The year without her.

It is hard to believe that a year has passed since the phone call on that Thursday evening. The news sucker-punched me in the lungs standing in front of Proud Larry's on Lamar Boulevard. Daniel and I had a babysitter lined up for the first time since moving to Oxford- we were having a night on the square with dinner and a concert. When I saw that I missed a call from Courtney Yancey, I called her back immediately because when she calls it must be important, or else, it is simply a text. I didn't know what to do. I was helpless and I wanted to hit my knees right on the pavement. I made quick arrangements for my 5 month old and hit the road to Jackson first thing the next morning.

When I saw Roxanne lying in that ICU bed, my first instinct was not what you would expect. I didn't cry quietly. Instead, I paced around her bed and I roared at her. I grit my teeth, clinched my jaws and I told her to fight. "You better fight this Roxanne. You got this. You are the strongest person I know. We need you here. You have too much to do here Roxanne. You have too much on this earth to do. You can't leave us. Fight this. Fight girl. I need you to blink your eyes. I need you to talk to me. I need you here Roxanne. Don't you quit. Don't you stop fighting." 

If you knew Roxanne, you understand why yelling through my clinched jaws was the appropriate tone to use with her.  And if you think that praying requires a fancy show in a church building, then I encourage you to visit an ICU hallway any day of the week. You will see pacing prayer non-stop from desperate hearts in shock. We all were in disbelief. We were clinging to any explanation that any doctor might utter. On that Friday, she was still in a medically induced coma and they would begin warming her body that afternoon to measure brain activity. We knew the medical team had discovered a blood clot in her right leg and she would lose it. Our response was ok, she can live without a leg. And even though that road would be tough, people live successful lives without legs every day. That is all we knew at that time. It was concrete. We even shared a laugh about how mad she was going to be about her leg. 

I visited her bedside often over the next 48 hours just to watch her chest move up and down- but my tone softened with her and I just wanted to hold her hand- and her perfectly manicured purple nails. (She always had her nails painted dark because of the dyes used in hair color would stain her nails- she was the best hairstylist on this planet.) 

On Saturday, her brain scan. A family meeting was planned for 3pm and revealed that she had a massive stroke, from which she did not recover. The unimaginable had happened. Her time with us was over. I remember every single detail of those 3 days and as commonly occurring with grief, I am recalling those details this weekend.


White punk hair that she could turn classy in an instant. She could take a pair of scissors to clothes and redesign to fit her needs. She owned every room she was in. Women would watch her with envy of her confidence and the impeccable style all her own. It was a huge honor to be called "her friend" because the line was long with people who just wanted to be around her. She and I were Lifers. Met in elementary and we were supposed to share a room in the nursing home to wreak havoc together. Roxanne was always teaching folks something- whether about fashion or Jesus- there was always something. (One of my favorite quotes of her's- "Come on down off that cross, we are going to need that wood."- when folks are acting a little too self-righteous.) She was hard as nails but stood up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves. She made people feel important (unless she didn't like you, and...well... you knew it.) Her yes was "yes" and her no was "oh hell naw."


Her absence in my life has taught me more that I ever imagined and I want to share a few things with you....

Take pictures with your children and friends and aunts and uncles and cousins and neighbors and in front of your home and on ordinary Tuesdays and depressing Mondays on and on and on. Be IN the pictures. Moms- get in the video. Be silly on video. Be you on video. (I didn't say you have to post them, save them). Your child will not care about the 5 pounds you want to lose. You know what your child will care about? Was my mom tall or short? What did her laugh sound like? Did she like to dance? Could my mom sing? Get the pictures printed, store them away. Back them up and back them up again. Roxanne did my hair two weeks before she died and I did not take one picture with her in her new salon. I regret it, gosh, do I regret it. It has made me think- if I died today- what memories would I leave for my daughter? Would she have pictures of me holding her? Would she have pictures of me playing with her? Roxanne's daughter will know her mother by the stories we tell her and the pictures and videos we show her- they are incredibly important archives.

Closure is necessary. The words "did not suffer" are incredibly important to hear when the shock is sitting like 4000 tons on you and you cannot really hear anything else. Those words softened the blow. When I said goodbye to her body, the machines were still moving her chest up and down- inhaling and exhaling. For that, I am grateful, as many of her friends did not have the opportunity to see her and say their goodbye.

I wish I could visit her grave. She desired cremation and her wishes were granted. But, oh, I really wish I could go sit with her and leave flowers for her and maybe pour a shot of Jack Daniels on her tombstone. My opinion of cremation has changed since her death. My father died when I was a child and I grew up visiting his grave- it was tangible and helped me understand the finality of a person's body dying. My father's grave is nestled by both of my grandparents graves. It is a family affair and it is symbolic on so many levels for me. Purchasing plots in graveyards is not common in my generation like it was in my mother's. But I am saying it here and now- Put my body in a box, bury me and bring me flowers. It is not for me anyway- it is for my survivors. My soul will be with Jesus, as is Roxanne's.

Grief looks a lot like fear. Maggie was 5 months old when Roxanne died. So when you take postpartum hormones and stir it together with shock and grief what do you have? The perfect fear cocktail- and, boy, does it burn going down. (pardon the analogy, but she taught me everything I know about a sophisticated cocktail.) In September, I fell apart when Daniel left for a hunting trip on a plane alone because 'what if ' he didn't come back. I have imagined irrational scenarios of loved ones dying. I have feared death while driving down the interstate, while swimming, while browsing a shopping mall. This is not typically my personality. Grief has been a part of my life since I was 4 years old, but this time it was different for me. It was the assault of grief- this was definitely the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23). Roxanne will not be the last person that I lose in my lifetime. Death is certain. But fear does not have to be.

Courtney and I often talk about how Roxanne wants us to carry on and live full lives and be the best people we can be. She would be so mad at us for crying everytime we talk about her. She would be mad that I have experienced so much sorrow and fear since her death. In fact, she would be infuriated. I can imagine her pacing around me saying something like this "You better fight this Heather. You got this. We need you here. You have too much to do here Heather. You have too much on this earth to do. Fight this. Fight girl." I know she would say those same words to me that I said to her in that ICU room last year. That is what friends do.