Losing someone you love makes you an expert in the worst kind of way. Suddenly you know what it’s like to stand over someone laying so still and just want to will life back into them.
You know what it’s like to know that there’s nothing you can do to make them take another breath. Very little can calm your frustration. If you believe in a higher power, you know what it’s is like to wager. You promise to go to Church, to pray more than just when you need something. If you’re me, your wagers move from keep them alive to if you’re going to take them, make it fast and painless.
If you’re me, you get pissed off at your higher up that it took so long. That death got dragged out in front of you and with every single labored breath all you could do was stop…and watch. You’ll be selfish and ask why me? Why them? Then you’ll feel guilty about being selfish — maybe it was their time? But, didn’t they have moments left to live and see, you’ll ask. If you’re me.
But you’re not me and I’m not you.
I’m not an expert in losing your loved one, I’m an unfortunate expert in losing mine. This is an entirely whole new level of frustration for me because I want to make it better for you. (But this isn’t about me. I know.)
I just don’t want you to have to go through what I’m going through. I’d continue to take it on the chin if it meant no one I loved ever had to go through this themselves.
But I can’t. All I can do is pick up the phone when you dial my number. All I can do is put the offer out there and wait. Wait until you’re ready to talk and once you do all I can really do is listen. All I am capable of doing is existing in it with you. Something I would do a million times over for you.
I don’t have answers. I have memories. I have moments I lived. But I had to live them to get them and it frustrates me to know that you’ll have to do the same.
Letter writing has always been our thing. So here’s one I never wanted to have to write.
I love you very much and I’m here for you.