Losing and loss

04.29.07 Sunday afternoon


“When someone you love dies, you’re supposed to cry. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.” This is what my mom told my six-year-old brother after her best friend died unexpectedly on a Sunday afternoon at the end of last semester. I was close to her too, and at nearly twenty, it’s the first death of someone I knew and, well, loved.
I cry about everything. I don’t cry about death, though. It’s not that I deal well with things- I really don’t. I’m not sure if I don’t deal with things, or if I just do it in a convoluted way. Coping, I suppose, is different for everyone. I can cry for an hour over my boyfriend joining the army, but I can barely squeeze out a few tears for what can only be described as a death in the family.
This is a strange experience for me. Her last dream was about me- she told my mom about it in their last phone conversation. I wish now I’d answered the phone more when she called. I wonder when I’ll stop expecting to see MCGUIRE JOHN R on the caller ID. My mom said, “I wonder if I’ll ever have a best friend again.”
Loss is an interesting thing. Losing a friend, I think, is harder than losing a relative. You chose your friend; you chose to be with them. In a way, it makes your bond more meaningful because it was chosen and cultivated purposefully. The time and effort that goes into creating a friendship is hard to go through again. After losing my dearest friends- most to distance, some to stupid fights- like her, I wondered, and still wonder, “Will I ever have a best friend again?”
I don’t think either of us will.
My mom and boyfriend are now the only people on the “called” list on my cell phone. Aside from a weekly breakfast with my old doubles partner, I don’t hang out with friends. Not only do I not have the desire to cultivate any more lasting and deep friendships, but I don’t make the time. Now, there is no one to talk to “just because,” no one to go to breakfast with, no one to respond to all my emails. For my mom, there will be no one to call while she’s doing dishes, and there will be no one’s house to go to on Easter. For me, there is no one to read my writing, no one to care, no one to trust infinitely. I suppose she feels much the same: betrayed, in a strange way, by circumstance and death.
With all deaths, everyone says, “Life is so short.” Or, “You never know when you’re going to lose someone you love.” Why don’t we really listen to these admonishments? Why don’t we say “I love you” or “I appreciate you” or “I’m sorry” when we really need to? In a moment, what seems like a lifetime of friendship is gone. Suddenly, there is no going back to say what needed to be said. Like the tomb, both anger and distance are cold and unforgiving. The gap is unbridgeable.
For a few weeks, we will all be more loving to those that mean the most to us. Then, we’ll forget about acting like we should until the next death. It’s twisted.
We eventually get used to our new way of life without someone important in it. We no longer refresh our email inbox or check the caller ID or dial their number by accident, as my mom has already done. Normalcy is replaced by normalcy v2.1, but some late nights, it will feel far from normal as we attempt to get over what will affect us forever.