Last week, I said goodbye to my best friend. My soul mate really.
We didn’t start out as best friends. In fact, we struggled at the beginning. He wasn’t a great listener. He was stubborn. He made a lot of messes.
But we also had so many things in common. We both loved pizza. We loved naps on Saturday afternoons and watching cooking shows. We built our whole family routine around our relationship.
We had thirteen years together, but the last five years I needed him more than he needed me.
He aged quickly in the last six months. He struggled with things that used to be easy for him, like going up and down stairs or getting in the car. He needed increased pain support. He was less interested in playing or taking a walk.
This grief feels different: it is quieter and the edges are less sharp, but it is just as deep. The quiet is deafening; the tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator fill the house, but not in a comforting way.
Grief has been described as coming in waves and for me, it has been more of a tsunami from which I nearly drowned. I looked for any distraction to stop the sadness and loss screaming inside my head. Now, I’m in a place where I can sit with the grief; I can recognize that this is sadness, this is grief, and I would like to find a distraction, but I am choosing to write instead of eat my way through a batch of chocolate cookies or drink a few glasses of wine.
I am so grateful for the years I had with my dear friend and I will cherish every piece of pizza crust that we have shared. I will focus on that gratitude when the grief starts chirping in my ears.
