Over spring break, I took a road trip to Arizona to visit two of my closest friends. While I was there, I went on a hike to watch the sunrise over Phoenix. If you know me at all, you know that I am NOT a morning person. Normally, you couldn't catch me anywhere but my bed before 9am. But, there was a desire to experience something new brewing in my chest, and the peace associated with early mornings and driving alone captured my curiosity. One of my regulars at my work had also recommended this hike, specifically at sunrise to me, so I felt obligated to experience it. He knew how magical it was and wanted me to know too. So, at 4:15am, I crawled out of bed and drove in the pitch black darkness towards Camelback Mountain.
A year ago today, the world lost one of it's brightest, most glistening lights.
Kim was a friend of my father's, and walked into my life when I was 10 years old. She showed me tender, motherly care. She brought me (and sometimes bought tickets to) my first concerts, took me skydiving, taught me music etiquette, feminine power, and how to embrace my sexuality. She was a lover and leader who led by example, and showed me how to communicate to my family, how to be more understanding, independent, and guided me in finding myself, finding love, and beginning healing from heartbreak. She graced the lives of those she encountered with gold and purity. Honesty. Blunt truths and open minded discussions. And not to mention all of the wonderful advice, sometimes followed with tears, that I still hear in my mind today. She was a mother figure and best friend all in one. Although it might be cliche, I truly believe she is an angel now, if she weren't already before.
The grieving process is very unique to each individual. My initial reaction towards the news was shock, which developed into guilt, and eventually acceptance (despite the fact that it is impossible not to cry on the way to visit her (our?) family). I felt guilty because I did not come to see her the last time that she called me. I didn't even send her a text. My excuse was because I was at work, which I was, but honestly I did not want to see her because I didn't want to see how much the cancer treatments had affected her that week. I didn't want to see her fighting, I didn't want to hear her hope. I didn't want to "deal with it." I wanted to walk in and snuggle up with some warm coffee, without the cancer wiggling it's way in the middle. I thought that I needed a break, some time to process and prepare, when in reality I did not want to see her hurting. I was selfish and to this day I feel rotten with guilt. I was not a good friend to her, and essentially refused to show her the exact kind of love that she had shown to me.
Everyone makes mistakes. It is impossible to live without regrets. The most I can do is imagine the positives. Since I didn't see her, she had more quality time with her sons, her husband, her mother. She was able to rest and do the little things that she enjoyed doing throughout the day (such as drinking her coffee, lighting candles, talking to her sons, and listening to the radio all day). I was able to learn a valuable lesson, and mold or adjust my thoughts on death towards a more blissful experience (death is not blissful but where she is now is much more beautiful for her, and she's no longer in pain, which is blissful).
I've always attempted to live more like her, but now I feel very pressured to do so. I feel like I don't have much room to fail, because I'm carrying her perfect legacy on my back (and I'm not even her blood daughter!). I want to be as attentive as she could be, and love my siblings and possible future children the way she loved me, my siblings, and her children. In my own femininity and independence, I want to be an example of the love and leadership that she was, for myself and everyone else I encounter. I want to be as spontaneous and carefree as she was. I wish to forgive myself as graciously as she forgave herself and those who wronged her. I wish every woman possessed the humbleness and self esteem that she had (because we all need it!). Maybe I can be like that, and show others how to as well.
A year later, I feel as though she would be proud. She would be proud of her boys. She would be proud of my brother. She would be overflowing with joy to see where all the little ones she loved have ended up. I feel like she would be proud of my progress, and support my new goals (with some loving tweaks here and there). She would tell me not to torture myself with scenarios of everything different I could have done when she called me. And in every way that she can show it, she lets me know when she's here with me, us. Her symbols and signs are blatant, and full of the love and direction she gave while she was physically here.
(Numerology and synchronicity definitely have truth behind them, no one can tell me that she isn't the meaning behind "444").
So, a year later, I write this post publicly because this day, and the event to hold its significance, mean something to me. I think secretly I want to feel important and that my grief is important. But, I also want my friends who have been affected by her to remember her. I want those who weren't able to, to understand how much significance she had in the lives she engaged in. I want to announce her, and make her presence known. I want to try to give her the love and respect that she sometimes wasn't given in the ways that I know how (cheesy social media posts and through writing). And I hope that my rambling and selfish admissions are not the takeaway here. Let's remember our mother, our friend, our mentor. Let's remember our passed loved ones with gratefulness and admiration. Let us try to live more like Kim, and rise.
The following is a letter I wrote to her the day of her funeral.
May 24, 2018