I was in the grocery store, on the phone to Mum. Indi was behind me and he was frustrated by my frantic. The night before, Mum had called to tell me that Megs was in an induced coma, with a 15cm bleed on her brain in a third world country.
"Baby" - she'd said with caution in her voice- "I've got some hard news. Don't fly into a panic yet. Megsy has been in an accident."
"I know Ma, I spoke to her yesterday! She's fine!"
"No honey, she's in critical condition. The hospital didn't pick it up when they checked her out. Aunty Pene is flying to Columbo now. It's not looking good"
I'd curled up on my boyfriends bed, and we'd talked in between tears. He was born in Sri Lanka, and he was able to nod at the places I mentioned, tell me where she would be taken. He waited with me the whole night for a phone call, for some extra information.
When we woke the next morning, there was some hope in me. If we hadn't heard anything yet, she was still alive. If she was still alive, then she was fighting. That little honey of a human was still fighting.
I was set on distracting myself. I wanted to make hollondaise sauce. Indi had mentioned one night as we were laying awake in our world up that he had had it a festival once and loved it. I wanted to do something for him. So there we were, in the grocery store, me wandering around on the phone without direction while we tried to sooth each others bubbling anxiety. It took me much longer than it should of to pick up a few bits of nothing. Indi didn't argue with me this time as I bought things that we may not use more than once.
In his kitchen, I melted the butter and separated the eggs. I was concentrating. I was out of my mind. I was wearing a striped dress that didn't suit me, but Megs had given it to me the last day I was with her, and I wanted to have her around me in some small way. The first hollandaise didn't work at all. It split, the butter was too hot for the egg. I was ground in determination. I tried again, wasting eggs like it was la tomatina for hens periods.
The second batch failed, in much the same way the first one did. I pushed hair out my face, fingers oily. I sat on the floor of the kitchen, defeated. Indi came down with me, and asked if I would try once more. This time we went slowly, we had strategy. it worked. I grinned like a maniac. The hollondaise had worked! For a few minutes my mood lifted.
A foulness polluted me almost immediately after. I became sullen. I became angry. I was unable to explain this mood to Indi as he looked at me concerned with questions in his eyes.
And then it came.
The tears flooded, the anxiety, the 'why don't we know anythings?' the 'what happens if she doesn't make its?' the 'I'm so scareds' muddled onto the kitchen floor where I had sit defeated by hollondaise. He guided me to his room, our world, where I lay waiting to hear. It became a game of trying to find out as much as possible.
I googled where she had been airlifted, I spoke with my brother, my cousins, my dad, my Mum, my Noni. And eventually, Aunty Pene. Oh aunty Pene. My other Mum. The only other lady who got my crazy, who bought quietness when needed and noisy joy when appropriate. She gave me facts. I swallowed them, comforted and alarmed simultaneously. And then, and then I wrote. I had a blank paged notebook. I wrote Megs some words. They said
"Hey moley. You've got us all going crazy over here. We love you so so much. I just want to give your stupid head a big cuddle. But honey, if you need to go, if you've fought enough, I get it. I understand. Just, please, fight a little longer."
Half an hour later, my cousin Gracie called me. There were no words, just howls. We howled together as Gracie pulled the words out.
"I'm so sorry Annie, she's gone."
Indi sheltered me as I convulsed in grief. I remember throwing up in the toilet. I remember 10 phone calls in 2 hours. I remember remembering her golden girl laugh, her story telling, her joy. Megs was my soul sister, is my soul sister. Do I use was, is, were? Where is she? How can she be not here? She's not here!
The days following were 40 phone calls in one day. They were my tribe in Freemantle crowd funding so my brother Joshy could come home from Canada. They were long messages. They were the ultimate ying yang of profound love and support and shattering grief and despair. They were feeling Aunty Pene and Craig and Pete and Charlie and Ella. They were celebrating Meghans beautiful, outrageous life. We all crawled to each other. We all painted with love the pain we were feeling.
Five hundred people came to Meghans funeral. At the end of the service we screamed songs for her, the way we had done many summers before. After the funeral, I didn't move from my room for months. I laughed and cried for her daily.. I spoke about her sparkle to everyone. At 23 my beautiful cousin broke our hearts, but we are reminded daily of her love.
Its just been over 6 months since Megs left us. This morning I sat in my kitchen and thought about when I made hollondaise sauce; the last morning that she fought. I thought about how I felt as it failed, I thought about what it would be now if Meghan had survived, failing at Hollondaise sauce wouldn't be memorable at all. I thought about how grief makes stupid things, like hollondaise sauce, significant. One of the most interesting things about grief isn't actually the pain itself. People talk about the pain and expect it to be there. The most interesting thing is the part of yourself that watches as you crumble with the memory of hollondaise sauce. The observatory part of your mind sits there stunned, like, 'is hollondaise sauce seriously fucking with you so much right now that you're drool -crying into your cereal?'
The answer is yes, yes it is. And I think it always will, when I revisit hollondaise sauce day the pain is exactly the same as the day I felt it.
It has not lessened or faded, it is the same heat.
If you were looking for a metaphor here on hollondaise sauce and death, you won't find one. But, you will find a day that has been named and explored; perhaps that is the best I can hope for.