Last night was an emotional roller coaster, which makes sense following the week we had. At 8 p.m., my tattooed momma Skye texted that she was at the tattoo shop and needed to get inked RIGHT NOW. Just the day before, she lost her lifelong friend Hill to a fast-moving cancerous brain tumor that ravaged her body within a month of diagnosis. I cried when she sent the message that Hill had passed away in ICU surrounded by her friends cheering her on to the sounds of dubstep. Hill was only 19. So I spent a couple hours sitting by Skye's side listening to stories while a beautiful traditional rose was etched into her skin with the date of Hill's death: 10-26-11. At the same time, my husband was calling my phone, which was tucked in my jacket pocket on the floor, trying desperately to get in touch with me. His lifelong friend Brian had posted his goodbyes online, having hit rock bottom after losing his job, his girlfriend, and contact with his only son. So I rushed home so K could rescue his friend from ending his life. At 1 a.m. with no word, I finally fell asleep.
This morning, Brian was alive and awake, playing with my babies when I woke. And the thank you message from Skye let me know that part of her was able to heal with that rose on her arm, and I was able to be there to witness it.