"That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt."
from The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
Two days ago, I lost you, at least in the earthly part of my life. And while I'm grateful for the incredible strength and comfort with which God has been supplying me...I grieve. Deeply.
You, so brave despite your fears. So giving and nurturing, even as those who love you desperately wanted to nurture you. In all of my life, I have never felt so helpless as I watched this dark and ugly thing called cancer take your life. Still, your spirit was steadfast. You remained your beautiful, amazing self throughout the entire journey of your earthly life. I never could have imagined I could come to love you even more, but I did as I admired your courage, your selflessness, and your incredibly giving soul all while you bore the burden of your diagnosis and prognosis.
So often I find myself staring, absorbing neither sights nor sounds, only feeling this deep, heavy weight in my heart. I eat, but feel weak. I sleep, but I feel exhausted. And then, in the most unexpected moments - a minor chord in a song, a glimpse of your handwriting, an image of you - my composure is lost and I unravel right where I am, melting into tears as my body shudders and sobs.
You would easily be the one I would call when feeling so bereft. Just the sound of your soothing, lilting compassionate voice would quickly work its magic until I rapidly transitioned into a more rational state of mind. From there, we would discuss whatever was troubling me at length, with you always, always, always offering a perspective that my analytic mind had somehow not yet considered. Always, you would offer encouragement and support and love, saying "be nice to my friend Angie."
Truly, you were an angel. And I am exceedingly grateful for the chapter of my life I shared with you. But selfishly, I want more of you. There is a void, and it's deep and dark and empty. My God, I knew this would hurt like hell, yet I underestimated it completely.
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