My Best Friend Died

Ten days ago, my best friend died. I hadn’t said it that way before now. I have used the phrase passed away, like that sounds more beautiful or like it was somehow a choice. But the reality is unfortunately very final and cold. She’s dead. She will no longer be able to take my calls, answer my emails, or text me back. There will not be any random Marco Polo video notification at 3am about some thought that she had and had to share with me. We will never be able to record another podcast about whatever the hell we wanted to talk about just because we could. No more breakfasts that blend into lunch. No vacations to just hang out in the room to eat pizza for no reason. No more making friends with random strangers who stop to ask us why we are so happy all the time. It’s going to be weird.

Even up until the end, she would attempt to chat, sharing stories late into the night. She would smile and let me tell her all the things I needed to. She had moments of snark, wit, and sharpness. Calling me a liar when I referred to hospice coming in for cleaning and bath day as a Spa Day. At one point, she told me to “fly the fuck home” when she was frustrated, then turned and said she loved me. She knew she could be as mad as she wanted with me, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I made a promise to remain in love and care for her no matter what.

That was the deal made all those years ago. I would be there for her, the way she was always there for me. Wholly and unequivocally. I was honored to hold up my side of the deal, but my heart breaks daily without her. My ride or die, my ultimate confidant, my bestie in the entire world.

Ten days ago my best friend died. I just don’t know what to do with myself.