14 Nov

No one here to tell me this is going to be alright. Or to just shut me up and have sex with me so I don’t have to think about it. Maybe it’s better this way. Painful but better.

Sitting in her room by her bed, on a really bad day, post chemo, nausious and achy. I wanted to give her this big speech I had planned, but I couldn’t.

A few years back, before her mother passed away, I remember a night at the hospital, urging her to tell her mom anything she felt she needed to say. “You don’t want to regret not having said something important.” And here I am giving myself the same advice now, unable to follow it. Because when I see her, all I want is to make her somehow magically better. I can’t even begin to say stuff where the subtext is: you might not get better.

But I want her to know. I need her to know that she has been there for me at every single important summit in my life. That I have no childhood friends, but she is the closest to it. That she is my constant. That she’s been there consistantly througout my horrible military service, my stupid crushes, my very long relationship with BD, the moving abroad, the returning home, the yearning to get married and have children and the fear that He did not love me enough, the wedding, the birth, the realization that He did not love me enough, the horribly painful breakup, the career change, the raising my boy, the writing this blog, the moving to a new home, the dating, with its ups and downs… She’s been there all along. Like a rock that I could lean on. Someone I could tell anything to, and never risk being judged. Someone who always looked out for me, who chose my side 100% percent of the time, even if I was wrong, who remembered all the important dates and kept in touch even when I was too distracted to call, who’d listen to me bitch and answer: that sucks honey, I’m sorry, without trying to fix it. I want her to know how much I love her, how much our friendship means to me. How no matter what happens, she will always be my best friend and I will never forget her.

And that’s not all. I know life has been rough on her. I know that none of us know what the future holds. But I believe that we are put on this Earth to become the best version of oursleves that we can be, and I want her to know that I think she’s really evolved. She’s absolutely nothing like that girl I met 15 years ago. She may be sick, but she’s a much newer and improved version of herself in many ways. More trusting, more forgiving, more open to see and accept the good in people and in the world, less comprimising, more realistic, and somehow not less hopeful.

I think about little things, like the way she slices apples meticulously to make a perfect pie, and the way she jokes about the holocaust or teases boys and how she used to be so rough aroung the edges that people didn’t know how to react. And how she lived a street away from me when we were students, and we’d walk to class together in the morning, stopping for coffee. And how her roomate wrote her a love song and she freaked out and knocked on my door at 3 am and spent the night on the sofa.

I will always remember cooking and baking, and eating and chatting. Parties at her parents’ huge house, and making fun of everyone and everything, and long distance crushes and disambiguation and douche canoes and rising to the occasion. Dancing at a club. Learning how to drink at a local bar with bar tenders that hit on us and cut our bill in half consistently. Bachelorette parties. Deaths. Births. Sitting together with our closest friends and forcing ourselves to say one good thing that happened to us this month, even when it was hard to think of something. We didn’t do that in our last meeting. I want us to do that again now.

And receiving the news that she was sick, and consoling J as she cried, telling her that this was nothing but a bump in the road. A hell of bump this is.

Whatever happens. M, I love you. What a chicken shit way to tell you that.


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