When I was in the second grade (for all you Canucks, Grade 2), I had a friend named Amy. We sat together, talked all the time (only when we were supposed to, of course), and I still remember what she smelled like. She was my best friend.
One day, I walked into class, and she had her head down on the desk, laid into her folded arms. She was moaning about something. I asked her what was wrong and she informed me she had a headache. A bad one. Asking her if there was anything I could do, she told me to go get a wad of paper towels, soak it in cold water, and bring it to her. I obliged.
Thus started the new dance of our lives together for the next few months. In those few months, she was diagnosed with a fast moving brain tumor. She had surgery, leaving half her head shaved and a massive scar. The shaved head didn’t matter so much because she lost her hair – just before she died.
I remember her death and life, vividly, but not my response to it. I probably looked at it through the lens of religion, worrying about her eternal destiny, being her family belonged to the Mormon Church. Mormons were bad. Hell-bound. I lost my opportunity to grieve for my friend.
But, at the moment, grief doesn’t really hit me. Right now, it’s worry.
My 9-year-old daughter, Felicity, woke up this morning with a headache.
“Daddy? I keep looking at things and they disappear. I can’t see.”
It quickly devolved into a very bad headache where she needed to skip school, lay down in bed, and keep the room completely dark. I have a doctor’s appointment at 12:45 PM today, and am hoping it’s just a headache.
I want to tackle my memories of grief, focused on Amy, and not discover them anew with something more recent, and even closer to tearing my real heart out.