Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes How do you measure, measure a year?
I hate how far back I have to scroll in my phone to find pictures of us. Two years of memories without you in them. It is still incomprehensible that I am living life without you in it. I hate that as time goes on, even Facebook erases our memories. And, it’s even worse because you aren’t here to make new ones. If they all disappear from pictures, will they eventually start to disappear from my own mind? Even worse than a life without you in it, is a life where our memories are faded or even forgotten.
Two years. Twenty-four months. One hundred & four weeks. Seven Hundred & Thirty days. Seventeen thousand five hundred & twenty hours. One million fifty-one thousand & two hundred minutes. Sixty-three million seventy-two thousand seconds. Each one feeling like forever.
I can still feel the shock & denial I felt when my mom called me at work to tell me you were gone. It took at least an hour to sink in. At least an hour for me to realize you were gone. An hour for me to start this journey of grief that is never-ending. I remember not knowing what to do. Like anything I could do would change it. I drove home from work. My mind somewhere else. My phone ringing. My text message notifications beeping. Surely one of them would be you. This was definitely a mistake. And then it wasn’t.
I came home to a busted water heater. My kitchen floor flooded. Water still spewing out onto the floor. I looked up. I laughed. It was like your final joke. One more prank. Anything to make me smile. A laugh even better. I turned and walked away. Ignored the reality of everything going on at that moment.
I had so many questions. So many unfinished conversations. So many things I wanted to say. So many hugs left to be given. Memories to be made. As I rode to your mom’s house from Atlanta, I couldn’t grasp what was happening. What would happen. I don’t think I have ever been to your parent’s house when you weren’t there. Drew met me in the driveway with a big hug and an I love you. You’d be so proud of him. I hugged and cried my way through everyone and knew exactly where I needed to be. I slipped away down the hallway and into your old room. Your old bed still there. I laid down, still crying, random memories flooding my mind. Your beta fish that used to sit on that wicker shelf. The see-through phone that I thought was so cool & wanted to badly. Sitting in your closet listening to song from the Karate Kid like we had any idea what love was. Emptying our oh so important purses to trade items with each other. Waking up scared because I had slept with gum in my mouth and was afraid your mom would be mad. You telling me you weren’t going to sleep. You were just resting your eyes. Sounds of laughter. Your mom telling us to be quiet because your dad was sleeping. Our times spent bunkered down in the hallway because there was severe weather. Your dad at the other end of the hall, watching the weather on tv. Trying to keep us quiet so he could hear. Standing there as if he would stop the tornado to keep us safe. I even remembered your first cuss word after your go-cart wouldn’t start. I was shocked. I though the world would end when you said it. You just laughed. I remember riding the go-cart, being chased by the rain, and watching it spread across the field, finally catching up to us. Gilbert Court. Oh the laughs at Gilbert Court. Our tiny one-bedroom apartment covered in sunflowers. It was the best thing ever. Two a.m. trips to Wal-Mart because we could. Silly outgoing messages on our answering machine. Ridge Road. Driving on campus to the one class we had together, laughing as you tried to parallel park. Laughing harder as we had to change places so I could parallel park for you. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The memories came from further back and extended through that final week of your life. Your last message being so trivial. A picture of paperwork, lying on the floor of your office. A little note that said, I’m still at work. And that was it. That was the last memory I would ever have of you.
I know you would hope I would have recovered by now. That the loss wouldn’t be as tough as it is for me. I know you would shrug off the fact that you were that much a part of my life. That I depended on you so much more than you depended on me. You were my best friend. My soulmate of sorts. My rock. My place of understanding. Of calm. You were my nurse. My protector. You stood up for me when I didn’t have the energy to stand up for myself. You were always there. And then you weren’t.
Every morning feels like Groundhog Day. Shortly after waking up, I realize, once again, you’re gone. Maybe it’s because I look up and see your picture on the wall. Maybe it’s because I pick up my phone to call or message you. Maybe it’s because I need to talk to you. I need your advice. Your support. Your unconditional love. And on really bad day, it’s because I’ve woken up with tears already streaming down my face from the reality hitting in a dream.
There are days I think I won’t make it. Days I think it’s time to give up. Days that feel so overwhelming, I see no way I’ll make it until the next. Most of the days are like this. But every now and then something beautiful happens. A clover appears in my car out of nowhere. A sunflower in the most random of places. An old card you sent me out of place and found at the right time. Always a funny message to make me laugh. A picture taken for scenery on your birthday with an angel-shaped cloud as clear as a crystal.
I know you watch over me. I have no doubts. But you are the lucky one, my dear. You are dancing in the streets of heaven with loved ones gone before you. Still watching your loved ones left behind. You’re still cheering for me. I feel it. Sometimes I think I hear it. Sometimes I do something outside of my character just because I know it’s what you would advise. I think about the things I was struggling with when you left. The parts of them I still struggle with now. I envision you in heaven, banging your head, because you know what God has planned for me. And you hate to see me sad. I think about the struggles you faced. Your desire to be better each day. Your attachment to the article of the girl who wrote about living, after being diagnosed with terminal cancer way too soon. She was your goal. You were going to go back to school. Be a Nurse Practitioner. A better mom. A better wife. Better to yourself. You wanted to get in the best shape of your life. Not because anyone thought you should or pressured you to. Because you wanted to be the best version of yourself for you. And my heart breaks all over again that you didn’t have time to fulfill all your heart’s desires.
Then I think about my life now. How far into abyss I’ve slipped. How disappointed you’d be in me. I’m sure you sit up there yelling at me to get up. Get out of bed. Get out of the house. Do something. Anything. Live. And I try. I want to live for me and for you. But grief is crippling. Loneliness is dark. Such a huge part of who I am is gone. It feels like I can’t move because I’m not whole. Like I awoke and suddenly had no legs to stand on my own. Because you were gone. And you were a part of me for as much of my life as I can remember. Until you weren’t.
I remember your memorial service. Parking lot overcrowded. Lines around the building. I sat in a chair thinking I’d write what I was going to say about you the next day. But instead, I sat there staring. All the people around me who loved you. Yet I was alone. I was in awe of how many lives you touched. I remember telling someone, in my entire life, I can name people who haven’t or don’t like me. But in my entire life, I can’t name one person who didn’t like Nicole. I like to think you were my angel. My rock. My support. My soft place to land. I’m territorial when it comes to our friendship. But the truth is undeniable. You were that person to everyone you met. You made lives brighter. You made problems lighter. When I think about it, I can’t imagine how heavy it must have been for you. Not only carrying your problems but carrying the weight of others so they wouldn’t have to do it alone. But you never made me feel like an inconvenience. You never hinted that you couldn’t bear the weight of anything else. When you talked to me, I was all there was. And I am certain every other person you encountered felt the same.
Coming up with the words to say about you might have been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Only to be overshadowed by having to stand in front of packed chapel and say them out loud, knowing you were lying there just in front of me. I wrote for hours. Write. Erase. Start over. Repeat. Each time I would read what I had written, I would realize, this is all about me. How I feel. My experience. And that did not do justice to your life. You were so much more than a part of me. You were a part of everyone who met you. And you deserved to be remembered as you were. Not as I felt. I pulled through with a combination of laughs and tears and even a cuss word, just for you. I go back and read those words now and then. I still laugh. I still cry. I still wonder if I even came close to putting you on the pedestal you earned. And I cry some more. Who will tell my story? Will anyone show up? Am I even half the person you were? Am I even that person to one person? Have I had a positive impact on anyone? How do I do better? And, how do I do it now that I am not whole?
I can’t believe it’s been two years. I can’t believe every year will add another and the clock will never stop counting the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. I can’t believe this is who I am in now. Who I’m forced to be. After years of swimming, bicycles, sleepovers, secrets, notes in the hallways, inside jokes, family vacations, a lifetime of firsts, our friendship has also experienced all its lasts. I don’t know how to accept it. How to move forward. How to feel whole again. Because throughout my entire life you were there. Until you weren’t.
