April 19, 2011 – Our Week

Lisa,

Happy birthday. You lucky son of a gun, you never had to stare 46 in the face. It’s on that downward slope to 50 and I’m not so sure I’m enjoying it, but…I’m only a week into it, so we’ll see how the year goes. Maybe this year will be a year of upward movement for me, huh?

It’s our birthday week, Lisa and this is the third one I’m facing without your sleepy birthday phone call, without frantically trying to find you a gift and of course, without our insane string of phone calls trying to find time to go out and celebrate together. It hits me every year without warning – how could I forget this week is so difficult to bear? But, I do. I get weepy and am unable to breathe. It happened Wednesday and I didn’t know why.

And then, I figured it out. And my eyes dripped the rest of the day. I left work early, unable to concentrate, just needing to be home. What is it about being home that somehow calms the grief monsters? I guess I can let all filters go and just be. Swim in some memories, stare a little longer at your picture, snuggle my kitty a bit tighter and go outside and take pictures of your tree.

2011 has had entirely too much death so far, Lisa. Every one of them brings me right back to the moment Frank called me. The moment I looked in that blasted velvet-lined box at your body, your beautiful curls straightened out by the idiot mortician who obviously never knew you. The moment I had to walk out of the mausoleum with nothing more than a daisy in my hand.

But, you know, you were life to me. You were sick and yet, you were life. Fighting, strong, courageous life. Health crises kicked you down and you put up your fists, said, “I DARE you,” and you kept fighting. And when you couldn’t fight anymore, we were left to fight for you. You’re why I’m finally working. You’re why the diabetes section of my classes is longer than protocol dictates. You’re why I’m teaching today, on your birthday, when I’d really rather be listening to you order your margarita.

On the rocks, no salt. Oh, and could you bring about 3 extra dressings for my salad? My lettuce has to swim.

Life. Grief. Courage. Daisies and salad dressing.

Happy birthday, Lisa
Heidi