I Swear You Will Be Fine

They say it takes approximately seven to ten years for all the cells in the human body to be replaced. Though, different types of cells have varying lifespans. Some cells, like those in the stomach lining and intestines, are replaced very quickly – roughly every few days. Red blood cells have a lifespan of about four months, and fat cells can live for around ten years. A simple search told me that skin cells are replaced every two to four weeks. That would mean that, technically, I currently have hands that you’ve never held. Even if I can still remember how it feels to hold your hand, to hug you, some parts of my body have never known you.

This made me think of memories. I have been writing down every single memory I can recall – big and small – because I worry that one day I might not be able to remember everything as clearly as I do now. Right now, I can remember every detail of big celebrations we’ve had – my birthday, end of each trimester, the dates we went on, et cetera. I can instantly recall the small, ordinary moments in regular days where we’re walking and talking, laughing in your room, playing games on the couch.

But how long do I have before I take more than a second to remember how your voice sounds? How long do I have before I can no longer recall how it feels to run my fingers through your hair? How long before I can no longer visualize how tall you look standing beside me? How much did I have to tilt my head up to look at you? I can still remember all of this now, but how long before I can’t?

On my phone, I don’t have to scroll for too long before I can see all of our photos from a few months ago – the ones we took together ourselves. In a few more months or even years, how long will I have to scroll before I reach the pictures I took of us, instead of the ones your family and friends have sent me of you?

I try to replay your memories in my head as much as I can, worried that if I stop, I won’t be able to remember them. I worry that the next time I see you in my head, I’ll see a blurred version of you instead. The world doesn’t stop no matter how much I want it to. I am forced to carry on as if my life had not erupted from stable ground. I have to go to school, family gatherings and events where people see me and don’t know what had happened just a few months ago. Sometimes I worry… when I study, am I replacing the memories we have? When I go about my day to distract myself, am I slowly forgetting what we used to do? When I create a new routine around going to school, to your house, your grandparents’, am I starting a new routine without you? How long can I keep your memory at the forefront of my mind? Of course, if I could choose, I’d keep you there for as long as I could. If I could choose, I’d do nothing in my room all day and daydream of you.

In my head, I have to remind myself of what happened a few months ago. But then I realize, “a few months ago” is usually defined as two or three months ago, and two or three months ago you were already not here on Earth. How long do I have left before “a few months ago” becomes “a while ago” and then “a year ago” and then “my boyfriend passed when we were younger”? How long before I can no longer say “a few months ago” and have it mean December?

I still text you multiple times a day. I still cry multiple times a day (I know, I should be stopping soon… but it’s just really hard). I still talk to you aloud in my room (sometimes in public if no one is around me), and in my head. But how long do I have before it’s unhealthy for me to do these things? How long before someone walks by my room, hears me talking to my boyfriend in Heaven, sits me down, and asks if I need help?

I haven’t spoken to any of my friends, some I have not replied since January when they told me how sorry they were. I haven’t seen any of them either. How long can I go on like this before they think I’m uninterested in the friendship? How long before “it’s okay, she’s grieving” becomes “I think she’s a bad friend”? How long do I have before I have to go back to being “normal” even though I know I won’t ever be?

There are about a million more of these I can think of, and I’m sure those who are grieving can do the same. I wish I had an answer to these questions. I wish I am able to continue this writing with a paragraph of “not to fear, here’s how I work through these issues!”, but I can’t. All of these worries along with the heaviness of your absence and the weight of life anchor me down to the isolated room of grief every single day. Sometimes, for a short moment, I am able to get out of the room, but before I know it, I am quickly pulled back in. I guess this is what grief does. How much longer before I get used to it? How much longer before I am no longer surprised by the ever-present anguish?

On days when it all feels too much, I think of eventually seeing you again. I tell myself that all this pain and suffering is minute compared to what you have been through. And I tell myself that the grief is a sign that you’re still here. Days are tough and nights are tougher, but I will keep being as strong as I can be until I see you again. Please keep sending us signs, okay? We really need them.

Can’t wait to see you again. I love you more, always, and forever.

Love always,
Sha