This week is harder than hard
This week has been pretty terrible.
I got my first migraine in almost an entire year on Monday. It wasn't the worst I've had, but I woke up unable to see and before any potential pain set in, I wanted to check messages and make sure everything was fine for a day of likely being completely checked out.
My friend Amy had sent me a message Saturday night and I hadn't checked anything Sunday, so through the scintillating scotoma (migraine aura/hallucination/blind spot), I learned that my dear friend Elise was being placed in hospice care.
I responded to Amy and she immediately shared a glimmer of hope - Elise was actually showing signs of improvement while on the morphine drip.
A few more ups and downs on the most intense emotional roller coaster of a week, and Elise passed on Wednesday afternoon.
I had shut my phone off Wednesday evening fairly early, hoping for some restful sleep that did not come, meaning I woke to the news Thursday morning.
I've been riding the waves of grief and disbelief and deepest sadness for the world's loss of her beautiful existence, for her three children's loss of their courageous mother, for her husband's loss of his steadfast partner, for her other friends' friend; and selfishly, the loss of one of my closest confidants.
Elise was my guide in healing autoimmunity. In the beginning of 2017, I was diagnosed with Lupus and Sjogren's, and planned to be the healthiest person with these diagnoses that I could be. Midway through 2017, Elise was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her diagnosis shook her, but she didn't want it to define her. I didn't want it to define her either. And I had already determined that I didn't want my diagnosis to define me, but this took things a step further.
Rather than just living with a diagnosis and being healthy, I wanted to actually heal. It wasn't just for me. We were healing together.
I believed in me and I believed in her. And she believed in us, too.
When I got my negative ANA test back saying that I had actually reversed my diagnoses, I called Elise and she shared in my joy. I told her I thought it was bullshit that she was the reason I'd been able to do that - she was the person who truly believed that I would and could heal completely and encouraged me along the way - and that she still had cancer.
She didn't agree. She said she understood how I could think that, but she just thought it was great that I didn't have Lupus or Sjogren's and that she knew I would heal.
It wasn't something she said just to be nice or supportive. She truly felt joy in my healing. She was not jealous that she'd paved the way and I plowed through while she still kept paving.
She is the most magical woman I've ever had the opportunity to meet, and I have learned so many lessons from her. I'm still learning them.
I read through our texts for the past 7 months last night. Reading the texts felt incredible and warming and like the biggest and most comforting hug. Looking up from my phone and seeing the world - the world where Elise is no longer physically present - felt like drowning.
Right now I'm swimming. Every once in a while, a strong current pulls me under. But I'm swimming. And I'm here.
I am strong. I do hard things. I am love. I am loved. This hurts. But I will keep living. I will keep living my biggest and best life on this path that Elise paved and joined me on for much too short of a journey.
If you are reading this, I ask you to not sink. The pain of this world and the grief of so many - especially on 9/11 - is immense. But there is joy. There is love. For Elise's sake, don't sink.
And maybe you'll find beauty in this song that I've had on repeat since my friend Rachel sent it to me yesterday: https://open.spotify.com/track/0RliZNSYxNPfwHI6fyD7Ts?si=45nSbENdTxibtJHQ5rMp5A
xox
Lindsay