When I learned that my first-ever best friend Monica passed away unexpectedly while cooking her family Christmas Eve dinner, I felt gutted. I was consumed with sorrow for her children and husband. I felt helpless for her parents, her Gram, and her brother. Monica had so many friends too. Just like me, a multitude of friends couldn’t believe our Monica was taken from us at just 47 years old.
Fucking plaque. A measly piece of plaque took out my homegirl. It was quick. Instant. That brings me great comfort. Unfortunately, Monica’s children witnessed the aftermath of this event.
I want to scrub away the memories of those horrific moments. Since I can’t do that I will share with them every sign I see and every message I get from Monica through my newfound beliefs.
‘Beliefs? Skills? Witchcraft? Ooooh, Ooooh- Sorcery, I bet. Hilariously unbelievable mind tricks?
What is happening to me exactly? I’m just grasping, right?’
I live on the West Coast and Monica was on the East, where I’m originally from. She passed away on a Sunday and her church service was six days later. I immediately went online to catch a flight out but stopped when I had an overwhelming sense that Monica would not want me to do that.
You see, my family and I already had our Christmas trip to Mexico planned and we were leaving our home in Oregon the day of her service— in Connecticut.
I was asked to write something for the church and spent days procrastinating. It wasn’t even real to me yet. I was going through the motions and so far removed by simple geography it was easy to sit in denial. So, I did. The coziness of unsubscribing to what I simply could not face then was strange, but I basked in it. It worked for a while, but it wasn’t healthy for me and I made a promise to myself just last fall that I would be better about prioritizing self-care and setting boundaries.
I simply cannot do it all.
Coping With Loss: Monica’s Church Service
I managed to procrastinate so successfully, that I had one hour to write a 2-3 minute message with all the feels for Monica’s church service. I shut myself away and sat on my closet floor as I recorded it between bursts of tears and somatic yoga poses. I sent the message in and our family of four was bound for Mexico; a trip I am immensely thankful I didn’t miss a single second of.
(See Signs post from 12/30/23)
In February 2024, I decided I would book a trip to CT to visit with Monica’s mom. I needed to pay respects and come to terms with it whether I liked it or not.
I was ok at first, but as the days grew closer to my departure in April, I felt extreme anxiety and dread. I was exceptionally emotional and often could not, would not stop crying. Somehow, my adult brain associated my trip to CT with Monica’s death being “real”. I had a child-like ‘If I don’t go, maybe it won’t be real’ mentality.
Two days before my trip, I made an emergency therapy appointment. I’ve only done that one other time in my life. I was going to bail on the trip altogether. I couldn’t process being in my hometown knowing Monica was not.
Not Earthside anyway.
The morning I left for the airport I had to remind myself to place one foot in front of the other. In sequence, I gave myself instructions.
Pack chargers
Eat something before leaving so I don’t vomit my meds across I-5
Do anxiety trick I learned in STAT therapy session
Drive to the airport
Bitch, breathe
This conscious method, in addition to goodbye hugs and kisses from my kids and a pep talk from my Babe, got me to the East Coast.
Upon my arrival, I began to feel an unfamiliar sense of comfort. Like a weighted blanket, I was somehow protected by an invisible force field that kept me out of the funk I had been in just hours earlier. Where did my funk go? Did I leave it in the friendly skies as I flew through the eclipse?
Where’s my funk?
I was exhausted but wired, and melancholy, but not weepy.
For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I would burst into tears at any given second. I had my shit together!
‘Me. Likey.’
Again- My tears had been hard to control in the weeks before my trip. I would cry between patients at work and pull it together just in time for my next exam. (Thank G-d I work in the darkness of ultrasound.)
At home, I would sob in the shower and silently as I lay my head on my pillow. The worst of it though was the guilt I would feel while hugging my children because Monica cannot hug hers.
‘How could this happen??’
Several magical moments positively directed the way I was “grieving” Monica during my trip. (I’ve mentioned a few in The Visit post from 4/17/24.)
I use quotes because I didn’t feel grief. Instead, I felt an abundance of gratitude for having the time I did with my friend of forty years. From every era of my life, there are memories of my dear friend. The only alternative to not accepting her death was to have not known her at all.
Monica watching me blow out my birthday candles one year. 1983 or 1984?
Halloween 1983, I think. Madonna vs the clown.
Oh, how thankful I am for the times we had.
During the early part of my visit, I wrote in my journal in an attempt to muster up some tears. I wanted to get them out before I saw Monica’s mom, but I couldn’t cry even when I tried! This day I wasn’t sad. I was mad. I’m talking- full throttle- irate and irrational.
4/9/24
I’m angry now; real good and mad. Why you? Where is the lesson in this? What is the lesson in this?
I better not cry in front of your mom.
I can tell when you’re with me, you know. Stop fucking around with that unicorn shit. It’s annoying. They aren’t real and I don’t care for that warm and fuzzy, rainbow bullshit anymore.
I hate hearts too. Yeah, I said it. I dislike the heart shape. They’re stupid.
I am so angry.
A day after my pissy, juvenile entry, I walked up the road to Monica’s Mom’s house. I was bold and restless and had mischievously disobeyed my gut by choosing to apply tubing mascara. I brought my waterproof mascara specifically for this visit, but I knew I wouldn’t be shedding a tear. My lashes were on point and they would remain flawless.
I carried a bag with necessary beverages and the book Signs by Laura Lynne Jackson.
I purchased the book for Monica’s family weeks prior. I included a wire star-shaped bookmark and used floral scrapbook paper to make a small card for the kids.
“To: McRu. Love, Jess.”
I cut the heart out myself, roughly 2in x 2in– a shape Monica loved. I tucked it into the ribbon I wrapped around the book and thought for a millisecond, ‘Hope it doesn’t fall out’.
Back in Oregon, I carefully packed the book with the ribbon and bookmark securely fastened; the heart card simply tucked. All of the above made it to Connecticut safely intact.
Once we were back from the cemetery, I told Monica’s mother Cheryl about the book and noticed my homemade heart card was missing.
I knew where it was.
I knew, without a doubt, that I would find it in the street on my walk back down to my parents because Monica wanted me to have the heart. The shape I talked smack about just the day before in my journal would be waiting for me in the street. Not in Cheryl’s driveway where we stood to chat before heading to the cemetery. Not on the floor in my parent’s house or in their lush and spacious lawn.
I saw a picture of it in my head. It was in the street.
I didn’t have an urgency to get up and go looking for it at that moment because I knew without a doubt— I would possess my personally hand-cut heart again.
Two hours later, as I made my way down the hill, I scanned the road in front of me and across to the other side in case the wind took it away. Finally, at the bottom of the hill, in the street directly in front of my childhood home, a heart lay floral side up. My heart swelled with warmth. I stood over it peering in disbelief. What I was seeing–was identical to the picture that flashed before my eyes when I realized it was gone. I took this picture and have been carrying my heart— Monica’s heart— with me ever since. It fits perfectly in my cell phone case.
I’m warming up to the heart shape and the word Love. I see both everywhere now. It’s what Monica wants. I know this the same way I know she’s beside me on my morning commute.
She plays DJ.
Girls night out, 1997 or 98
At first, right after Monica passed away- almost every time I got in the car, my drive would start with Tool’s Vicarious. One of my personal faves. Monica knows I love Tool because my all time favorite Tool song Forty Six & Two came out the year we lived together- in 1996. Also, to Me- every Tool song feels like an experience. The lyrics to Vicarious hold no personal meaning to me so I assume it’s simply the title that has meaning and it’s Monica telling me she’s living vicariously through me.
So, I let her.
Vicarious came out in 2006.
Some days it didn’t matter what station was playing. Pandora’s algorithm for Tool Radio, Blondie Radio, and Rage Against The Machine Radio would spit out Pink Floyd. Most often “Wish You Were Here” which was an unwelcome mind fuck, thank you very much, Mon!
‘She wishes she was here? 🌎
Or she wishes I was there? 😇’
I choose to believe she’s being facetious so I just go with it. She’s in a better place and wishes I could see it, but it’s not my time yet and quite frankly- I’m not fucking ready.
We understand each other.
We were never jealous of one another. That’s why it’s so funny to me today. She’s letting me know she’s ok; as if she were on safari or some other glorious destination. She’s good and well.
On days I feel anxious though, and I feel anxious a lot. Most days- if I’m being honest, she’ll fire up “Have A Cigar”. I choose to think this message is Monica telling me to chill the fuck out and enjoy life.
I went to the cemetery four times while I was in CT. Probably seems excessive, but I give no fucks. The first three days were rainy or overcast. I wanted to appreciate Mon’s new digs in the sunlight which prompted my fourth visit, but I didn’t think I had time for the fourth visit. So— when I left for the cemetery on the third rainy day, I was feeling blue, yet still no tears. As I drove down a country road in Mansfield I had to slam on my brakes for a rooster 🐓 crossing the road.
🤭😂
I started to giggle and pawed at my fanny pack for my phone. In my head I was right back in 1997.
‘More blog material! I don’t believe this!’
When Mon and I were younger we made poor choices just like all young people. One time we had been hanging out with undesirables and when they left Monica and me in the car momentarily to go do G-d knows what —they crossed the street in front of us and Monica asked in stoic seriousness, “Why did the cock cross the road?”
We both howled in raucous laughter. It was so silly and ridiculously juvenile, but fuck if it wasn’t a good time!
The cock I nearly hit brought me back to that moment with Monica and my mood was instantly improved. It still provides me laughter and warmth in my heart today. All because I believe it was a sign that I needed; sent to me by Monica.
Today, I reside here. The place Jessica Jocelyn describes so well.
I’m content now. I’ve made my peace and Monica is with me anytime I believe her to be. No one can take that away from me and I will continue to share my memories since she’s been so generous in providing me blog material.
—JD
