Big as the Sky

My friend and mom-like confidant, Kathie, was the biggest advocate of my writing and this blog. So much so that she printed out all my blogs and created a scrapbook of them for me (and for my son, someday).

Life is messy and hard and imperfect. I’m imperfect. Kathie was imperfect. We messed up with each other at various times. We got angry or annoyed or frustrated with the other. We even fell out of touch for a period of time over a misunderstanding. But I never, ever doubted that she loved me – even then.

To have someone not related to you, who sees and recognizes your greatly imperfect nature – and perhaps loves you even more because of it? Someone who never gives up on you, even when it’s hard, I’ve given up on myself , and feel as though I’m just messing up constantly. She was still there and helping. That’s so rare. And I’ve – no, we’ve – lost her and the bright light she brought to everything she did and everyone she loved.

Her death was unexpected. She was a hummingbird, never sitting down for long. She always had projects, was volunteering, had socializing dates with friends, or was cutting someone’s hair (even after she “retired”). The healthiest and most active 70-year-old I knew.

She died suddenly, and likely instantly. I’m thankful she didn’t suffer. She was always adamant that she never be put on machines or subjected to extreme life-saving measures at the end. She was supposed to move to a different apartment the following week, so most of her possessions were neatly packed and ready. That is 100% a Kathie move.

She had a huge smile, a fantastic and big laugh, and a heart of gold. She gave and gave as much as she could to those she loved – and strangers in need. She was active at her church, regularly attending services and participating in volunteer projects. She had a handwritten list of people to pray for every day based on the challenges or needs of those around her. She proudly served her country, and, in typical Kathie fashion, did it while looking impeccable (with lipstick, of course).

I could write about so many stories throughout our 20+ year friendship. The night of the chocolate martinis at Circle Tap. Sharing dirty innuendos all the time, because they made us smile – and T cringe with discomfort. Dinners together regularly. Getting her huge hugs and tears reminding me, pleading with me that I was loved, not a burden, and couldn’t give up in my fight against my demons and mental health.

But the best thing she ever did for me was to love my son like he was her grandchild. As with everything she did, she loved him with her whole heart. She WAS his gramma. One of his biggest local supporters and was always there for him. Whether attending his school Winter Sing every year, cheering at his flag football or baseball games, or playing with Leo in our blow up pool in the backyard, she was all in.

Her loss is the biggest one I’ve had in a while, and my son’s first big loss. We saw her on average at least once a week (if she wasn’t out traveling, again living her life fully as always). It’s been over a month, and I still have moments when I forget what happened and go to text or call her with a funny joke or Leo’s newest word. When the reality hits, it feels like a punch to the gut. This is the first loss I’ve had where the person I want most to comfort me through it … is the deceased. I just want to hug her, laugh or cry with her – heck, I’d even take being annoyed by her. Just one more time.

Did she know how much she meant to me? To us? To her village? I never thought the last time I saw her would be the last time. I texted her two days before her death, teasing her with a hilariously embarrassing story that had happened to me. I said I couldn’t wait to tell her. To hear that laugh and see that loving smile. Did she know so many of us adored her and needed her? How much we took for granted there would be more time?

I sure hope she knew everyday she was loved so, so much. That she made it easier to live, to breathe, to keep going. But don’t worry. I know I have to keep taking care of her grandbaby, and let him know he is so loved. Remind him through photos, stories, and videos of how much Kathie loved him – and T. I have an important job to do. To keep your love and memory alive for him. You were family. Not from blood and not from obligation. We chose each other. We were a chosen family: she was Leo’s gramma and T’s and my mom/friend by love.

You are missed. You are loved… big as the sky.

Kathie and that smile