I can't believe she's gone
A few weeks ago a friend died. She was 40 and had a 2 1/2 year old daughter. She was brutally murdered.
20+ years ago I met her in Boston. She was roommates with a lifelong friend of mine. They stayed close -- and as a result we stayed close. Close in the way friends do who share a close friend.
The first time I was pregnant so was she. She had a miscarriage, I admired how well she handled the loss and couldn't imagine going through such a thing. Then I lost my pregnancy. She was so clear on the differences of how profound each of our losses was -- hers at a few weeks, mine at five months. It was a perspective that many other friends who had miscarried didn't see but she did and added the words that I couldn't quite come up with. It was different, she got that. She and her husband just started trying again. She had a miscarriage a couple of months ago.
Building our family was about the only path we traveled together -- her world was a far different one than mine. She acted, directed and wrote movies. I worked in politics and now in the health field. Months, even years would go by without us speaking, yet each week I knew what she was up to -- I assume she kept similar tabs on me. And even though over the past few weeks there's not a single chance I would have spoken to her, I miss her terribly.
Our last real conversation was a few months ago. We talked about how much we loved our babies -- how we hoped for the sake of other children that their mothers felt the intense and profound love we felt. We also marveled at the odds of her having the most beautiful girl ever born, and me having the most beautiful boy ever born. What were the odds?
I think the thing that breaks my heart the most is that her little girl will only remember what we tell her about her mother. And I weep for A. because she'll never get to see her baby grow up.
20+ years ago I met her in Boston. She was roommates with a lifelong friend of mine. They stayed close -- and as a result we stayed close. Close in the way friends do who share a close friend.
The first time I was pregnant so was she. She had a miscarriage, I admired how well she handled the loss and couldn't imagine going through such a thing. Then I lost my pregnancy. She was so clear on the differences of how profound each of our losses was -- hers at a few weeks, mine at five months. It was a perspective that many other friends who had miscarried didn't see but she did and added the words that I couldn't quite come up with. It was different, she got that. She and her husband just started trying again. She had a miscarriage a couple of months ago.
Building our family was about the only path we traveled together -- her world was a far different one than mine. She acted, directed and wrote movies. I worked in politics and now in the health field. Months, even years would go by without us speaking, yet each week I knew what she was up to -- I assume she kept similar tabs on me. And even though over the past few weeks there's not a single chance I would have spoken to her, I miss her terribly.
Our last real conversation was a few months ago. We talked about how much we loved our babies -- how we hoped for the sake of other children that their mothers felt the intense and profound love we felt. We also marveled at the odds of her having the most beautiful girl ever born, and me having the most beautiful boy ever born. What were the odds?
I think the thing that breaks my heart the most is that her little girl will only remember what we tell her about her mother. And I weep for A. because she'll never get to see her baby grow up.
posted by Sarah at
11:40 AM
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