Grief, loss, and moving forward without moving on

This week, my friend had a birthday.

Heather should have been 44 this week.

But she died when we were 19.

I met her on the set of the film Matinee when we were 13. She was the sister of my co-star, Kellie Martin.

Kellie was 16, and therefore immeasurably cooler than dorky little baby me, so I hung out with her sister.

Heather quickly became my dearest person. Even though she was mere months older than me, she was also immeasurably cooler than I was. She explained all the dirtiest references in the movie Grease to me, and let me borrow her clothes because I only knew how to dress like an adolescent boy. (And kinda still do.)

When we were 19, Heather died of lupus in a way that was quick and shocking, and it ripped my world out from under me. And decades later, she still has a profound impact on me. In honor of her birthday, here are just three of the millions of things that she taught me.

Love what you love

Heather did things like unabashedly singing The Cranberries Linger really loudly and didn’t care who was around. She had a Marky Mark pillow case that she loved unironically. One day out of nowhere, she handed me a goldfish swimming in a plastic bag. I was deeply confused. She said “You like animals. I like you. So, here, have a fish and be happy.”

You will not live forever so might as well flirt with the firemen

I’m not sure when Heather knew she wouldn’t make it to the legal drinking age, but somehow she managed to live with a consistent focus on presence and fun. She literally taught me how to flirt (“Lis, flip your hair”) and made me practice on the first responders who came to our house in the middle of the night for a false alarm. In all the spaces where I am dark and brooding, she was light and playful. I’m continually trying to find that balance.

Aging is a privilege

I refuse to disparage aging. I will not complain. It’s an honor - an honor that Heather never got. So yeah, my hair is rapidly turning grey, my knees pop with arthritis, and I can no longer see a menu without my readers. And I’m fucking lucky. I do it for her.

Grief is a strange thing. There are moments (this is one of them) when the loss of her feels as fresh as it did 25 years ago. When I return to LA, I visit her grave at Forest Lawn Cemetery and lie next to her and tell her stories about the life that she and I should have been living together. But Heather is not at Forest Lawn. She’s here with me every time I don’t care what other people think, every time I honor my own darkness while also looking for the light, and every time I flirtatiously flip my hair.

I recently read Susan Cain’s book Bittersweet, and she says that we can’t always move on, but we can move forward. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over Heather’s death, but I’m making damn sure that I honor her life by living mine well.

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