Losing Chrissy

My best friend and roommate died from brain cancer last month, and I keep expecting her to walk in the front door and wonder why I'm sitting here crying, listening to Adam Levine and eating her almond butter. I've taken to wearing her parrot print dress around the apartment, which I'm starting to see as vaguely cannibalistic. I would say it's making me feel better while I wait for her parents to come from Indiana and collect all of her things, but I also know that my grieving process is kind of all over the place. She really didn't care for Adam Levine, and I think that's what's making me cry. I'm trying to stay connected to her, and as my friend Fernando so aptly put it, not lose the impact of this loss. Chrissy was 33 years old and I'm 28, and this wasn't supposed to happen to us. Because here's the honest truth -- I never thought she would die. Chrissy was a human sparkler, a flash of color and light. She could run for miles and miles at the gym before jogging back to our apartment to fix a quinoa salad and the kinds of beans you water in jars. Unfazed by her demanding travel schedule, she would work 20 days in a row, often waking up at 4 a.m. to catch a plane, propelled by her lack of sleep. Her pockets of free time were spent finding me special library books or scouting new photo booths or honing her latest hobby of candy sculpting, building tiny butterscotch towers, a peppermint dome, a crown made out of Peeps. She had enough creativity and energy and love for all of...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news