Grief, Twenty Years In

I\’ve been sitting here pounding away at this keyboard for way too long, with a bunch of trite bullshit coming out (that I keep deleting). I\’m trying too hard.  I\’m trying too hard to be deep and lyrical and really, I\’m trying to avoid feeling the dark, seemingly bottomless grief I\’m feeling tonight.

So I\’m just going to freewrite. Welcome to the inside of my brain (and tonight, my broken heart).

December 12.

Amy died in 1999. It\’s been twenty years.

That is almost three times longer than I knew her alive.

Some of  you may know that I have a butterfly, well, fixation and it has to do with losing Amy. Not Amy when she was alive. There are tons of other things that I associate with her from when she was physically here, her interests and talents and quirks and our private jokes.

(Amy was a nursing home social worker. She once told me that she was having the consulting psychiatrist come see one of her residents, who was exhibiting symptoms of psychosis; saying things that made no sense. \”What if she is just saying all her private jokes with her bestie, and her bestie is not there to get them?\” I asked. \”Do you think if we are not in a nursing home together, but one of us is talking about how you hung that huge framed Hopper poster leaning way the fuck over my loft wall and I was not breathing, terrified you were going to fall (another friend had to take it down after you died-I didn\’t breath when she leaned over, either), that the social worker will call the psychiatrist?\” We laughed and laughed-that, too, became a private joke that we referred to over and over.)

A colleague of mine once went to have a meeting with Amy at said nursing home, and then came to me in my office and said, \”I met your friend Amy.\” She was quiet for a minute. \”You guys talk alike,\” she said, smiling. She said it as a compliment.  I loved that. I loved that someone met her and she reminded them of me, and vice versa.

There are times that I can\’t remember what her voice sounded like. That I can\’t remember her little habits or her laugh or how safe I felt in her presence. And then something happens-a song comes on, I catch a scent, something happens that reminds me of a story of her….and I remember it\’s all still there. I think sometimes it hurts less to not always think about it.  I know sometimes it hurts more not to think about it.
I know there is no way for it *not* to hurt.

When she first died, and for a long time, I was afraid I would forget she was dead.  And I didn\’t want to do that, because I was really afraid that when I remembered again, it would feel like it did when I found out.

And I didn\’t ever want to go through that again.

Of course, I will. I have people in my life I love as much as I loved her, and they will all die one day. Hopefully not soon, and perhaps not all before I do. 

But the only way to avoid that feeling, that awful everything-went-black-and-my-ears-started-ringing-and-I-couldn\’t-breathe….that waking-up-in-tears-remembering-she-had-died-AS-I-was-waking up…the only way to avoid those feelings is not to love, and not to love that completely, that unconditionally.

No way.  If anything, I love more deeply, more widely, more messily, more MORE than I did before she died.

I just realized I started out telling you guys about the butterflies.  I think I\’m gonna save that for another day, soon.

For today, I\’m just going to sit here in awe that she was here, and that I got to love her and be loved by her. 
You guys: she was THE SHIT.

And to be honest, it\’s THE SHIT to feel this grief every year. It\’s how I keep loving her.  It reminds me that my heart is alive and also broken, and broken-open.

And DEAR LORD I miss her.

I wish I could say this in a way that didn\’t sound cliche.  We never know. You never know when will be the last time you talk to someone, kiss them, hug them, listen to them, laugh with them.  I use this to try to be present, or remind myself to be present, as much as I can. I fail. A lot. So much the time.
And, a lot of times, it helps. When I get too far ahead of myself-especially with worry–I picture her wedding, and then, 29 days later, her funeral.
That brings me RIGHT into the present moment.

You know what Amy would have said?

\”It\’s okay, Bets. Go easy on yourself. You\’re awesome.\”

I love you guys.

#MissingAmy

photo: two friends, just their heads and shoulders, leaning in towards each other and smiling for the camera.
(Amy\’s bachelorette party, 5 weeks before she died)