Fighter.

Fighter.

This afternoon, my friend Michele was transferred to the critical ICU and induced into a coma. Her lungs are 75% filled with fluid. As one of Michele's best friends found me to tell me the news, she looked at me and asked me, "She'll be fine, right? She'll beat this?" And for the first time, neither of us could chin-up and pretend we were just waiting it out anymore. It has always just felt like we had to sit still and be strong while she did her time with treatment, and then we'd have Normal Michele back again. I think it's the first time I've honestly been scared.

Later on, as thousands of illuminated balloons lit up the night around the racetrack, red balloons for people coming out in support, white balloons for survivors, and gold balloons for those who had lost a family member, I found myself completely overwhelmed. Standing alone at the edge of the track next to the standard-issue cover band, I broke down because I wanted Michele to be there. I missed her so much. I didn't even miss having her hang out with me - I just wanted to see her from across the way completely in her element and loving it.

It's not as simple as wanting her to hurry up and heal - I just want this to have not happened.