Friday, April 15, 2011
I had a rather liberating epiphany at Bingo tonight. For the past two weeks, since Mike’s death, I’ve been kind of subconsciously wondering who my next “special friend” at the Soldiers Home might be. But tonight, surrounded by dozens of wonderful people I adore on varying levels, it hit me with complete clarity: No one will replace Mike. And that’s going to work out just fine.
Mike’s death has left a huge void in my life—honestly, I was not prepared to miss him this much—but it’s unfair of me to expect anyone else to fill that void, and unnatural to try to force it. So tonight I decided to live with my loss, accept my assorted friendships for what they are—and grieve a once-in-a-blue-moon connection.
Mike’s memorial service is Saturday. His son asked me whether I would assemble a scrapbook of photos and selected blog posts for guests to flip through. At first I couldn’t imagine how I’d fit that in. But now I realize there was no better use of my time.
I reread every blog post I’ve ever written, looking for The Quintessential Mike. And there he was, in every line, every story, every crisis or triumph or laugh-out-loud Mike moment. He was my constant support, my confidante, my co-conspirator—and while our entire relationship played out in the confines of the Soldiers Home (or the hospital), I will take it with me wherever I go for the rest of my life.
More than anything, my friendship with Mike was fun. I worried about him a lot. I was annoyed with him occasionally. But he made me laugh, and he laughed right along with me. I’m sorry I didn’t share my gratitude with him often enough, or sincerely enough. And I regret that the last time I saw him, I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d see him. But in the end, I think we were good for each other—in an irreplaceable kind of way.
I had a rather liberating epiphany at Bingo tonight. For the past two weeks, since Mike’s death, I’ve been kind of subconsciously wondering who my next “special friend” at the Soldiers Home might be. But tonight, surrounded by dozens of wonderful people I adore on varying levels, it hit me with complete clarity: No one will replace Mike. And that’s going to work out just fine.
Mike’s death has left a huge void in my life—honestly, I was not prepared to miss him this much—but it’s unfair of me to expect anyone else to fill that void, and unnatural to try to force it. So tonight I decided to live with my loss, accept my assorted friendships for what they are—and grieve a once-in-a-blue-moon connection.
Mike’s memorial service is Saturday. His son asked me whether I would assemble a scrapbook of photos and selected blog posts for guests to flip through. At first I couldn’t imagine how I’d fit that in. But now I realize there was no better use of my time.
I reread every blog post I’ve ever written, looking for The Quintessential Mike. And there he was, in every line, every story, every crisis or triumph or laugh-out-loud Mike moment. He was my constant support, my confidante, my co-conspirator—and while our entire relationship played out in the confines of the Soldiers Home (or the hospital), I will take it with me wherever I go for the rest of my life.
More than anything, my friendship with Mike was fun. I worried about him a lot. I was annoyed with him occasionally. But he made me laugh, and he laughed right along with me. I’m sorry I didn’t share my gratitude with him often enough, or sincerely enough. And I regret that the last time I saw him, I didn’t realize it was the last time I’d see him. But in the end, I think we were good for each other—in an irreplaceable kind of way.
RSS Feed