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Grief.

Grief. I thought I knew what that word meant, but I didn't. Not until my best friend was diagnosed with brain cancer and died eight months later. Stephanie has been my best friend my entire life. My mom started babysitting her when she was six weeks old and me six months! Side note: Stephanie's mom found my mom in a newspaper listing. That’s how our friendship started, a newspaper listing. 😊 At the age of ten, Stephanie's dad got a job in Georgia and I'll never forget hugging my friend goodbye in the movie theater parking lot days before she moved. But, we remained friends. I remember writing her letters on my colorful fish stationary and getting so excited when I would receive a letter or a card back. Our friendship would survive nearly a dozen more moves and even more life changes. We were friends during her slight punk-rock phase and she was there to listen to every awkward dating experience I had. (P.S. I'm a pretty awkward person. Stephanie said she loved how awkward I am and she hoped the man I would marry would love my awkwardness {she meant that as a compliment…she swore 😉} I think that's why we shared a special bond. We've been alongside each other, even at a distance, forever.

I think that is why the grief is so deep.

Grief started when our world completely changed in February 2017. Stephanie got the diagnosis; brain cancer, and not just any kind, the most aggressive. So, the Grief continued when our friend-dynamic changed because Stephanie was putting up the strongest fight. Grief continued as we watched her never give up hope. It continued when we got the news it had spread to her spine and on September 24, 2017 at roughly 3:30 p.m. I watched my best friend leave this world, her husband, daughter, family, and me behind. At that moment, grief changed into something I had never experienced. It's deep, it's raw, it's dark, and it's painful. It's not just an emotional experience, it makes your insides hurt. The pain is real and it feels like no matter how much I cry its replaced twice-fold. 28 years as Stephanie's best friend wasn't enough. Memories wash over me like a warm blanket with needles constantly. Memories I know she won't be a part of tug at my heart. Her teary voice sharing that she can't imagine leaving Michael and Sarah alone is something I cannot stop replaying.

Somehow, I'm supposed to go on. Somehow, I am supposed to go about my day even though inside, I'm screaming. This doesn't feel right and I don't feel okay. I don't know a world without her and I'm devastated that I have to figure out how. I know that she's free from pain now. I know she's with our Savior and I know I'm supposed to take comfort in that. People say it "gets better", but I don't know if I want it to "get better". Maybe "get better" means that I can hear her name, see a photo, or think of a memory and it won't feel like I'm being stabbed. Maybe it means that one day, I won't randomly fall apart periodically throughout the day. I don't know.


I'm actually a pretty terrible writer, but I feel compelled to share my journey…so bear with me. I think some people are so scared to talk about grief that I want to help break that. I also think I bring a different perspective. Many times when sharing my grief people have stated, "yeah, but can you imagine how her husband (mother, father, etc.) feels?" No, I can't, and that's part of my grief too. Her family is my family and I'm grieving with and for them. Just because you're someone's friend, doesn't mean your grief is outranked. It's different, yes, but it's 100% valid. I wish I could share feelings of hope. But right now, I don't feel hope. However, I do believe in Jesus, and I do believe that he's sitting in the rain with me. And if you're sitting in the rain, I want to sit with you too.







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