The Funny Side of Grief

     The month of June is usually a happy time of year, it’s the beginning of summer, the end of school, the weather is lovely and warm, the sun is shining, and lots of people are celebrating birthdays (including me). Sadly, seven years ago, the month of June became something else to me-it became bittersweet.  The night before my 45^th birthday I found out that one of my best friends in the world had died in a car accident.  Sweet Susann, funny, quirky, loving, cute, a little bit crazy Susann was forever gone.  To this day we still don’t know exactly what happened, she was alone and her car went off the road. My friends and I like to believe that, being the incredible animal lover she was, Susann probably swerved to avoid hitting a deer, or a raccoon, a bunny or a squirrel, even a mosquito.  All I know is, it was the first time I’d lost someone that close to me in such a brutal and sudden way.  Susann and I had only known each other a few years, but in that short time we forged a bond unlike any other.  I am blessed to have a tribe of wonderful women in my life, all of them amazing friends, like the sisters I never had, and Susann was one of my favorites.  She was such a unique and special lady. She had my back like no one else, she “got” me, and she was able to give me advice without being judgmental. Never once did she criticize me for some of the unconventional choices I made.  She treated me like I was a superstar and complimented me on every little thing. She was the funniest lady I’d ever met, to the point of being pretty darn goofy most of the time, but it’s what made her so loveable.  So, when I heard this unbelievably tragic news, it was like I’d lost a family member.  And, selfishly, I thought, now my birthday is ruined.  Susann was such a great birthday friend. Every year it was something thoughtful and sweet, one year it was a card written all in French, because I was determined to be fluent by the time I turned 50 (At this point I could maybe have a conversation with a 4 year old).  Another year she got me a quaint pair of earrings from an artist in Santa Fe, and I went crazy looking for the missing one a few years later.  It mysteriously re-appeared in my jewelry box shortly after she died, hmm? The best was the year she was out of town and she sang a cute little birthday song on my voice mail. To this day the only line I can remember is, “God bless the day you were born…” I’ve googled it time and time again and cannot for the life of me find the recording anywhere.  Oh Susann, how I long to hear your little scratchy voice singing that song to me every birthday.  Knowing Susann, she is cursing herself in heaven or whatever after life she is a part of.  “What?  I missed Sunnie’s birthday? Godd#*@it!!”  This was Susann.  Everything was a big deal to her. She was truly my biggest fan and I know she would be terribly upset to know that she left this earth at anytime even close to my (or anyone’s) birthday.

      I miss her so much. I thought it would get easier with time, but the thing with grief is, you just have to accept that "it is what it is". Grief happens in stages they say, shock, denial, anger, sadness, and often times, if you’re fortunate enough, the one you loved was the funniest person alive and so the final stage is unexplained laughter.  At first I was in shock, and for a couple of years I kept thinking I’d run into her whenever I visited Boulder.  I was sure we would get together again and go for one of our long, aimless hikes, inevitably talking so much that we’d miss a trail sign and get lost.  Or we would go to a beginner yoga class at the YMCA because we both felt way too uncoordinated to participate at a real yoga studio.  Maybe we’d go to a  fancy dinner with her nicest-husband-in-the-world Tom at L’Atelier or Brasserie Ten Ten.  For sure we would go salsa dancing at the St Julien, one of our favorite outings.  When I signed up for salsa classes about 10 years ago she and Tom would meet me at class faithfully every Tuesday night, and then we’d all go out dancing Fridays at the Julien. Never mind we were ungraceful middle aged dancers.  Or maybe we would just meet for afternoon tea at the Dushanbe or the Boulderado, and then stroll through the Farmer’s Market.  The thing I loved best about Susann was her sense of adventure and all the great new things she brought into my life. She was always on a spiritual quest, sending me self help quotes for my vision board, suggesting healing books to read, and one Christmas Eve we drove through a snowstorm miles out of town to attend a Unity Church Service.  She and another great friend of mine turned me onto NIA, an exercise class that combines dancing with yoga and martial arts, and almost every Saturday morning we would meet at the Boulder Rec Center for class.  Then we decided to give Zumba a try, and bless her heart, she accompanied me to a weekend teacher training seminar, both of us knowing damn well she would never teach, and I would teach for awhile and then give up.  Remember how I said she thought I was a superstar?  Well you should’ve seen the letter of recommendation she sent the YMCA on my behalf when I applied to teach Zumba. You’d have thought I was applying to Harvard.  She circled “Outstanding” in all the categories, even scribbling in the margins little notes about what an awesome human being she thought I was. Whenever I’m feeling bad about myself I just pull that out of it’s secret hiding place and give it a read.  She was always so complimentary of everything I did, especially my music.  Whenever I played her a new song, she’d ask in astonishment, “You wrote that?? Oh My God, you should be famous!!” For years she was still in my Iphone favorites, fourth on the list of my best girlfriends, and fourth alphabetically, not fourth in likeability.  I remember a day when I was drowning in one of my self absorbed, hormonal, irrational meltdowns, and I thought, who can I call, who will not judge me, who will not give me advice, who will make me laugh? And so I scrolled down my phone list. There she was, in between the bossy friend and the too-wrapped-up-in-her-own-problems friend.  Then the anger and sadness hit me, and just for a moment grief capsized me.  This beautiful friend is tragically gone and I can’t call her and she’s the only one I want to call.  Then I thought, what if I do call her?  Will the phone just ring and ring and ring? Will one of those robotic voices come on saying the number I called has been disconnected?  Or maybe she will answer me from heaven.  “Sunnie!” she’ll exclaim in her exuberant little voice, “Oh my God have you gone to an Alanon meeting yet?” (Always the first thing she asked me, as she believed I surrounded myself with functional alcoholics, and no, I haven’t gone to a meeting).  Then she will ask me about my singing, have I learned the song from Bagdad Cafe, have I written any new songs? She’ll tell me how proud she is that I moved to California to pursue my singing, even if I did turn around and come back home a few years later to a Colorado with no Susann.   I hate that she never got to hear the CD I was working on, sadly released a year after she died.  She would’ve bought at least 10 copies.  If only she could have been my agent.  If only she could meet my boyfriend and know that I finally have someone who loves me the way I always wanted.  If only I could spend one more Christmas dinner with her, laughing out loud when she burns the brussel sprouts because she will forget about them when she asks me to sing.  If only I could spend a night at her house again so she could make me a poached egg in the morning and then gasp in disbelief when I ask for a piece of toast. “You eat carbs?? But you’re so tiny!!”  If only I could’ve had her shoulder to cry on when I got divorced and dependent on sleep aids and basically fell apart. If only….

     Eventually I did take her out of my phone contacts, because reality set in and it just hurt to see her name.  I also had to stop following her beautiful daughter on Facebook because she reminded me too much of Susann. (Although, once in awhile, I will still pull up her page just to catch a glimpse of Susann in her smile and sparkly eyes).  My favorite memory of Susann is one from years and years ago, when we first met.  She and some other ladies took me out for happy hour at Centro in Boulder for my “bachelorette party”.  When the bill came all the ladies squabbled over who owed what. “Let’s see, I had one mojito and a handful of chips.” “I didn’t drink and only had one taco”.  After a few minutes of this Susann slapped down her credit card and said, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Sunnie’s getting married, I’ll just f-ing pay for it!"  Right then and there a true friendship was sealed.  This was a woman who would always have my back.  I never, ever imagined that one day she would be gone, and that even though I have other friends who have my back, they’re not Susann. I often wonder about what it will be like when we reunite in the afterlife.  Will we collapse into each other’s arms and laugh hysterically about all the silly things we used to do together? Will we attempt some new yoga poses that won’t have both of us giggling, thankful no instructor is there to scold us? Will we put on “Super Duper” by Joss Stone and bust out some NIA moves?  Will she let me have more than one glass of Chardonnay because I won’t have to worry anymore about getting a migraine? Surely we will eat lots and lots of carbs.  Will I finally be able to play her all the songs from the CD I dedicated to her? Mostly though, I hope I will find a Susann who is at peace, not tortured by the chronic insomnia she suffered from. “How much sleep did you get last night Suz?”…  “Oh, about 45 minutes” (and yet she would still be running off to the gym).   I hate that she is gone and that I didn’t get to say goodbye and that I hadn’t spoken to her for several months before she died, too wrapped up in my failing marriage and headaches to think about a friend who might be in need.  Maybe if I would’ve reached out, I could’ve somehow changed the course of things. Maybe she would’ve been visiting me in California instead of driving on a mountain road in Montana. Nothing and no one can change what happened, and now I am just grateful to have had her in my life.  I am so glad I have all these sweet memories and funny stories.  I wish everyone I know could’ve met her and known her like I did.  She just had that certain “Je ne sais quoi”.

Oh sweet Suzy,  je t’aime mon amie, and I look forward to laughing and dancing and singing with you in heaven.