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HONEYMOON PART TWO: BUT FIRST, A DEDICATION

I had a friend. Ugh. The past tense thrusts itself hard, into the deepest pit of my stomach. But I did. I had a friend. She wasn’t the kind of friend that I had spent my childhood with, or met for coffee on Sundays. In fact, I didn’t even know her all that well. 

But despite the fact that our personal lives weren’t closely intertwined, we shared some of the biggest, most powerful moments that I imagine I will ever experience. Moments that have etched themselves into the forever part of my memory – and that I think transcend a silly little thing like time. 

Her name was Rachel. And she was kind and funny and smart. And she had the kind of smile that let you know she cared, before she even spoke to you. 

I met Rachel in the trauma bay at Denver Health. She was a PA on the emergency team and due to the nature of our jobs we often worked together on really difficult cases. The kind of cases that pulled at your heartstrings and forced you to suck back your tears and made you question your faith in just about everything. 

But Rachel was the kind of physician that made my job easy. She knew how to talk to children and make them feel safe. She looked past the levels and the counts and the x-rays and the ultrasounds and cared for that little person behind the injury. She was warm and sympathetic and gentle. I wish the big, scary medical world was filled with more people like her.  

One of the patients that sticks out to me the most was an 11-year-old boy who had been involved in a terrible car crash with his mom. The boy had suffered significant injuries but was going to be ok. His mom had died at the scene. 

Once the boy was comfortable, his father had asked me if I would help him break the news to his son. And l’d like to think that over the years I had gotten pretty good at putting my own emotions on hold until I exited the hospital doors, but this was one of those moments that left my face burning and forced my throat to tighten around my words – clear indicators that I wasn’t too far away from losing it. 

Rachel and I had worked together closely throughout the evening and so I asked her to be present as well should the boy have any medical questions (and a bit selfishly for my own support). And even though it wasn’t her job, and her shift had long since ended, she didn’t hesitate one single second in agreeing. She wanted to be there. 

So the three of us quietly entered the room and gathered around the boy’s bed. And Rachel and I stood by and listened to the boy’s father choke back tears as he told his son the most excruciatingly painful words that could ever touch a child’s ears. 

And of course the boy had questions. And I wish I could I remember exactly what it was that Rachel said, because it was amazing. Even when I was at a loss for words, she had them. And they were simple and truthful, but they were also so perfect and comforting. If I was that 11-year-old boy, I would have wanted those words. That compassion. 

I left the hospital that night in awe of her. So moved by what she had said and how she had said it. So thankful that she had been there. For the boy. And for me. 

When we went home for Christmas, I found out that Rachel had ended her life. And it was one of those moments that shot me straight up in bed and sent chills spiraling down my spine. Because I just couldn’t believe this beautiful person who I was just getting to know, just getting to adore, was gone. This talented and wonderful ball of light, who was giving so much of herself to others, must have been, at the same time dealing with such sadness – and that I had absolutely no idea. 

One of the last conversations I ever had with Rachel was right before I left Denver Health. She was one of those kindred spirits who loved adventure and the outdoors. We totally clicked in that way and when we got to talking, we could go on for what seemed like forever. 

We had stood in the hall chatting away for the better part of an hour. I was telling her the plans for our honeymoon and she was telling me her plans to move to Portland. It was a conversation that was full of life and excitement and hugs. We were so happy for each other.  I had promised her that Brad and I would come stay with her when we made it to Portland – that we would continue to keep in touch until then. And we did. When it came to the blog, she was one of our biggest cheerleaders. She would leave awesome comments and send supportive messages. Sometimes she made me laugh. Sometimes she made me smile. She just totally and completely rocked. And even though our friendship was just beginning, I was thankful to have her in my life. 

And here’s reason number 2,373 why I love my husband. When telling him about what had happened, and how it just completely broke my heart, he turned to me and said: “Well let’s dedicate this part of our trip to Rachel…when things are hard, we’ll do them for Rachel. When things are good we’ll know she’s with us.” 

And so, Rachel – here’s to you. I wish we would have had more time. I wish we would have become the kind of friends that sipped coffee on your couch in Portland and swapped stories of adventure. I wish I could have taken a little bit of your sadness away. But I know a little piece of whatever it was that made you, you is with me. I know I will take all of the things you taught me about kindness, compassion and love with me always. The next time I look over a beautiful mountain range and feel the wind against my face – I know you’ll be there. And wherever the next 239 days take us - we’ll be thinking of you along the way. 

-Kenze

McKenzie Burgtorf