When I was little, I was told that honoring your mother and father (i.e. not stealing from the cookie jar or sticking your tongue out when you’re told you can’t have that $125 Malibu Barbie Dreamhouse) will give you a longer life. At the age of 6, I couldn’t see past tomorrow so obeying my parents to gain a few more years on Earth wasn’t at the top of my priority list. But as I grew older, I slowly began to realize just how precious life really is. I saw deaths by the hundreds on the news, watched documentaries about genocide in school, and read stories about bloody battles in the Bible and my history textbooks. In my adolescent mind, I observed that so much of what I was seeing was incredibly unfair. After all, bad things couldn’t happen to truly good people, right?
As an only child, I had to make a lot of friends to make up
for the lack of childhood comradery I was lacking at home. I looked for cohorts
similar to me: mischievous, funny, imaginative, and independent. I found this
dream companion in a girl a few years older than me, a girl named Sally who was
a little different than other children. She and her family attended the same
church as mine and in the most uncomplicated of ways, we began to form a close
bond. Sally was often sick and would miss church for a few weeks in a row.
Concerned, I asked my mother if Sally was okay. She sat me down and explained
that “Sally has cancer. And sometimes, she has to stay home and rest.” Not
fully understanding, I accepted my mother’s words and waited for Sally to come
back. When she did, we didn’t speak of her absence or her illness; we simply
continued in our companionship. Thus, the routine was established. Sally would
come to church, become sick, miss church, and eventually return and act like
nothing had happened. Of course, Sally’s condition was fussed over by others
(doctors, friends, members of the church) but it was never spoken of between
the two of us.
As children are wont to do, Sally and I grew up and
developed different interests but we remained very close. We sat together in
church, drawing elaborate cartoon scenes on the back of the weekly bulletin,
giggling about particularly awful choir solos, sharing candy and Carolina
Tarheel paraphernalia, and simply enjoying each other’s company. Sally had a very
dry sense of humor, with sarcastic barbs and self-deprecating remarks coming
out of her mouth with hilarious speed. She could make me laugh with just a
nudge or a look and I regarded her as one of the most honest people I had ever
met. While she never explicitly told me, I knew she loved me and that our
friendship was of the purest kind. There were no judgments, no questions, only
a connection based on mutual understanding.
As we graduated high school and moved into the collegiate
world, Sally seemed to be getting sicker. I knew she went through periods of
“relapse” and as always, I patiently waited for her to get better. But this
time, she only seemed to be getting worse. I was concerned but not worried;
Sally had pulled through for 21 years and I had no doubt that she would do the
same this time. But before I knew it, she was hospitalized and eventually
placed in Hospice. We continued to text and Facebook message each other. She
posted pictures of her family and crafts she had made. I knew Sally’s condition
was precarious, but I always assumed we would be friends for a long time, that
we would become adults together and share things just as we always had. However,
in December of 2013, Sally passed away. In spite of everything she had been
through, her death was a shock to me. I had lost several grandparents and was
familiar with the feeling one gets when a loved one is gone, but I wasn’t
prepared for just how crippling my grief for Sally would be.
I had lost a best friend, someone I had known my entire life. I couldn’t send her funny pictures. We couldn’t watch basketball together. She couldn’t sit with me at church. Just knowing that she had suffered and was gone was incredibly hard to process, let alone accept. I suppose being away at college sheltered me from the severity of her last days. I hadn’t visited her at the hospital nor had I ever asked her if she was okay. Just like when we were children, we both acted like her illness was non-existent. And while the guilt of not being with her before she passed was difficult to accept, I know Sally appreciated that I never treated her any differently, that I never let her condition color our friendship. I knew Sally wanted normalcy, and even up until her very last breath, I tried to give her that.
I had lost a best friend, someone I had known my entire life. I couldn’t send her funny pictures. We couldn’t watch basketball together. She couldn’t sit with me at church. Just knowing that she had suffered and was gone was incredibly hard to process, let alone accept. I suppose being away at college sheltered me from the severity of her last days. I hadn’t visited her at the hospital nor had I ever asked her if she was okay. Just like when we were children, we both acted like her illness was non-existent. And while the guilt of not being with her before she passed was difficult to accept, I know Sally appreciated that I never treated her any differently, that I never let her condition color our friendship. I knew Sally wanted normalcy, and even up until her very last breath, I tried to give her that.
I was an absolute wreck on the day of the funeral. I
couldn’t look at her family, her casket, the flowers, or the funeral attendees
without breaking down. For the first time in my life, I was legitimately
sobbing with indescribable sorrow. And for weeks after, seeing the comments and
eulogies people left on her Facebook wall, seeing the sadness in the faces of
the people she loved caused a fresh and debilitating wave of grief to come over
me. I still have days where even the mention of her name forces me into
solitude.
However, while Sally is no longer physically beside me, she
is forever with me in my heart. Sometimes, when I’m praying at night, I’ll say
to God, “Lord? Can I talk to Sally for a minute?” and I’ll imagine she’s there
next to God, listening and nodding her head. I see and hear Sally everywhere I
go and I am comforted knowing that we’ll see each other again someday. Our
friendship was beautiful and innocent and her memory lingers in everything that
is pure and good. So while Sally’s death seemed unfair, her purpose in life was
fulfilled. She never complained. She never blamed God or anyone else. She never
asked “Why me?” She simply did the best with what she had. I miss her every
single day but Sally’s spirit continues to remind me that nothing is
impossible with God.
"Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything"
-C.S. Lewis