For me, mourning a death is one of the most selfish acts I'll ever commit.
On Saturday, the Captain and I attended a funeral for one of his college friends. Her name was Nichole. I won't sully her memory by giving her some silly nickname to protect her identity. I want you to know her name, and I want you to know our short story.
When I first met Nichole, the Captain and I had been dating for about a month. There were plenty of incredibly bright, friendly, and welcoming faces in the kitchen, but I was immediately drawn to Nichole. I sat down next to her with a drink in my hand and wracked my brain for things to say to her, desperate, for whatever reason, for this woman to take a similar interest in me. Through the course of the conversation, guided mostly by the other women at the table, I eventually came to learn she'd traveled abroad to England, and that she was returning there for her overdue honeymoon. This gave us plenty to discuss, and if there was ever a lull in the conversation at the table, I could turn to her and we'd get to chit-chatting again. I pegged her as a quick-witted, hilarious, and kind person.
Over the course of the next six months, the Captain and I would talk about her on occasion. I'd ask how she was doing, and in my naive little mind I just always imagined that she was getting better. I imagined that once she beat this bitch of a disease, I would be able to start scheduling girls nights and all the girls I had met through the Captain could drink wine and watch crappy TV, and gossip and laugh and connect.
Sometimes I'm a real putz.
When Nichole was admitted to the hospital, I was shocked. The Captain had just told me that her white blood cell count was up, what was it, two or three weeks ago? I met him after work and I immediately changed his plans so we could visit her. I bought her a card, and I waffled for hours over what to say. I wanted to tell her it wasn't fair, that I shouldn't have been waiting for her to get better to start our friendship. I should have just called her up, texted her, sent her a Facebook message. Anything. But I couldn't say these things to her. It felt self-centered and heartless to be having a pity party in the face of a young woman who had lost the battle with cancer.
My regret over my actions (or lack thereof) came surging back during her husband's eulogy. He told their beautiful and tragic story, and I found myself laughing between fits of tears. I wanted so badly to know the woman Nichole had been; the loving wife, the perfect sister, the loyal friend, the treasured daughter, the determined fighter. Listening to his story, and the stories of her friends that braved the podium, I learned that she was beautiful, inside and out, and the epitome of everything I strive to be for myself and for the people around me.
I can count on one hand the amount of times I saw Nicole since I met her, and somehow, she managed to take a piece of my heart with her when she left. At her funeral, I felt ridiculous crying alongside the people who had known her for years, built memories with her, loved her, and would ache over her loss for the rest of their lives. I felt like I didn't have the right to be so utterly heartbroken. But I was. And I am. Outside of my own selfish reasons, my heart is in pieces for her family and her friends, all the men and women who I now call my friends.
Somehow, after the service, we managed to be in good spirits. We ate lunch. We gathered at a family member's house down the street from the funeral home. We told stories. We found ways to laugh together. We felt peace, knowing that what her husband said was true, that we are better, our lives are better, because Nichole chose to share hers with us.
