A best friend is gone, and I miss her terribly; when does the pain go away?

Friendship without bounds

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Grief is not funny, so if you are expecting humor in this column, quit reading right now.

Last November a friend of 47 years died suddenly, and life has not been the same since. Her birthday is approaching, and so the memories of past birthdays are infringing on what progress I had made in the whole grief process.

You know the routine: denial, anger, blah, blah, acceptance, and then you're supposed to "move on." That's the textbook method, but it doesn't always work that way. Certain things keep popping up that send me back to the beginning.

It happens that way with anyone who has lost someone close. I see a turtle on the road and her love of turtles comes stomping back into my brain. I'm out shopping and find an item that would have pleased her to no end. I read a book I know she would have loved. I hear a bit of news and for a moment I think, "I must remember to tell her." A field of sunflowers brings pangs of sadness to my heart.

Other friends miss her, too, of course, and our groups are lessened without her. A certain joy has gone out of our get-togethers, and yet we plug along, knowing it is the adult thing to do. We speak of her often and sometimes we even laugh over the things we remember, and that feels therapeutic.

We always made a big deal out of each other's birthdays. She would have a dinner for me; I'd host a brunch for her. Our mutual friends would be invited and gifts and cards were carefully chosen.

Her children live all over the U.S., but they were important to me as mine were to her. We'd share concerns and hopes for them, and she was always the first I would call in case of emergency or good news.

Friendships like this don't just happen. It takes years and years to develop the kind of friendship that knows no bounds. She was the kind of friend who could tell me when I was over the top and needed some grounding, and I could tell her when I thought she had gone beyond the pale as well. It's that kind of balance that I miss.

She was the kind of friend I could ask, "Do these jeans make my butt look big?" And I would get an honest answer -- not the answer I always wanted, but an honest one.

Our motto was, "We can do that." That led us into many adventures that lesser women would have skipped, sometimes wisely so. We attempted craft projects that turned out badly, and even an attempt at pickled okra had mixed results: Her jar won a blue ribbon at the Tri-Rivers Fair, and my jar, from the same batch, got a white ribbon. The judge said my jar was packed too tightly or some other minor infraction.

She would sometimes end a telephone conversation with the words, "I love you." I would answer, "I love you, too." I still do, Robin.

Time is supposed to heal all wounds, and I expect it to heal mine. One day I'll drive by a field of sunflowers and my heart will leap with joy remembering her. My life has been enriched knowing her, and I am grateful.

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