“She provided the most breathtaking comfort I’ve ever received. She showed up and simply said, ‘I know what it’s like to be the first one at the casket.’ I was speechless. Numb. Humbled and heartbroken. The first one at the casket. It was true. I hadn’t thought of it. It was a humble reminder of the honored spot I was standing in.”
“I had a few drinks. Judge me if you want, but I’m allowed. I’ve been 21 for 26 years now, so I’m legal. Wasn’t driving. Not bothering anybody. But, we got lost on the way back. It may have had something to do with my favorite two-word phrase: Mer-lot. Then my daughter called. ‘Hello?’ I over enunciated my words, trying to stand in place, giggling.”
“Furniture blocked off the hallway to give us privacy as we said goodbye. I watched my husband hold his son for the first and last time; I’d never seen him so broken. We held his hands and kissed his head, telling him we loved him, he didn’t need to fight any longer. When the doctor pronounced him, I asked her to carry him to the hospital morgue. I couldn’t do it myself. She swaddled him in a blanket, and left.”
“My phone glows. ‘Hey, can we talk?’ My friend’s eyes are red, puffy. Suddenly, I feel like crying, too. I think she’s going to tell me she’s pregnant. It’s much worse. ‘I’ve been raped.’ Inside, I’m screaming, ‘Tell her you’re a victim, too!’ But I don’t. I mean, am I REALLY one ? Sure, I said ‘no’ and lay there, emotionless. I didn’t want to. He knew that. But technically, I said ‘fine.’ So, am I victim? The answer is yes.”
“Then came my escape. It was tricky, but I planned it well. My father was dying of brain cancer, and my husband had beaten me for going to my father’s funeral. It was time. I finally had a chance to escape with my child. You are worth fighting for. I need to let others know – there is an escape, a better life.”
“She was born with a head of thick, jet black, fluffy hair! But overnight, her hair came through poker straight, and pure white-blonde. She looked like a newborn, fluffy chick! Her hair looked full of static, wiry, like sheep’s wool. Slowly, it became worse. Hard to control. It got bigger, wilder as she grew, painful to brush. A lady mentioned it, but to be honest, I thought nothing of it. Then I realized it might be a problem.”
“I was making 6 figures, had 3 cars. My ‘friends’ would come for parties in my huge house. But the second I was blackout drunk, not a single soul noticed or cared to ask where I was. In my OWN house. I’d wake in the bathroom, wipe off the vomit, then scroll through photos of me looking perfect, side by side girls with shots in hand, with captions like, ‘best friends forever.’ It literally made me sick.”
“The more severe cases pass away by the age of 1. ‘What? Pass away? Not my child.’ I was devastated I wasn’t going to have the life I imagined. But there is such power in accepting this new life.”
“I’m the strong friend. I meet you for drinks when you’re facing disaster. I bring you dinner, flowers. I’m your sounding board. But you forgot to check on me. You ask me where I’ve been, you say I seem ‘off’ and that you miss my posts. You know what I heard? ‘Why aren’t you playing the role I need you to play?’ But I can’t play that role in life right now. I don’t have it in me.”
“Nick wasn’t ready to let go. His body was a 93-pound shell. Our daughter’s 6th birthday came. I pleaded with him to please try for her. To give her that day. He played games, he sang happy birthday, despite all his suffering. Less than a week later, I came home to find him nearly unconscious on the couch. I told him it was okay to let go. I asked if he was scared. He said, ‘no.’”
