Two and a half years ago, I lost one of the most important people in my life. Losing Beth was one of the most difficult things that I’ve gone through. It’s been two and a half years and yet I still have found myself picking up my phone to send a text. I still find myself thinking I should share my hospital adventures with here. After all, we bonded through a world of hospital and doctor stories. When I want to talk about baby names, I find myself thinking “Dang, I should talk to Beth.”
Shortly after Beth died, I read that grief is the price of love. It’s a pretty profound statement, really. By choosing to love, I chose to grieve. By choosing let people in my life, I am ultimately choosing to one day say goodbye in some way, shape, or form. Is it worth it? I think it is.
Beth and I had a pretty incredible, one of a kind friendship. We had so many inside jokes, so many running gags. Some of them I’ve shared with others to keep Beth’s memory alive (the ones that can be somehow explained, I mean) and others will go to my grave as well.
So many days are now longer and darker, simply because I don’t have Beth to share them with. Keep in mind we were exchanging thousands of texts a month, in addition to Facebook convos. The fact she lived in Colorado and I lived in Minnesota didn’t stop a damn thing. The fact that we only hung out in person for one week didn’t change anything. Our friendship was still so natural when we actually met each other.
I didn’t expect to be still reaching for my phone to contact Beth two and a half years later. I didn’t expect my heart to still be broken everything I see anything cinnamon or pumpkin flavored. I didn’t expect to still long to share my hospital adventures. I didn’t expect it to still HURT so much all this time later.
I’ve come to accept that grief doesn’t have a timeline. I’ve come to accept that grief becomes a part of me, a deep part of who I am. And you know what? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. For my heart-wrenching grief means that Beth is still deeply loved and sorely missed. My grief is my final gift to her. As long as I talk about her, as long I speak her name, her memory still lives on.