My Friend

I didn’t think I’d be writing about grief so soon after my Grieving for the Grieving post, but here the frick I am. This one is all mine though. It’s my own grief – the hit by the SEPTA bus kind.

The phone call from my sister came at 5:17 pm on Saturday March 7th – Uncle Mario collapsed. The boys (his two sons, my cousins) are giving him CPR until the ambulance gets there.

Waiting. WTF.

5:42 pm call from mom: Brief update – On the way to the hospital. He’s non-responsive. Two shots of adrenaline, but his heart won’t beat on its own.

5:44 pm call to my sister: Relayed brief update from mom.

6:13 pm call to mom: She’s speechless, sobbing. He’s gone.

I immediately lose my shit. I can’t stop crying. I can NOT believe this is happening. He’s only 57. His birthday is in three days. We were JUST at his house celebrating Christmas Eve. No, this is not happening. This did not happen.

Except it did.

The usual family drama ensued for a short while because why the hell not. I get it. People need to feel in control when something like this happens. I suppose it’s because the pain is too crushing and distractions of idiocy muffle the blow just enough to keep from shattering to pieces.

The next day I stayed in bed. It was either that or stare at the wall all day, which I did at times anyway, but at least I could snuggle up with my blankets and nest of pillows. It was easier to doze off after a crying jag, and I really didn’t feel like participating in the outside world knowing that Mario was no longer in it. Besides, I had to get my shit together for work. People were counting on me to be present.

On Monday I went into the office, even though Anna had thoughtfully offered to cancel my appointments for me. I needed the distraction too, and drama isn’t really my style, so helping my clients manage their pain helped me manage mine. It wasn’t gone. Just contained a little.

The funeral came and went, and the check-ins and sympathy calls slowly stopped coming, which is normal, of course. The tears gradually subside, but the staggering weight of sorrow is still slow to lift. It lingers in the quiet moments, the ordinary actions in a day, like stopping for coffee or pumping gas which now feel surreal – almost offensive, like betrayal because it feels like moving on when I’m still not ready.

Mario was directly responsible for my taste in music since childhood. For my 18th birthday, he got me a Jimi Hendrix cassette and a book of his song lyrics with various pictures from his career. For some weird reason, one of the pages of the book was covered in duct tape, and naturally I was curious as to why?

I carefully peeled the tape back, and underneath was a picture of the original cover from Electric Ladyland, which, if you didn’t know, was a group of about 20 women just chilling out fully in the nude. I had to laugh as I thought, “Jesus, ya prude. I’m an adult woman. I have boobs too.” That’s Mario for ya.

So as I drove home from work a few days after his death, I put on the playlist cultivated by our shared bond over Jimi. The memories that I took for granted began to emerge, quiet, deep and comforting, while at the same time reminding me that there will be no more to make – only the retelling of ones created over the past 50 years of love and connection.

I often share with my clients that I believe grief is the most sacred emotion. I don’t mean that in some grand abstract way. Happiness, or anger, or excitement are flashes in time, but grief is all of those feelings woven through the little and big moments shared over the course of a lifetime. It’s the loss of accumulated love.

A moment of joy passes, but grief is forever. We eventually get through it, but we never get over it.

Mario was only six years older than I am, so we didn’t have a typical uncle and niece relationship. He was also my friend. I lost both on the day he died.

The music is still there. The memories are still there. All of it is still there.

He just isn’t.

And I really fucking miss him.

I’m finding out that it’s…not so easy
Especially when your only friend
Talks, looks, sees and feels like you
And you do the same just like him

– My Friend by Jimi Hendrix