All the things I would have told her…

                This has been a rough week.  I have been feeling agitated and impatient.  And also heartbroken. My exhaustion has only enhanced these tendencies.  Grief, I am told, comes in different forms. 

I didn’t sleep well today after my nearly 13 hour shift at work last night.  Low on energy, the last thing I felt like doing was cooking dinner.  But I went for it anyway, trying out frozen french fries in our new air fryer basket and broiling hamburgers.  My son was excited for the meal.  The fries, though a little overly crisp, were pretty good.  When the timer for the burgers alarmed, I opened the top oven and noticed big flames coming from the broiler and smelled burning grease.  I shut the oven door for a moment to retrieve oven mitts.  When I opened it again, I noticed large flames shooting up from the grease on the foil lined tray I had the burgers on.    

I quickly shut the door and realized that I didn’t know what to do. I was operating on snail mode, and my mind was fuzzy. Grease fires require smothering, right? Baking soda? Do I just throw that into the oven? Thankfully I had the good sense to turn the broiler off but watched in alarm as the inside of the oven continued to glow with large flames. So naturally, I grabbed my phone to Google “grease fires in oven”. Then I yelled to my son, “run over to Mimi and Papa’s house and ask Papa to come over quick! There is a grease fire in the oven!” He jumped up from the table and asked with concern, “are we still going to be able to have burgers for dinner?” I can’t say I was surprised at his question. “I don’t know! Hurry, get Papa!”

                Surely it seems perfectly reasonable that a 38 year old woman would ask her 12 year old son to run two doors down to her parents house to get help.  Our parents always know what to do, right?  Hurry, son, bring more people that I love into potential danger!  Not until after the fact did I think that it might have made sense to call my brother, who happens to be a fire fighter, for advice.  Instead, I stood there with my phone in hand, watching the oven door until it went black.  The fire went out on its own.  My son ran back in the house with my mother (who was recovering from a cold) following close behind.  He was glad to see that his perfectly charbroiled burger was intact and not doused in baking soda.  She was glad to see my house was still standing after he had run into her house yelling “fire, fire!  Come quick!”  (I should mention that my father wasn’t home at the time.  Otherwise, he would have been there to try to help as well). 

                Though the fire probably lasted for less than a minute, it seemed rather dramatic in the moment and then extremely absurd upon reflection.  This is precisely the type of story I normally would have shared with Becky right away.  Either through a flurry of texts or an animated phone conversation, I would have exaggerated the stupidity of my decision making (or lack thereof) in the midst of the imminent danger I briefly found myself in; my significantly lacking culinary skills; and my son’s humorous concern about whether or not he would still get a burger if the fire won.  We would have laughed and in a way that only Becky can, she would have made me feel confident in my abilities – to not burn my house down, to cook good meals for my family, to problem solve; even when my abilities were sorely lacking.  Becky always made me feel like I was good enough in anything I attempted.  She would always laugh with me, but never at me.  And she would always, always tell me that she loved me. 

Becky – my closest friend – passed away nearly a week ago. It feels wrong referring to her in the past tense. It certainly doesn’t seem fair. My thoughts and emotions are scattered as I try to make sense of my life without her in it. I find myself reflecting on all of the things I would have told her, and so far this week, there have already been many. As I put this ridiculous story of a small grease fire out into the universe, perhaps I hope that she is somehow chuckling to herself about it. I also put my broken heart out there. I miss Becky more than I know how to express.

                There are so many things I can say about the incredibly wonderful person she was.  And in time, I hope to write many of those things down to reflect upon and to share.  But for now, I find some solace in knowing that Becky can never be replaced.  Though it hurts, many of my blunders and awkward moments will be mine alone now, to embellish into funny stories that she would have enjoyed, and maybe just knowing that she would have laughed, listened, and offered encouragement is enough.