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Had an amazing conversation yesterday with my long lost "sister," Sandra Brown Thomas. We haven't spoken in years, which is my fault. Sandy and I were neighbors when I was a kid. She was 6 years older than me but, as time went on, the age difference melted away and didn't matter anymore.

For one year, she and I attended the same school in Methuen. I was in the frist grade and she was in the 6th grade. For that entire year, she was charged with making sure I drank my milk at lunchtime. I hated milk then and I still hate milk. The following year, Sandy was in junior high and I was left on my own in grammar school. I never drank my milk again. 

I was a teenager when Sandy got married. She moved to a different house on our street so we remained very close neighbors. We forged a very strong bond with each other because, for a number of years, I spent several hours every night at her house. Her husband at the time worked nights so we would talk, play a game or watch TV. It got so we could finish each other's sentences. We still can. We know all there is to know about each other and our respective families. In my mid 20s, Sandy moved away and I went on to get married. We lost touch for a number of years.

Fast forward to my late 30s. Sandy's stepfather passed away. Sandy and I were reunited and started spending a lot of time together watching over her mother. Her mother still lived in the same house on our old street. By then, I was married to Dick and she was married to a man named Francis (Buddy) Thomas, the second greatest guy I have ever known. My friend Jean and I went to school with one of Buddy's brothers and Buddy and I had actually worked together in Lawrence for a number of years. Sandy and I were always family to each other and as two couples we all became fast friends. We spent a lot of time together, including holidays. Then it was time for Dick, his dad and me to move to Florida. Sandy and I, once again, lost touch with other. 

She called me the other night because she had heard about Dick. I wasn't here when she called. I called her back yesterday. Her beloved Buddy passed away a little over two years ago. While talking about Dick and Buddy, we learned that they had both suffered many of the same illnesses, had lived about the same length of time after initially getting sick, and had both been taken care of at home by the wives that loved them so much.

What else I learned is that it is okay to never stop grieving and to never get over this most horrible of experiences. After two years, Sandy is still "going through the motions" of every day life without Buddy. I said, "Please don't tell me that. Don't tell me that it's not going to get better." What I didn't realize, until much later in the day, is that Sandy gave me a great gift. 

Ever since we were young, we have always cried at the same things and laughed at the same things. I now know that I don't have to follow what everyone thinks is the correct recipe for grieving. It may sound strange but I am so relieved to know that, down the road, I won't have to think of myself as having something wrong with me when I continue to grieve as I am doing now. I'm actually happy to know that, for me, I won't ever move on. I'm glad that I don't "have to" reach what everyone thinks is the perfect compromise - a compromise of being able to enjoy the rest of my life while always keeping Dick in my heart. Dick WAS my life, still is my life and will always be my life. It's okay to know that I will never be whole again. I don't want to be whole again. I don't want the tiniest of memories to fade away, not even the painful ones. It's okay that my days of wearing eye make-up are over.

I loved Dick intensely. I want to remember him just as intensely. I think my friend Greg Anastos has been trying to tell me the same thing, only the watered down version out of consideration for me. I will continue to function as half of a couple because I am half of a couple. I am still as married now as I ever was. I will, however, have one restriction placed on me but there's nothing I can do about that. I can never become a grief counselor.