1,000 Oceans
These tears I've cried, I've cried 1,000 oceans
And if it seems I'm floating in the darkness, well
I can't believe that I would keep
Keep you from flying . . .
And I would cry 1,000 more if that's what it takes
To sail you home, sail you home, sail you home.
It's all black today, here in this musty church with Addison and a bunch of other people who have come to pay their respects. Izzie can't believe that it's been over a week since she last held Addison in her arms, since she last kissed her fragile lips, since she last stroked her poor short hair that still flamed red, even when the rest of her was white and dying.
Black – yes, black like the sky outside, because this is an evening funeral in the dark of winter; black like the marble casket in front of Izzie, with the faint white streaks that show that even in death, Addison's still stylish. Black like the priest's robes, black like the funeral outfits, black that's in style and black that's a swallowing hole of darkness that Izzie's inexorably falling into, even though Meredith is holding her hand and Cristina is rubbing her shoulders.
You see, this isn't like Denny. It seems like it would be, but it's not. Because Izzie really did know Denny for about five minutes. She kissed him, but she never slept with him, or shared her life with him. It's different when you've known someone inside out – seen her smile and cry, seen her face light up at Christmastime when you give her what she's always wanted, seen her clawing at her hair after she lost both a mother and child that she was sure was going to live. And all of Addison's friends who are sitting here today in this church – every single one of them – they didn't know Addie like she did. They didn't realize what it was like to give yourself fully to someone, to tie your life directly to theirs. So they really don't get it when they say how sorry they are, because it feels like Izzie's dead, too. Because this is the second lover she's lost, and the best.
The funeral's beginning, and Izzie has to push through the glue in her head to hear what the priest is saying. Addison was what she jokingly called a "lapsed Catholic", and you'd rarely see her in a church. However, Izzie alone know of the true spirituality that Addison possessed, and knew that even if she didn't attend mass every Sunday, she never missed her nightly prayer. She lit candles for friends in need. She knelt in front of icons and kissed the golden-flecked painted robes. So, when everyone questioned why Izzie decided to hold a funeral service in a Catholic church, Izzie was ready to tell them about Addison and her religion, but found that she really couldn't get the words out. And she didn't want to. Screw them all – if Addie wanted a service in a church, then that was what Izzie was going to give her. Because Izzie always gave Addie whatever she wanted, and why stop now? Izzie buries her head in her hands, feeling the tears slip through her fingers. Why, when this is the last time she can make Addison happy?
I'm aware what the rules are, but you know that I would run
You know that I will follow you
Over Silbury Hill, through the solar field
You know that I will follow you
"Dr. Addison Marie Forbes Montgomery, top neonatal surgeon at Seattle Grace Hospital, was a woman of great personal strength. She was known as a compassionate doctor, wonderful wife, and a caring friend."
No, there wasn't anything Addison wouldn't do. Like that time that Alex's mother had a stroke and no medical insurance to pay for treatment. Addie had managed to pull a few strings, found a doctor who was a former student of hers to perform the treatment for free. She had then secretly paid for ongoing physical and mental therapy for Mrs. Karev because she knew what an intern's salary is like and she knew Alex couldn't afford it. And who could forget how she'd helped her patients through the years, sometimes even jeopardizing her career? Addison had always told Izzie that she needed to be less emotional and more professional, that she needed to take a step back from her patients and be objective. But that was the one thing that Addison could never practice what she preached – she was always involved, with every patient, every friend, everyone she ever knew. Addison had immense capacity for forgiveness and immense empathy for humankind. It was something you didn't see nowadays.
Izzie is due to give the eulogy, and for a minute, she feels like she can't speak. However, the whole church is watching her – everyone wants to know a little bit more about Addie, some side of her that only Izzie knows. For a minute, she wants to run out of the church and just bury herself somewhere where no one can bother her. But she owes Addison this. She owes Addison the honour of being remembered.
Her black skirt swishes around her calves; her heels clack loudly on the marble floor. Izzie reaches the altar, turns, stares at her reflection in the casket, which is mercifully closed. Addison was always beautiful, even in death, but her wasted body and drawn face would shock anyone who hadn't lived with it for the last year. It was best that everyone remembered her from the large picture set up on the easel beside the coffin. Addie smiles confidently at Izzie now; her long red hair is swept back, her blue eyes twinkle from the frame, and suddenly Izzie knows exactly what to say. She touches the cool black marble gently – she strokes the smoothness, leaving a small finger mark. And now, Izzie's ready.
"I know, you're all here to remember Addison," she begins, her voice rusty from disuse and almost non-stop tears. In fact, she can feel the ache in the back of her throat that tells her that she won't make it through this speech without crying. Nevertheless. Nevertheless.
"I lived with Addison for a year and a half as her wife. Before that, I was her student. She taught me everything I knew about obstetrics and gynecology. I don't think, out of all the teachers that I have ever had, that I had a better one than Addie, and that's the truth. Because she had such a respect for life, you know? We surgeons . . . we fix people, you know, we put them back together. Parts to make a whole. A new part to make the body go again. It's easy to forget that a patient is a person instead of an organism with many moving parts. But Addie never forgot that. She never forgot about the person behind the patient, and that's what made her a good doctor. Not just her skill in the OR, not just the way that she saved most of the babies she delivered, or managed to make early diagnoses. She listened to what a patient wanted and she listened to their fears. Addison understood what it was like to be on the other side of the stirrups, because earlier this year, she experienced it herself."
Izzie looks out into the crowd, looks out at all the eyes that are looking back at her. She sees her friends; Meredith is clutching Derek's hand and wiping her eyes. Derek is staring at Izzie, his face disbelieving, like he can't believe that he's experiencing his ex-wife's funeral. Well, Izzie can't believe it either, and she, like him, was there when Addison died. Mark is rubbing his huge fists into his eyes, trying to keep it under control. Izzie feels for him the most, because he really loved her, maybe more than Izzie ever could. And way in the back, under a black hat with heavy netting, she sees the blonde hair and pointed face of Savvy, who begged Addison for a hysterectomy, oophorectomy, and mastectomy so that she could avoid exactly what Addison went through. Looking at Savvy, Izzie suddenly finds the strength to go on with her eulogy. She clears her throat.
And if I find you, will you still remember?
Playing at trains, or does this little blue ball
Just fade away?
Over Silbury Hill, through the solar field
You know that I will follow you
I'm aware what the rules are, but you know that I would run
You know that I will follow you
"So, yeah. Addie had ovarian cancer. It almost seemed ironic, you know, because she's spent so many years trying to fight it, even doing a fellowship in oncology research, because she felt so strongly about trying to cure the disease. It's so . . . unfair." Izzie's voice breaks and she tries to get it under control. "We knew the odds, you know, we knew what would happen. But she believed up until the day she died that the science she believed in would come through for her. We both believed it." Izzie wipes her eyes, hears sniffles from the congregation.
The fight hadn't been long, but it had been hard, because Addison seemed to react badly to nearly every single treatment that could be offered. She spent days throwing up, hours on the toilet after radiation, and at the end, weeks in bed, too weak to even walk across the room. She'd insisted on having her laptop near, determined to work until she couldn't. She'd even wanted to go to the Maternity floor after her chemotherapy sessions to continue working. It had been heartbreaking to see her face crumple with tears when she'd taken one look at a patient's vagina and had to run from the room to throw up, spending two hours hunched over the toilet before Izzie found her and taken her home. Addison, who'd had the strongest stomach of anyone. Addison, who had rarely taken a sick day.
"I can't remember a day that I didn't wake up and not feel grateful that Addison was lying beside me. I can't remember a moment that she wasn't there for me, to hold me up. I can't remember loving someone this much, ever. For me, her death has been almost devastating." Izzie's voice drops, the tears start to fall again, but this time she lets them. "But she's at peace now – and she was so sick. Some of you don't know how sick. She . . . she just wasn't Addison then."
Izzie finishes her speech, tries to find something positive to end on, can't. "So you remember Addie as she was – like that," she says, pointing to the picture. "Don't remember the woman in this coffin. Remember the amazing doctor – remember the wonderful friend. And for some of you, who knew her the best, well. I don't think you'll run out of things to remember. How can you? She's left enough memories for all of us."
Izzie sits down, feels Cristina's hand on her shoulders again, squeezing. She feels the warmth of Meredith beside her, but she can't really feel it inside. Because this feels like it's it for Izzie. She's given her heart twice and twice the recipients have died on her. And maybe it's some kind of curse, she doesn't know. But she can't bear the thought of going home to the empty brownstone and crawling between the cold sheets, reaching out for the only person that she's ever felt truly comfortable with. The only person she's ever really loved, loved so fiercely that her head aches with the thought of her.
The funeral ends. Izzie troops out with the others, allows them to press her hand, say their condolences, try to find closure. Izzie wants to tell them that she doesn't have the closure that they want. Hell, she held Addison in her arms at the last, felt her last breath. She doesn't have the closure. She doesn't ever want closure, because if she can't feel this pain, then was the love real? And how is she supposed to live with that?
Can't this just be a dream? She closes her eyes and feels the tears come through them, healing and burning and swelling. She'd keep crying if only it meant that Addison would come back, that she could be sure that the pain wouldn't end and that she would forget her.
So many tears – it's like an ocean of tears. But she hasn't got a life raft. And she's so scared that she's going to forget Addison's face, forget her voice, because she's crying out all her memories and soon there will be nothing left.
These tears I've cried, I've cried 1,000 oceans
And if it seems I'm floating in the darkness, well
I can't believe that I would keep
Keep you from flying . . .
And I would cry 1,000 more if that's what it takes
To sail you home, sail you home, sail you home, sail
Sail you home.
Where are you?