Those will forever be two of the most significant words I have ever heard. Anyone following me since February knows that I lost a young, dear friend on February 6th. Those were some of her last words to me. I had called her, pretty frazzled about something, hoping she could help, and that’s how she answered the phone. I took a moment to thank her for greeting me that way. I needed the kindness in her voice and words.
At her funeral, I spoke about what she said to me and the significance it will always have. It made perfect sense. She was a friend to everyone she met. The loss of her still hurts. In fact, it is still a quite unbelievable.
The decor pictured above hangs in my bedroom. I see it and think of her several times a day. I made it a few weeks after she died, when I could finally do it without crying.
Stay tuned for part two.
Harisa died two days before my daughter’s 2nd birthday. I had about 80 people coming over for a party. My in-laws, parents, sister, and other relatives were all either in town or on their way. I was a zombie. I couldn’t think straight to save my life. I had so much to do and absolutely no interest in doing it. Party details fell by the wayside, but I didn’t care. It was definitely one of those times that reminds you of what is truly important.
I almost took my mother in law’s head off at one point. She was being her usual pushy, jabbering self, and went way too far. I wanted to say, “Do you know that my friend died yesterday?” I chose to leave the room instead and go collect myself. Someone else did the explaining for me.
I got through it. The party was great fun. Harisa would have loved it. And I know she was there, jumping in the bounce house, right along with us.
Part three later.
Part three should have been part two, chronologically. I just decided to change the subject matter and it takes me back a few days.
Harisa (45 yrs old) had a massive stroke on a Sunday. I was informed on Monday. I expected her to recover on Tuesday. Then I went to see her in ICU on Wednesday and was told she had no brain activity.
Her husband, whom I had met maybe once, said to me…
“You must understand that Harisa has already left us. We just need to let her go.”
Thank you, Nedo. I understood.