away, I did not and still do not want to accept it. I truly believed and expected Wendy to beat
the odds.
My emotions range from being really angry to being really
sad. I find myself crying at the weirdest things. Like raspberries. She always loved them. One time I complained about raspberries being
expensive. She said with her trademark
smile “That’s because they are so good!”
I have also cried every time I see her house and that
happens to be every single time I leave my home. Hearing any song by Prince will force me to
pull the car off the road and sob all over my steering wheel. Every time I see a gray Pilot I look for her
to be driving it. Vegetable soup from
the Waffle Shop is our favorite. Not
sure when I will be able to eat it again.
We messaged each other emoticons constantly. The red crab with the pinchers that
continually pinch we used to symbolize beating cancer. Fuck that crab.
Grieving sucks!
There is a quote from John Greene’s book A Fault in Our Stars “What a slut time
is. She screws everyone.” I completely agree.
Even though my heart hurts, and my steering wheel is covered
in snot, I am buoyed by her spirit. Her
strength continues to give me strength.
Her words continue to be inspiring and comforting. The following is from her Christmas letter
written only a few months ago:
“Even in the depths of the mental and physical pain I
currently feel, I know that my life has been blessed in ways that many people
never get to experience, or never take the time to acknowledge, in their lives.
My disease brings me to the threshold of life and death
every day. Every day I remind myself to
be grateful that I have been given one more day… no matter how much pain I am
feeling both mentally and physically.
Life can be so short and fleeting… my goal is live each day graciously
and gratefully.”
It all seems surreal.
I miss her more than I can put into words.
The last thing I got to tell her via text was “I love
you”. And even though she was extremely
weak and barely conscious she responded with four hearts and a kissy face
emoticon. That, I expected.
