5 Years

Five years ago today, Maggie died.  Much like the bluntness of the previous sentence, her death came without warning - out of nowhere.  

Maggie was one of my best friends - a fellow girl from New Jersey who I met on the very first day at college in 1994.  We met when we had our whole lives ahead of us, and I thank God every day that I knew her.  She made me a better person and this world a better place.  

For the past five years, December 6 has been a hard day.  That's the thing about anniversaries: you cannot help but remember exactly what you were doing or where you were, both literally and figuratively, on that date.  On other dates of meaning throughout the year, I can find the silver lining in the dark clouds -- on her birthday I can remember celebrations in college; on her wedding anniversary I can remember how stunning she looked and how blissfully happy she was (and how we all sang the theme song from The Jeffersons in the limo on the way to the church on that unusually warm March day); on her twins' birthday (they were just 18 months old when she died), I can remember how adorable she looked while pregnant with them and how happy they made her; on St. Patrick's Day, I can remember our last get together of our group of five girlfriends from college.  But December 6 is different: there is no silver lining, there are no happy memories to assuage the sadness.  December 6 is simply sad.  

I think about Maggie every single day.  I can't help but do that, as my girlfriends and I would (and still do) email every day.  Our email chain started right after college graduation, when I was off to law school, Maggie was off to grad school, Melissa started her year as a volunteer, and Missy and Julia entered the work force.  Our emails encompassed 9 years of life: joys greater than we could have imagined, sadness deeper than we thought possible and everything in between ... but all shared.  When my girls laughed, I laughed. When they cried, I did too.  Such is the bond of girlfriends: my chosen sisters who love me because they want to, not because they have to.

So, on Sunday December 2, 2007, 5 months pregnant with my daughter and in the middle of baking a batch of brownies,  I got the call that Maggie was in the hospital.  My immediate thought was a car accident.  But that was not it.  She suffered a seizure and was in a coma.  When Missy told me this, I could hear her words, but they just did not register.  How is this possible? I had just seen her two weeks before at a baptism.  She drove me around in her car.  I was at her house.  We were laughing together.  We were feeding Cheerios to her kids.  We talked about my pregnancy.  She asked my advice on how to set up the rooms in the house.  And now she's what? Where?  I felt myself floating above my body watching my life unfold.  It was a dream - a nightmare.  But it wasn't.

As the week went on, we girls emailed and called constantly, and Maggie's situation got worse.  On December 5, when it became clear how dire things were, we all ran to her side, not really realizing that we were going to say goodbye until we got there.  Her husband gave us the most incredible gift he could have possibly given and asked us to stay with her overnight that night on December 5.  We got no sleep but the hours ticked off like seconds.  Her husband said that we could be in the room the next morning when they took her off the machines.  We were there and were with her and her family when she passed.  Those few hours were the most difficult, but also the most precious, of my life.  I think about that time a lot.  But I can also feel it.  There was a palpable feeling of grace and love in that room.  I will never forget it.  It may sound trite, but when I start to become overwhelmed by the sadness of loss, I think of those few hours we had in that hospital room, and it helps a little.  I have never been so close to God as in those moments.  

Every December 6, I go to Mass - I will be there this morning.  And I cry.  I cry a lot.  I cry for her because she loved her life and it was taken from her.  I cry for her husband and children.  I cry for her parents and sister and her family.  I cry for her friends.  I cry for the families she helped in her job.  I cry for my friends.  And, I cry for myself because I lost someone I loved so very much.  I wonder what she would say or think about life right now.  There are times when I just need to talk to her.  To tell her something great or ask her advice or get that bit of reassurance or loving honesty.  

I remember right after she died, and I was just so angry, someone said to me, "Oh, you must be in the angry stage of grief.  There are five stages you know: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance."  I had never heard of this before, but all it did was make me angrier at the time.  Five years later, I still don't really buy the stages of grief thing.  As tempting as it is to wrap up the complexity and horror of grief into a neat little checklist, life simply does not work that way.  I think grief is more of a continuum: some days are ok, some days are not, the pain gets a bit easier to bear, but the pain and sadness linger.  I am still somewhat in denial.  I still get angry.  I still feel depressed.  And while I have accepted that she is gone, I have not, and cannot, and most likely for the rest of my life will not, accept why she is gone.  She just is.  

On December 6 each year, I always hope that tomorrow I will be able to think about her laugh - that distinctive belly laugh that you could hear and recognize a mile away.  Or the crinkle of her nose and sparkle in her eye when she smiled.  Or how she made everyone dance. Or how she managed to work her way behind a DJ booth at every opportunity.  Or how she could neigh like a horse.  Or how much she loved to talk about her beautiful babies.  Or how in love she still was with her husband.  Or how much she adored her sister.  Or how she truly loved her friends.  Tomorrow, maybe, I will think about those things.  But today I grieve and cry for my friend - for losing her and missing her more than words can say.  

See you swoon,