I sat for a long time tonight at the computer and wondered if I should even write anything tonight. The news of Amy’s passing is still fresh: not as raw as it was those first hours but now mellowed to a distracting ache. I felt like I’d gotten all my screaming and sobbing out last night; that it hit sooner than it had with other people I’ve lost. It felt immediate and painful. I was practically hysterical when I wrote that last entry, just sobbing as I hit the keys. I was so ANGRY. I was so angry at a universe where things like that can happen to people. I felt angry that I didn’t have enough words to encompass everything. I hate those stupid filler words people use when someone dies. She was good, sweet, kind, loving. It makes it seem like it could be anyone, and when Michelle and I talked later, we said it was JUST THAT that made this seem so surreal. Amy– Amy’s entire family– they weren’t just anyone. They weren’t in any way generic. They were– are– all such a genuine, clever, outlandish clan of human beings. They’re so quirky in the most complimentary sense. My dad used to love listening to Amy’s little sister, Beccah, when she came to our house, because you never knew what she’d say. I still remember one day she was wandering around our front yard, exclaiming, “Well, what in COW HISTORY is that!” whenever she saw something weird. I can’t tell you how much that tickled him. What in cow history. He said it for the next two weeks; just getting a great laugh out of how totally Them it was.

I couldn’t sleep last night. I felt completely wrung out and laid in bed, head on Jason’s chest, eyes swollen, just thinking, trying not to think, head throbbing, eyes feeling swollen and too big for my skull. Addie had a nightmare, and I brought her into our room so I could watch her as she dozed. She held my index finger in her delicate hand. Every so often she would start (“Mmm? Mama?”) and then drift back to slumber, and I’d press my nose against her hair, blinking away the tears.

I didn’t even want to get up today. I just wanted to lay in bed, remembering.

I had to take Lola to the vet, which was probably the last thing in the world I’d choose to do– get up at 7 after virtually no sleep, feeling like crap in every possible sense, and drive a dog to get shots. I hardly said anything as I signed her in. I felt so uncomfortable, not talking. They offered me a back room to sit with Lola to meet with the doctor, and as we waited in the room, the sterile hospital setting of it– their Muzak piped over the speakers, songs about needing her back, please come back, why did you leave– I started to cry again. The more I tried to fight it, the harder I cried. When the doctor came in, she was reading her chart: “So, we’re going to see Lola, right? How are you guys doing?” and then she looked up, totally stricken.

Her assistant brought me some tissues. I kept apologizing, but they were extremely kind. That’s something that never ceases to amaze me: the kindness of others when faced with an issue like this. People are so kind when it comes to loss. They morph into the best side of them; patient, comforting, gentle.

I cried again when my parents showed up half an hour later, after we’d gotten back to the house. Michelle and I knew we had to tell them, but delivering the news again– hearing how awful the words were when spoken– sent us back into grieving.

We did normal things today. We went to the mall. We bought clothes. We ate. We picked Lola up later, and she looked like a new dog, and I took pictures in case I ever felt like posting them, because I know someday it will be back to Semi-Like-Before and I’ll do things like that. But not yet. I just took them and saved them on my card. I ate candy. I watched ‘Medium’. I worried about our bank account. And at every moment, I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to be doing any of it, how none of us know when our story ends. Today it hit not only that Amy has passed away, but that I will too. And I knew it, logically, but it always seemed so far away, so distant. When I was 89, 96, 103.

The online aspect has played a strange part in this. It’s unsettling to see her trail across the web, and the way it suddenly ended. The MySpace that hasn’t been logged in. The last email she sent. The last comment she left. Her blog without any updates. It’s like walking through a virtual home, and seeing the last items someone touched after they’re gone. It has been this huge realization that one day I will write an entry and after that, there will be silence. My site will stop. My story will be over. Eventually, I’ll be sifted into the far recesses of the internet, and it will be like I never existed at all.

This overwhelming awareness of mortality has been crushing me.

I don’t know how to end this. I didn’t expect to write anything, but here it is: my heart laid bare. I want to thank all of you, every last one of you, every person who said something here or on their site or emailed or messaged. I want to tell you how much I appreciated you, personally– YOU– extending your love and support. I’m glad so many of you cared so deeply– not for my sake, but because Amy deserved people who cared about her, who were upset for her, who will miss her. That’s the other thing about the Internet that hit me the last 24 hours. There are so many real, genuine people out there. You see letters on a screen and you can forget. You can think of it as an entire network of faceless computers, of online handles, of whatever. These are other human beings, all in their own homes, all with their own troubles, their own histories, their own losses and successes, and they care about their friends, online or off. It transcends blogs and IMs and FaceBook. There is such a sincere camaraderie. It’s incredible to me when I see that expressed. I am constantly amazed and humbled by the people who visit my site– you feel things so deeply and profoundly, and I’m so lucky to have this little family to talk to and share with. It’s not about being Online Friends. It’s about being friends. I can come to you about this like I’m sitting in your living room, on your couch, an emotional wreck asking to just PLEASE talk to you, PLEASE. And I know that you respond that way, too. You share that mourning. There were several of you that knew her and knew how awesome she was, but there are also so many of you that just see a friend suffering, and you reach out, and you do it wholeheartedly.

I’ll get back to as many people as I can, but I’m tired right now, and I still feel not quite back to functioning. Bear with me over the next few days. I’m sure I’ll be okay eventually. I just need some time.