Boozy Brunches and Scarred Souls

How long does it take for one heart to recognize itself in another?

When people think of soulmates, romance typically comes to mind. The word stirs up thoughts of roses, images of candles twinkling across a table, and moonlit confessions of love. Well, I’ve taken your hand a million times, spilled my sins and secrets at your feet, and we’ve chugged champagne as if hangovers don’t exist.

We’re as mismatched as two best friends can be. From your ability to shred down the mountain on a snowboard, or surf waves on Big Lake, you’re every bit as badass as you think. And we both know how badass you think you are.

And while you rock and roll? I'll just wait in the cozy lodge, hiding from the snow. Or throw my towel on the front of the boat to catch some sun.

How on earth are we best friends?

It only took one night. And like most good stories, it started with wine. And maybe a little whiskey too? Then it ended with two twenty-something-year-olds (okay - one of us may have been a thirty-something) spilling every secret we’ve ever had. Because why not confess our deepest and darkest on the front porch, while the house party raged on behind us?

That was all it took, and suddenly I’d found this huge piece of my soul that I never knew I’d lost.

You give me confidence and laughter when it feels hard to find. And somehow I manage to boss you around, even though you have your dad’s stubborn side. We’ve watched each other's world break apart. We’ve said goodbye to marriages that weren’t right, and cried over the things we couldn’t change.

We laughed off your counselor's suggestion that we might be too codependent on one another. And then we rolled our eyes when the same thing was said by mine. Because...hey, if we’re going to be dependent, let’s at least do it together. Right?

You watched my dating escapades, and I teased you for being an impossible flirt. We fell in love again and started to build new lives. And we continued to share every secret that we’ve never really kept from one another.

We’ve wondered how people even handle being around. Yes, we’re really this annoying.

And we’ve wondered if our men know how often we call one another, hiding in the garage and giggling as we talk about the amazing sex we just had. And stupidly, I thought we’d already worked each other through the roughest patches of our lives.

How childish, right? To think we’d already been through the worst.

Now I’m witnessing a pain I don’t understand. A pain I’d do anything to keep you from.

Let’s both be honest, I was only half excited when you first told me about the baby. But only because sharing you isn’t something I was emotionally ready for. Did you count all the times I’d asked, “Are we really ready to be moms?” It was probably as often as you complained about not getting Sunday brunch champagne.

I fell in love with your baby. Our baby. I fell in love with watching Luke give you all the happiness and attention you deserve (and demand). I fell in love with the bubbly and bright glow filling your face.

And I felt my heartbreak when we were forced to say goodbye.

Human tragedy is something I still don’t understand. How can it be possible that our grief is so intense, so severe, over a beautiful little angel who we hardly ever had?

I’ve learned that devastation and amazement are not mutually exclusive of one another. I’ve learned that by loving you so much, loving your baby was second nature. I’ve learned how it feels to watch unspeakable pain steal the light from an annoyingly happy woman’s face.

And I’ve learned over the last twenty-four days what you, my beautiful best friend, are truly capable of.

We’ve made jokes for half a decade about how improbable it is that we’re friends. We’ve never understood why that connection pulled each of us in the way it did. But now I see what our souls recognized years ago: we need one another to handle the most painful parts of life.

I’ve watched you suffer, grow stronger, and now begin to heal from something no mother should ever endure. Knowing I couldn’t take away your pain was like seeing you drown and having no way to save your life. Like I was Rose floating on a water-logged door, and watching you disappear in front of my eyes.

But you’re stronger than I understood. And you’ve made me stronger. Through your pain, you’ve shown all of us more grace than I ever thought one single person could.

Over the last twenty-four days (almost twenty-five days, now) I’ve met parts of your soul I didn’t know exist, and I’ve felt parts of mine that I’d never before felt.

I don’t know what else life will put us through. But I know that whatever it is, we’ll forever be in each other's corners. We’ll power through any pain up ahead, and celebrate our victories.

And more than anything, I want you to know that I am so fucking proud of you. My beautiful best friend, a remarkable partner to your man, and an extraordinary mom to the baby we lost too soon.

John Michael Metherell, you’re so loved by those you had to leave behind. And you’re so missed by us who remain earthside. Forever know that some of the happiest smiles I’ve ever seen were the ones that your mommy wore during the nine months that she grew, loved, and cared for you.

Goodbye, to the littlest angel who made my badass, stubborn, and one-of-a-kind best friend a mommy.

And hello to a new part of my best friend's soul. Hello to the woman who has walked through hell, and became even more striking through tragedy. This is never what you deserved. I know, no one deserves this. But god, you really didn't deserve this.

But I sit in awe of you. I watch, humbled by the depths of your heart as you choose each day to navigate a new version of your life.