Missing you

Today is always a weird day to recognize. On the one hand, it seems unnatural to many people to commemorate February 27^th in any way. On the flip-side, though, I have so many feelings attached to the date that it would be impossible for me to ignore it. When Lindsay first passed away, I spent hours a day thinking about the time that she was battling cancer – the last time I saw her, the last time we spoke, the last emails and text messages we exchanged. Even though my apartment is sprinkled with pictures of Lindsay and I both before and after she was diagnosed, in my mental picture, Lindsay sported her super stylish brunette wig.

I remember countless conversations with my mom, explaining to her how hard it was for me to think about Lindsay. It’s not that I didn’t want to think about her (duh); it was just that all of my thoughts about Lindsay, even the happy memories, were connected to such an intense feeling of loss. I remember how hard it was to imagine a future where I’d be able to think about Lindsay without being so sad, hurt, mad, and spiteful.

Over the past 3 years, my mom has assured me that the sharp pain would fade, and would eventually be replaced by happy memories … and it has. Don’t get me wrong; there are still plenty of sharp pains, hours of heartache, and fantasies about more time with Lindsay. Jen has artfully settled on a way of asking me if I’m just “regular” upset or if I’m “having a moment.” But, finally, when I picture Lindsay, I picture her with her thick dirty blonde hair, and I smile.

For nearly a month, I’ve been ruminating over how I would write about my feelings this year. I feared coming off as insensitive, or like I had somehow “moved on” from Lindsay’s battle with cancer. This is not at all, in any way, shape, or form, the case. I still think about Lindsay every single day. I still want to call her and tell her about my achievements and my new fashion obsessions (mostly the latter), complain to her about disappointments, and ask for advice.

Rather, as time has passed, I’ve been able to emerge from the fog of my grief, and be able to remember and celebrate Lindsay in the way that she would want me to. I still speak about Lindsay all the time, but now I’m able to with a glow on my face, the way that a best friend should be spoken about.

Lindsay, you would be so, so proud and amazed by what your friends and family have accomplished in your memory. You continue to inspire each of us every single day, and remind us of what’s actually important. We are all better friends, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, and now even husbands and wives, for having been touched by you.

I love you infinitely, and I will never, ever stop trying to live up to you. 

Wearing heels today of course.