On August 27th, the phone call came.
I saw I had a missed FaceTime from my college roommate, also named Heather. She was 8 1/2 months pregnant at the time so I eagerly called her back, expecting news of a new baby! I was greeted with tears.
Oh no. They lost the baby.
"Heather, are you okay?"
Tears.
And then an answer.
No.
"Amy and Stephen were in a car crash last night and they both passed away."
No. This was worse. The mere shock of it was worse.
I couldn't process it. I just stared at the phone, watching her cry. I couldn't get myself to say anything, couldn't think of anything to say even if I could speak. I just sat there. I'd experienced friends with miscarriages, still births, divorce, heartbreak. I'd wept for them. I'd prayed for them. I knew what sympathy felt like. I knew what sadness felt like. I knew what loss felt like. But not like this.
Shock. Grief. Real, deep, powerful, aching grief.
It took a few hours to even sink in.
I called Taylor. I called my sister. I couldn't do much more than that. The tears came and went, then came again, each time getting stronger and harder to put aside. My kids watched movies. I picked myself up, got my kids in the car, picked up Will from school. I came home and cried some more. Another show, another movie, peanut butter sandwiches for dinner. I was on autopilot. I couldn't do more.
I could tell when it was announced on social media because that's when the texts and messages came. Friends from high school I hadn't talked to in years.
"Heather, is this still your number? I just heard about Amy."
Messages on Facebook. Instagram.
"I just heard about Amy and immediately thought of you."
Pouring over pictures. Reminiscing.
Grief.
I read post after post of others' reactions to their deaths and memories of their dear friends. It hurt. I needed to say something. Couldn't.
Finally I knew it was my turn. I had to say something.
Instagram: "Feeling so overwhelmed with grief and love today. Amy was my best friend at a time that could have been a really hard transition in my life, but ended up being some of my favorite years because of her. I'm so grateful for her friendship and her example. You will be missed by so many but I am comforted by the knowledge that God has a plan even in the hard times. Amy, we love you."
It only scratched the surface but it was all I could do. How do you define the ache that comes--over 10 years of friendship, college roommates, a forever friend so suddenly taken?
I made it to the kids' bedtime. I shut their door. I could turn off autopilot.
Sobbing.
More phone calls. Waiting for Taylor to get home from a business trip. How grateful I was that he was returning home that night. Just a few more hours to go.
Would I ever stop crying?
I needed someone. I needed someone but didn't know who to ask. I needed someone who knew her, who knew both of us together. I didn't want sympathy. I didn't want comfort. I wanted someone who would know exactly what Amy was to me and would feel what I was feeling.
Taylor got home and I felt hollowed out. He held me. I talked. I cried. It was a start.
***
The next week felt like one long day. I stayed on autopilot. Fed my kids, changed diapers, nursed baby. I went to a young women's activity because I needed to get out of the house. The other leaders asked how my week was going. They didn't know her, they hadn't heard. It was just small talk.
I told them. They felt it. The more of the story you tell, the worse it sounds.
"They had just gotten married 2 weeks before."
"This trip was supposed to be their honeymoon."
This is the worst, most heartbreaking story ever.
At the end of the activity, I see her sister's best friend. I didn't even know she was in town but I am relieved to see her.
"Have you seen her family?"
She has. I haven't. I need to but don't know how or what or when.
I decide to go the next morning. I didn't even call ahead. I dropped my kids off with a friend and showed up on their doorstep where I had been so many times before. All through high school, visiting from college, an impromptu triathlon from my house to hers to Tiffany's, the time when Amy's mom had hemmed by temple dress for my wedding. My heart was beating fast. I was terrified of what I would find, what I would say. I knocked on the door and her dad answered.
"Brenda, Heather's here."
He said it like they'd been waiting for me.
She came to the door and I hugged her. She held on. And continued to hold on.
Quiet tears.
"When I hug you I feel like I'm holding a piece of her."
I'm sure to hug her every time I see her now.
I had expected darkness but was surprised by light. They were so, so heartbroken but above all they were hopeful. They were broken, but believing. Grieving, but grateful.
"Can I do anything to help?"
What a dumb question. I asked anyway.
"Actually, we need eggs?"
I went to the store and got the most Amy-approved eggs I could find: Natural, organic, farm-raised eggs. I brought them the eggs, got back in my car, and cried again.
***
The funeral. I dreaded it. Needed it.
One step at a time.
Find babysitting for my kids. Check. Pack their bags, pack ours. Check. Dropped our kids off at a friend's for the weekend. Check. Drive to the airport. Check. Get on the plane. Check. Get off the plane. Check. Check. Check... running out of checklist items. It's time for the viewing.
I went in but decided not to approach the casket. I hugged her mom again.
A group of us stuck together. We watched a slideshow of pictures. It was too much and a wave of emotions hit me again. I stepped out to cry.
The funeral itself was better. Sharing a row with friends from high school and college. I had never met Stephen so I loved getting to learn more about him. Who he was, how much he loved Amy. I got to know him through the memories of those who knew and loved him. Amy's brother spoke about her life. I knew I would cry but I didn't expect to laugh and smile so much at the funeral. There was so much hope and love and joy just for having known them. So much gratitude for having a piece of them in each of our lives. Peace in knowing that they have gone home, but have gone together, to be with our Heavenly Father.
Instagram: "Although the reason we gathered was and is still a tough one to swallow, it was really amazing to reconnect with all these wonderful friends yesterday. After Amy and Stephen’s funeral a group of our friends from high school and some of our college roommates spent the afternoon hiking, reminiscing (with a lot of laughing) about memories of Amy, and catching up on each other’s lives. I felt so at peace and my faith in the plan our Heavenly Father has for us grew. We may go through trials and sorrows in this life but we never have to face them alone. God sends us friends and family to love and support us. He sends us messages of hope and gratitude. And He sent a Savior, who has felt all of our pains and sorrows, to lift up our burdens and carry us through our grief. I’m feeling so grateful for the people He has sent to touch my life and trust that we will all see Amy again someday."
Through it all I never doubted that she would be okay. That wasn't why I cried. Death isn't the end. Amy's probably up there telling us all to stop crying because it's awesome up here, you guys! But being the one that's left behind is hard. And I already missed her.
The pain eased. Her family challenged everyone to #continuetheiradventure and I took it to heart. I joined an exercise group to get me out of the postpartum rut, kept in better contact with my friends, and pushed myself to do more scary things, always with Amy in mind. She was fearless and strong! I accepted the prophet's challenge to read the entire Book of Mormon in under 3 months. I started another class about photography and even helped photograph a wedding! I don't bike down mountains like Amy did but I find myself going more out of my comfort zone, pushing myself to set goals and become better, all while thinking of her.
***
I saw I had a missed FaceTime from my college roommate, also named Heather. She was 8 1/2 months pregnant at the time so I eagerly called her back, expecting news of a new baby! I was greeted with tears.
Oh no. They lost the baby.
"Heather, are you okay?"
Tears.
And then an answer.
No.
"Amy and Stephen were in a car crash last night and they both passed away."
No. This was worse. The mere shock of it was worse.
I couldn't process it. I just stared at the phone, watching her cry. I couldn't get myself to say anything, couldn't think of anything to say even if I could speak. I just sat there. I'd experienced friends with miscarriages, still births, divorce, heartbreak. I'd wept for them. I'd prayed for them. I knew what sympathy felt like. I knew what sadness felt like. I knew what loss felt like. But not like this.
Shock. Grief. Real, deep, powerful, aching grief.
It took a few hours to even sink in.
I called Taylor. I called my sister. I couldn't do much more than that. The tears came and went, then came again, each time getting stronger and harder to put aside. My kids watched movies. I picked myself up, got my kids in the car, picked up Will from school. I came home and cried some more. Another show, another movie, peanut butter sandwiches for dinner. I was on autopilot. I couldn't do more.
I could tell when it was announced on social media because that's when the texts and messages came. Friends from high school I hadn't talked to in years.
"Heather, is this still your number? I just heard about Amy."
Messages on Facebook. Instagram.
"I just heard about Amy and immediately thought of you."
Pouring over pictures. Reminiscing.
Grief.
I read post after post of others' reactions to their deaths and memories of their dear friends. It hurt. I needed to say something. Couldn't.
Finally I knew it was my turn. I had to say something.
Instagram: "Feeling so overwhelmed with grief and love today. Amy was my best friend at a time that could have been a really hard transition in my life, but ended up being some of my favorite years because of her. I'm so grateful for her friendship and her example. You will be missed by so many but I am comforted by the knowledge that God has a plan even in the hard times. Amy, we love you."
It only scratched the surface but it was all I could do. How do you define the ache that comes--over 10 years of friendship, college roommates, a forever friend so suddenly taken?
I made it to the kids' bedtime. I shut their door. I could turn off autopilot.
Sobbing.
More phone calls. Waiting for Taylor to get home from a business trip. How grateful I was that he was returning home that night. Just a few more hours to go.
Would I ever stop crying?
I needed someone. I needed someone but didn't know who to ask. I needed someone who knew her, who knew both of us together. I didn't want sympathy. I didn't want comfort. I wanted someone who would know exactly what Amy was to me and would feel what I was feeling.
Taylor got home and I felt hollowed out. He held me. I talked. I cried. It was a start.
***
The next week felt like one long day. I stayed on autopilot. Fed my kids, changed diapers, nursed baby. I went to a young women's activity because I needed to get out of the house. The other leaders asked how my week was going. They didn't know her, they hadn't heard. It was just small talk.
I told them. They felt it. The more of the story you tell, the worse it sounds.
"They had just gotten married 2 weeks before."
"This trip was supposed to be their honeymoon."
This is the worst, most heartbreaking story ever.
At the end of the activity, I see her sister's best friend. I didn't even know she was in town but I am relieved to see her.
"Have you seen her family?"
She has. I haven't. I need to but don't know how or what or when.
I decide to go the next morning. I didn't even call ahead. I dropped my kids off with a friend and showed up on their doorstep where I had been so many times before. All through high school, visiting from college, an impromptu triathlon from my house to hers to Tiffany's, the time when Amy's mom had hemmed by temple dress for my wedding. My heart was beating fast. I was terrified of what I would find, what I would say. I knocked on the door and her dad answered.
"Brenda, Heather's here."
He said it like they'd been waiting for me.
She came to the door and I hugged her. She held on. And continued to hold on.
Quiet tears.
"When I hug you I feel like I'm holding a piece of her."
I'm sure to hug her every time I see her now.
I had expected darkness but was surprised by light. They were so, so heartbroken but above all they were hopeful. They were broken, but believing. Grieving, but grateful.
"Can I do anything to help?"
What a dumb question. I asked anyway.
"Actually, we need eggs?"
I went to the store and got the most Amy-approved eggs I could find: Natural, organic, farm-raised eggs. I brought them the eggs, got back in my car, and cried again.
***
The funeral. I dreaded it. Needed it.
One step at a time.
Find babysitting for my kids. Check. Pack their bags, pack ours. Check. Dropped our kids off at a friend's for the weekend. Check. Drive to the airport. Check. Get on the plane. Check. Get off the plane. Check. Check. Check... running out of checklist items. It's time for the viewing.
I went in but decided not to approach the casket. I hugged her mom again.
A group of us stuck together. We watched a slideshow of pictures. It was too much and a wave of emotions hit me again. I stepped out to cry.
The funeral itself was better. Sharing a row with friends from high school and college. I had never met Stephen so I loved getting to learn more about him. Who he was, how much he loved Amy. I got to know him through the memories of those who knew and loved him. Amy's brother spoke about her life. I knew I would cry but I didn't expect to laugh and smile so much at the funeral. There was so much hope and love and joy just for having known them. So much gratitude for having a piece of them in each of our lives. Peace in knowing that they have gone home, but have gone together, to be with our Heavenly Father.
Instagram: "Although the reason we gathered was and is still a tough one to swallow, it was really amazing to reconnect with all these wonderful friends yesterday. After Amy and Stephen’s funeral a group of our friends from high school and some of our college roommates spent the afternoon hiking, reminiscing (with a lot of laughing) about memories of Amy, and catching up on each other’s lives. I felt so at peace and my faith in the plan our Heavenly Father has for us grew. We may go through trials and sorrows in this life but we never have to face them alone. God sends us friends and family to love and support us. He sends us messages of hope and gratitude. And He sent a Savior, who has felt all of our pains and sorrows, to lift up our burdens and carry us through our grief. I’m feeling so grateful for the people He has sent to touch my life and trust that we will all see Amy again someday."
Through it all I never doubted that she would be okay. That wasn't why I cried. Death isn't the end. Amy's probably up there telling us all to stop crying because it's awesome up here, you guys! But being the one that's left behind is hard. And I already missed her.
The pain eased. Her family challenged everyone to #continuetheiradventure and I took it to heart. I joined an exercise group to get me out of the postpartum rut, kept in better contact with my friends, and pushed myself to do more scary things, always with Amy in mind. She was fearless and strong! I accepted the prophet's challenge to read the entire Book of Mormon in under 3 months. I started another class about photography and even helped photograph a wedding! I don't bike down mountains like Amy did but I find myself going more out of my comfort zone, pushing myself to set goals and become better, all while thinking of her.
***
It's almost Amy's birthday.
Almost 6 months later the grief isn’t fresh anymore but the memory of it is still there. It doesn't force me into autopilot. It doesn’t send me inwardly flailing, drowning, reaching for some sort of stability like it did the first couple weeks. It’s more of a quiet grief, a tender thought and cherished reminder that is ever present in some part of my mind and heart. Each day it feels like ripples in a pond. Sometimes it settles, but most days something small brings the ripples gently back—a memory, a song that makes me think of her, seeing a place we would go, sitting in church, driving past our old high school, talking with our other roommates, seeing her parents. But even the ripples are peaceful, beautiful, calming. A reminder that it’s water, not glass that I see and feel. Life-giving water of a life that touched mine.
It’s amazing how often the Savior used water to teach gospel principles. Amidst the storm he said, “Peace, be still.” And the waves and winds obeyed. As a family we just read the story of Christ teaching the woman at the well that he is the source living water. He even used water to serve those friends he dearly loved, as he washed the feet of his disciples on the very night that he would suffer unfathomable pain for all our sins and sorrows. Even for the sorrow that I felt when I lost my dear friend.
He may not have washed my feet. He did not raise my friend from the dead (yet). He did not calm the storm that I feel has been raging around me the last few months while we faced loss and fires and broken bones. But He willingly suffered through my pain and I know that He walked through the storm with me.
“Don't you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and happiness ahead. Some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don’t come until heaven; but for those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ, they come. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.” Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
I trust God, I believe in the good, and thank Him for my faithful, fearless, forever angel friend.
#continuetheiradventure
