When one PrimeCrush writer sees a stranger who resembles a friend who’s passed away, it reminds her of “the hole” dear friends leave behind
The kids and I were grabbing burgers Thursday night and there was a mom there with her kids: She had a look about her. The way she ate her food, her freckles, her profile, the way she used her napkin and how her eyes crinkled when she smiled. I couldn't stop staring.
The kids noticed it, too--the resemblance--and I started to cry. My sweet boy hugged me and told me “it’s okay.”
I wanted to go up to the woman and tell her that she looked just like my best friend, the one cancer took away from me. But I didn't. I just smiled at her.
I find myself wondering if she and I would be friends, if we would banter for hours, and sometimes drink too much wine, if she could hold all my troubles, watch me make bad choices sometimes, and love me anyway.
Andrea and I used to imagine our side-by-side retirement beach bungalows and laugh at the idea that we would wear clothes that looked "redic" on 70-year-old women. (She shortened words into Andrea-isms A.T.T.—that’s how Dre would say have said “all the time.”)
A few weeks ago my guy needed to go into the Boston medical complex for a small thing and the night before I couldn't sleep. It felt like there was an elephant on my chest. Was I being a crazy girlfriend--worried over the most routine of procedures?
This explanation made no sense to me. I'm a Jewish mother at heart, but I don't tend to over-worry these things.
As soon as we arrived, I understood. My soul already knew where we were going. Because we were standing at the doors of the wing where we needed to go once to get her port flushed.
And down the hall... that's where I held her hand while they drained fluid from her lungs, doing everything I could do to not faint at that huge freaking needle.
The doors to Dana Farber that I knew so well were right across the street. I looked up and there were the windows I spent so many hours gazing out of, while the poison that certainly prolonged her beautiful life... drip, drip, dripped.
Andrea would be so proud of the new life that I've created since she left. She was so adamant that I go find a new life…that I fly high and free…as I clearly heard her demand when they carried her casket past the pew where I sat with the husband she knew I was so desperate to leave.
She would be awed that somehow my new home is always neat and clean--because my messiness used to drive her crazy. She’d remind me of the time, right after we met, that I peeled off my socks, left them strewn in her foyer, and put my naked feet on her coffee table, much to her distaste.
We would be relishing a regular practice of throwing marshmallows at the television when politicians said dumb things, and we would probably be doing more about it than I am at the moment.
Andrea had a way of inspiring people to take action and do something. My mama says that his hole I have, where Andrea was...probably it won't get filled, at least not in the same way. That there will be other friendships. But probably not one like ours. “You two grew each other up,” she says.
This feels true. And also probably explains why I daydream about a friendship with a woman I saw in a restaurant.
I miss having my back had the way she had it. And I miss holding her hand during football games, cringing when she screamed and cursed at the Patriots. She loved football—me, not so much--but her delight delighted me.
I miss the pace of our conversations. We were like birds who could happily chirp away at each other for hours...and their depth. 'Cause you get to talk about some pretty epic shit with your best friend when she’s dying.
When Andrea died, I had to choose to live. For both of us. To go for all that life has to offer with all I have to offer.
To savor all of the beautiful things, and let their juices drip down my chin. “Well, not the Pino, that would be rude,” says the voice that lives on in my heart.
If you love me as much as I love you (and I really do love you!), then please help me grow by forwarding this {love} Letter to a friend! And I'd love to have you join us on instagram, facebook & twitter.
The Crush Letter
The Crush Letter is a weekly newsletter curated by Dish Stanley on everything love & connection - friendship, romance, self-love, sex. If you’d like to take a look at some of our best stories go to Read Us. Want the Dish?
