Our Desperate Wish for Fairness

Human beings want so desperately to believe in fair that they’re willing to sacrifice the feelings of others to avoid that conflict. For as many stories of people who have survived through personal disaster, whose faces cover NY Times Bestsellers and whose stories are known across many countries, or who have exposed themselves even to just their friends the heartache they have known….I would guess that there exists thousands of others whose experience has hurt them beyond repair.

Human beings want so desperately for those around them to be strong, to not show their suffering, to not break down in despair that we drive those who are hurting to experience that pain alone: on the floor of their living room or fetal under a bedroom comforter.

When a child struggles in school through a shattered home life, physical or emotional or mental disabilities, we recognize that difference but wish so badly for them to be the exception. To rise up and perform to the level of children without those barriers in their way because we want hope that Life balances itself out if you try hard enough.

When a widow sits out at dinner, still in shock with the vast chasm of aloneness and longing for her soulmate staring her daily in the eyes, those that pulled her out of the house for a meal feel the need to enlighten her: “You’re young! You’ll find someone else. You’ll have a family and you’ll be happy again.” We want hope that someone else will take care of her and we can be relieved of that position if she just opens herself to the chance for disappointment and heartbreak again.

...As if she doesn’t realize her age. As if that is what she is worried about. As if her husband could ever be replaced by logging onto a dating site and picking the first attractive face she sees in order to fill a box on the bookshelf labeled “husband”. As if gathering the pieces of a heart that will never be whole again is an easy task.

When you share the universe’s decision to not grant you fertility, people want to tell you about their coworker’s friend – the one that went through 3 rounds of IVF or 2 miscarriages, or had cancer in her 20’s – she adopted! She has a beautiful happy family. See? You can be happy!

When someone shares the devastation of receiving a life-altering diagnosis – Parkinson’s, cancer, ALS – many times those surrounding them want to rush in to assure them that “we’re going to kick ___’s butt”, “treatment options exist” and “new medications are being discovered daily.”

Let. Them. Grieve.

Realize that the widow will always wonder how beautiful her life with her first husband would have been. He will always be her first choice.

Realize that the mother will never have another first-born child or may never have another daughter. She may have an oldest surviving child or she may have future pregnancies but the miscarriage or the stillborn baby or the child that died decades before his/her time cannot be replaced. Cannot be forgotten.

Realize that the beautiful family brought together through adoption may be parents making the best of a devastating situation. They can love their children that are not their genetic makeup but they may still shed tears for losing the chance to experience what a pregnancy feels like physically and emotionally. They may wonder what color eyes their son or daughter would have had when their unique set of genes came together. They may imagine how short or how tall, how creative or how quirky or how proficient at sports would have been produced when the two of them made another life. They may wonder what beautiful being they could have made if Life had dealt them different cards.

Realize that regardless of the outcome, the diagnosis that was just received is devastating. Their friends, their neighbors, the asshole at work that complains about everything: why do they have their health still?

What did I do to step in this pile of Life’s shit?

You, friend, your role is not to help this person fix or figure out or plan for anything. Your role is to sit silently. Your role is not to imagine what you would want to hear but to listen to the one that is affected by Life’s cruel twist. This is not a time to put on “big girl panties” or to “be strong” or “one day it will get better”. You don’t know that: whether you’re 20 or 70. Your life’s experience may have shown you that people can survive loss, that some have the support and resolve to continue and to play the cruel and biased game of Life with the most recent hand dealt.

Your life’s experience may not have shown you the family that lived forever in poverty after the loss of their breadwinner. Your life's experience may not have shown you the couple that couldn't afford to adopt and loses the chance at Christmas with grandchildren in old age, whose holidays are alone, and whose name dies when they do. Your life’s experience may not have shown you the widow/widower who passed away a year after their partner, their heart broken and their health shattered when they lost their other half. Your life’s experience may not have enlightened you to the soldier that survived the tour but silenced the nightmares 6 weeks or 2 years or 30 years later. The experience, the pain, the support, the personality, the resolve: all of these may be different for you than that person sitting before you.

Life does not give everyone the same chances, the same happy endings, the same opportunities. It gives them different struggles, different paths, different frequencies and intensities of pain. Life kills children and geniuses, homeless and wealthy, it maims and destroys those with the tenderest or the cruelest hearts either at random or sometimes, it would seem all toward 1 person or family. We cannot expect everyone to embrace the loss of that beautiful human being they relied on in a positive way. Death and suffering are realities but they are not something to expect our friends to “embrace” any more than murder or rape or genocide are horrifying experiences for some human beings.

Your friend, your loved one, your acquaintance, they will experience this episode of Life being ridiculously unfair in their own way. It is not for you to tell them that someone else you know found happiness, that another person has gone through this or worse and thrived. Because they haven’t. No one on the planet has entered the current struggle exactly the same. Each human being has an emotional body burden in essence, and their relationship with others and their relationship with themselves is not the same as the face in that book or move or on that blog who shares their story about surviving through personal disaster. It is not for you to tell them that it will get better. Only they can learn if that will be their future.

My Least Favorite Idioms

My "Stages" of Grief

Everyone grieves differently, everyone experiences grief on different levels and experiences their range of emotions in a unique way. Example: My mother-in-law told me she sat in the room less than a month later yelling "How could you do this to me?!?!" I have not ever done this. I have felt anger toward a lot of people but not once toward Ryan. Maybe I will one day. Maybe I won't. I've read books where the author's expressed a wide range of emotions toward their loved one after death.

They're allowed.

We're all allowed.

 
Perhaps that's why idioms are so dangerous. In general, it seems, these short quips of "knowledge"/"comfort" were not coined by people with personal experience. Even if they are, however, with a wide range of emotions that occurs after a loss, it is preferred to take possession of the feelings you express: "When I lost my husband, I remember feeling ______." and to probably not insert your own opinion if you've not stood in those shoes. Our friends that are most helpful support us. They don't weigh in on the event of grief or loss itself. They are there to help with tasks we are struggling to accomplish, they share quality time with us, sitting beside us until we are strong enough to rise. My least favorite idioms below:

"Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem"

The phrase attempts to declare that the action of suicide is on a whim, unprovoked, and spontaneous. Perhaps people say this in an attempt to remove the surviving loved one from any guilt associated with knowing or predicting ahead of time. I'm not sure. Even if this was the attempt I can say from experience that survivor's guilt has been one of my most excrutiating components to grief.

I hate this saying because it overlooks significant mental illness.

It silences the reality that for many people, the suicide itself comes after years of struggling, fighting, pushing through when they are exhausted and hurting. My Sweetheart spent years and years struggling without medication, with little professional support, to fight post-traumatic stress and depression and this massive bundle of demons. That fight will wear you out. His problem wasn't temporary - his battle was chronic and he was a warrior for nearly a decade. I wish only that he had more buddies in his corner helping him fight. I wish he didn't feel like he only had me.

Suicide doesn't take the pain away, it simply transfers it to another. 

I understand the thought behind this: for those that have contemplated or are contemplating suicide, it is intended to serve as a reminder that their choice will hurt others. Whoah, whoah whoah. So we guilt trip those that are struggling? Let's phrase it differently: "You know, if you hadn't come down with pneumonia, we'd be having a good vacation right now..." (*snicker**snort* yeah, ok...) My other problem:

Suicide does take the pain away. My Love no longer suffers. 

I will never be the same. I would not want that.

 
Suicide does create new pain for those still here and there is no meter to assign a fraction of his pain to me or my mother-in-law or other friends and family. Ryan is not responsible for my pain any more than he was responsible for my joy. He has been the object of my joy, love and my pain over the years, though I choose - positive or negative - my own emotions. Currently my pain is simply here, present every day in my life. But to equate the pain of my grief to the pain of my Sweetheart's demons and mental tortures would be impossible. I did not share his demons. We experience different attacks on our mind. I cannot quantify the severity of my grief and I will not pass along the responsibility, though I know for many: it's easier to blame the dead.

5 Ways to Help Someone Grieving

In the last few months I have alternated between anger and apathy toward people that walked away after Ryan's funeral. The ones that haven't even bothered to reach out. I appreciate so much more the attempt to be helpful, even though it is occasionally hurtful. I do recognize that most people have no idea what to do and we naturally withdraw from uncomfortable situations.

You can find oodles of lists in a quick search. What has been most helpful to me?

1. Checking in

"Just thinking about you."

"How is today?"

I have never experienced such loneliness in my life. I've never felt as abandoned as I have since January. Checking in reminds me that I am valuable to someone. As a widow to suicide, value is not one thing I would attribute to myself, which makes me staying alive so much harder.

2. Anticipating needs

There are many things you don't realize will happen after a loss. I hit my lowest weight (losing 20% of my body weight) at 4 months and 1 day. Underwear doesn't fit when this happens. Clothes obviously fit looser, but it's frustrating to not even have a bra or underwear that is comfortable - it messes with everything. A Victoria's Secret gift card (because underwear shopping hasn't been high on my list of things to do/spend money on) is such a thoughtful and helpful way to notice and lend a hand.

A coworker brought soup in the winter and put it in the fridge for me and another vacuum wrapped and froze smoked turkey breast and brisket and left a card saying "food is in a bag for you in the freezer". I didn't have to think, I didn't have to come up with something that sounded yummy, because honestly, not much sounds yummy nowadays. It was perfect. Just do it. "I'm making extra enchiladas and was going to bring some up tomorrow, ok?"

3. Listening

I am a pariah. I was a contagious vat of Ebola after Ryan died. EVERYONE left. There were times where I'd schedule time with my therapist just so I could talk to someone. I wanted somewhere safe where I could have a person just listen to what I was thinking and feeling without shocked looks in response, without disruption, without judgment. Life is very silent after death - perhaps folks are around to help immediately after and to dote and perhaps they are not. You would be surprised who stays around and who does not and family is not a guaranteed support system. So ask to come over and just sit and hold their hand. They may not be ready to talk. They may be scared about your reaction to what they say. Really listen. Follow up with them in a note that reminds them you heard what they said or you notice them. Nothing is stable after death. Nothing. (related: Please Let Me Have My Meltdowns) A friend that saw a photo I posted (Glitter for the Stupid) sent me a vial of green (my favorite color) glitter with a small unsigned note that said "In case you need it..." I cried. Thank you for listening.

4. Sharing

Please tell me stories about Ryan. "Did you know him?" I've asked people... Please share pieces of his life that you knew. Share your interactions with him. Remind me that he's not forgotten. I remember him every day, but it hurts to feel like others don't.

 5. No Cliches 

There is nothing you can do to "fix this"

This is actually perfect, because it releases you from the obligation to find the "right" things to do or say. The most reflective person on the planet will not draft some great speech that "cures" me of this overwhelming pot of emotions. There are countless places you can go to find the What Not to Say (related: The "Worst" Loss) but it all boils down to: "I do not know what you are going through or what to say, but I love/care about you."  If you have experienced loss and want to share your loss with me, share your personal story. Mine may not look like yours. Remember the "fixing" thing? Expecting my journey to look like yours is a mistake. It may? It may not...

((Hugs))

The "Worst" Loss

“Losing a child IS the WORST”

I don’t know…

 

I don’t know what it is like to create and carry a child for 9 months

I only know that I was supposed to – that I had picked an OB/GYN who would let him deliver when the time came because it was an event he wanted to experience more than anything.
“I’ve delivered enough crack babies, I want to with my own.”

I don’t know what it’s like to birth a child

I only know that when our gross little mess of new life was laid on my chest, that I’d look at him or her and say “Hello Nolan” or “Hello Elyse”. That this step in life was ours to take together, and he was the only one I'd wanted to try it with. I only know that he had claimed the name of his first son years before and had signed off a week prior to his death on my suggestion for our daughter.

I don’t know what the "firsts" were like: to hear the first words, first “I love you”, or see the first smile

I only what it feels like to play on repeat our last conversation, remember our last words running them through my brain every day, to hear his last “I Love You”, and to remember how he smiled at me specifically - to remember the unique smiles of intimacy and love.

I don’t know what it’s like to pick a little boy up from scraped knees, broken bones, and tell him “It’s ok”

I only know what it feels like to get the call that he’s in the hospital and to leave dinner to go be with him, to rub his feet because he’s been on them all day, to massage his back because the muscle that tore still hurts just standing for too long. I only know what it’s like when he tells me it’s hurting and he’s frustrated and he’s tired, to wrap my entire body around him and tell him it’s ok while wracking my brain to figure out what I can do to keep him from hurting any more. And for my answer to still not keep him here or stop the hurting before it was too late.

I don’t know what it’s like for a teenage boy high on hormones to yell “I hate you!” and to still love him

I only know what it’s like for a grown man at a low point of depression to say
“I don’t want you” and to still love him.

I don’t know what it’s like to pour my life into someone every day for 18 years

I only know that it was my responsibility to take care of him now. That for many every day “will be” different now, but for me every day “IS” different because he was the most important person in my life and he was present every day. I only know that I was blessed to have him for 1,252 days, and that it will never be long enough. I only know that I feel robbed of 50 more years with my Every Day.

 …I only know how frustrating and unhelpful it is to have your pain, which is so excruciating and overwhelming, not justified and to hear from others that it is still not as bad as another.

I only know me. I know that I hurt for his mom; that thankfully she is seemingly the only person that hasn't attempted to compare. Thankfully we have looked at each other and said "I don't even know how you..." and we respect the different love, the different relationship, and the different travel within grief that each other is going through. For that I am so grateful.

Group Therapy Reflections

I had the benefit last night of going to group but only 1 other person showed up in addition to the moderator. It left a lot of time available to talk about a lot of things. One thing that stuck with me is the stress added to those grieving by others - knowingly or unknowingly. It's been without a doubt the most unexpected and frustrating part for me. Some thoughts from about 2 hours of discussion:

Trying to make others feel better first

Scenario: the random stranger that cries when you share or start crying flips the table and turns into "oh gosh, I feel so bad I made him/her cry now I have to comfort them" or the obligatory "well his mom asked me to do this so I have no choice because this is tough for her" that the other attendee shared; these things halt the healing or minimize the stress of the

Different strokes for different folks

Scenario: after a loss what's hard for the mother/siblings may not be the same thing that is hard for the wife/husband different still from what might be hard for the friends. Not only is the significance of the loss different for each person but the triggers also. Not everyone remembers the person they've lost the same, either. The mom wiped their butt as a baby and stayed up when they had a fever or colic. The wife comforted not that person as a child but the grown man that was having a hard time, cleaned and washed and shared intimate moments with. The brothers and sisters perhaps fought as all siblings do, but ultimately made up and were maybe best buds and confidants for each other. The stories and the memories each shared may be different, the person that was lost will be remembered in different ways, which speaks to the next part:

The hierarchy of loss

Our facilitator shared that with us that a lot of people, try as they might, always label the loss of a child (regardless of young child or adult child) as the "worst". This honed in on what I'd posted recently about Why You Don't Want to be a Grieving Fiance. Maybe it is and maybe it isn't? But whatever is going on with the person you're talking to at the time -- it certainly sucks for them. So why introduce "well this could be worse..." or "at least you didn't lose your..." to them? Why?

She'd also shared that she tries to remind those when training them - someone who says they lost a husband/wife of 40 years to not give them more leniency in grief because of the amount of time. "Yes, that's horrible; remember you did get to spend 40 years with your soulmate...Some people find that person and they grief the past and the present plus the future" Robbed is the word I've used.

If people were more gentle and stopped trying to turn loss into a competition, our compassion to others for exactly what they're feeling and having to deal with in the best way they can would ease the burden of others if just a small amount.

The burden of the griever

I chastised myself (WHY do I do this?!) for it but shared how I feel the need to offer people something in return for spending time with me on a bad day (or any day...) "Hey, how about I bring over dinner for you?" or "Come have a beer on me..." because I have been taught from a few bad instances, by those that are less compassionate, that I am not worthy of being around (i.e. the just-stops-responding caller/texter, the always-has-something-going-on excuse friend, the you-can-talk-to-me-but-I'm-allowed-to-insert-my-two-sense relative, etc.)...

OVERALL---Be gentle with others. I will probably not take this advise for myself, but I say it regardless. 

Why you don't want to be a grieving fiance

I don't like sharing with people that I lost my fiance. It's not that it's hard to share it but that it's hard to deal with people once you tell them. You will forever be treated differently. Typical scenario:

Well, I lost my fiance 18 weeks and 1 day ago.

Question 1: Oh, wow. I'm so sorry. What happened?
Response 1: Well, his death was a suicide.

Now this typically goes 1 of 2 ways

• Compassionate response not dependent on details: "I'm so sorry, I lost my (insert relationship) the same way (insert time) ago" or "I have no idea but I am so sorry"
• Making things more awkward: *Fumble over words* or *Flag me as a "victim"* or (god forbid) "Did you find him?" <none of your damn business

Almost without fail my very next question if it comes (if they haven't run out of the room yet):

Question 2: So, how long were you together?

*Usually at this point, they also look down at my left hand. I'm not sure why...just to make sure I'm telling the truth?

Awesome. I've just shared with you the hands-down-most-difficult-event-of-my-life. And now the person that is questioning is setting themselves up to assess (in their mind) how difficult it is for me. Ugh. 

There are people married 20 years that hate each other's guts. Time doesn't equate to quality of the relationship or difficulty of grief. 

I opened up to his mother, an absolute Angel of a woman, that in some ways she has the 'benefit' (terrible word) of being a grieving mother in that I haven't heard of anyone asking "how close were you with your child?" or otherwise provides compassion contingent on first deciding the strength of the relationship... Usually, after question 1 it's something like "Oh my god. I can't even imagine..."

Guess what? You can't imagine what my heart and mind are like right now either.

If you want to know how much it hurts: I spent 3 1/2 years with someone that I was overjoyed at the prospect of spending another 50-60 years with. Within the first year of dating him, I was modifying some life goals because I wanted happiness in us more than just me. In the 6 months before he died, I was putting myself in a position to support him - no matter what it took (financial, geographical changes) I would let him decide. 

I lost my emergency contact, my best friend, my confidant, my advisor, my lover, my partner. I lost my Every Day. I marked up on my cell phone bill the number of times I called or was called by him, just in the last 2 weeks he was alive. The page was bled through with pink pen underlined multiple times every single day of the week. I'm now caring for 2 dogs, caring for the house we bought, except I'm doing it all alone. Try and think about how much that hurts before you judge how important he was by the length of time I was blessed to have him...

The Vacuum

Yesterday's Show. Ryan planted for me last year.

There is this odd phenomenon that happens to a person after a loss.

Everyone wants to rush in immediately after when you're confused and hurting and stressed and they want to just "be there" for you. They make promises at the funeral that they'll be there and maybe check in by phone or text a week after and then *POOF* everyone disappears. There's this massive vacuum staring you right in the face every single day. You're Every Day is gone and so is everything else.

You lose friends.
No one wants to talk about the one you lost. They change the subject, ignore your comments or skip over you in group conversation. And it's super freaking obvious.

Promises are broken.
"Call if you need anything"
"Let me know how I can help"
"Rain check"
"I'll call you"
"Maybe next week"
Everyone tells the grieving person these things, but sooner or later (and I've been surprised how soon is sooner...) people you found the strength to reach out to wait a few days before responding to texts for coffee or dinner and (understandably so) they always have plans to do something else - always. Just don't lie to me about that.

I checked my phone one week and realized there were 3 people that had called me. And each one of them called because I had said something in text first that had started the conversation. Talk about a great feeling.

No one "gets" it.
The body language and the response to admitting you've lost a lot of weight, that you can't imagine disconnecting his phone, that no, you're just. not. hungry... it's why we stop talking and sharing things. Thoughts and feelings begin to be internalized (not good) and we're constantly spot checking whether we're "crazy" or not. I don't feel crazy. I feel hurt - very very hurt.

There's nothing more isolating than realizing everyone else's life is going on as usual. 

There's nothing more frustrating than watching the eyes dart and people shift in their seats when I say "Ryan" in a sentence. Ryan planted this beautiful rose bush in the yard last year because he said he was going to be buying so many flowers for me that it would be more economical to have them on-hand.

Rose bush planted with help from the supreme digger.

What people don't get is that I've already got the constant reminders - from the time I wake up to the time I pass out - that he is gone. No one calls to wake me up, there are no sweet texts and "checking in" during the day. The phone never goes off anymore. The one person I want to call when I see something funny, run across an inside joke, have a bad day, have a good day, am sick or hurting, need a hug....that sweet wonderful man is gone. Not just my future but my present is unrecognizable.

I DON'T CARE if talking about someone that died makes you uncomfortable. Chances are, if I'm talking to you about him, it's because you knew him too. Pretending like it's "business as usual" does nothing but further alienate someone that is grieving. Changing the subject to talk about something as trivial as the weather or the newest pair of shoes you bought or any number of other nonsense is not being helpful. All we expect is that our friends and family and the people around us are good listeners. We would expect that if our loved one was still alive? So why has that changed now? Listen and respond.

What Not To: Circumstantial Treatment

If your mom/wife/sister/daughter dies of breast cancer, most people understand if you then make it part of your routine to do Komen Race for the Cure every year. It's ok to learn more about childhood leukemia, to do ice bucket challenges for ALS, or to rally and speak out against secondhand smoke/cigarettes contribution to lung diseases.

If your sweetheart dies from suicide, everyone treats you completely different. They caution you to not think about it and push you to move away from anything related. They expect that there is nothing therapeutic that can come from making the problems of mental health or suicide a new part of the loved one's journey. Why?

It's not embarrassing; It's not cowardice; It's not any different than communicating a death by car accident or disease. My Darling had no more control over his death than someone that wrecked a motorcycle or had a stroke.

Not for a single day have I been upset at Ryan because of the way he died. And I never will. I honestly can't understand how you could be mad at someone that dies by suicide. It is agonizing to experience only short glimpses of the anguish that he must have felt in the final hours and minutes. My heart aches to know that he was tormented so intensely.

If you feel the need to ask someone how their loved one died, be prepared to offer condolences regardless of the conditions. Whether a MVC, medical condition, suicide, overdose, etc. when we lose someone important in our lives, there is a unique and horrible experience that will follow called grief.

**I miss taking care of you: laundry and trimming the scraggly hairs from the back of your neck between haircuts and making sure your deodorant and soap is always well stocked**

What No One Tells You: It Gets Worse

Oddly enough I ran across a "What would you tell your younger self about grief" post on WYG just an hour after posting. (http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/what-would-you-tell-your-younger-self/)

"Time heals all things"

"Just give it time, things will get better"

Closing in on 3 months and I can say with absolute certainty, at this point, it doesn't get better with time. I was lucky enough to float through a solid 2 weeks that were absolutely my period of shock.

Shock is great. It allowed me to get up at the service to deliver a eulogy. It's great because it let me take care of my mother-in-law who was an absolute wreck. It allowed just enough clarity to try keeping things in order and to experience things without breaking that I doubt I could now.

But it wears off. Grief gets worse. Day 1 was awful but it is far from the worsWith time you gain the ability to reflect back on the things that you experienced, to relive the event itself and to start processing what you saw and heard and what happened. And it's awful.

I know what I thought and felt at week 1, week 2, month 1... I have a morbid running count of days I haven't seen my Sweetie: 79 days today. It becomes overwhelming because I know how I feel now and I know that I have the buffer of denial still. Depression is still down the road. If there's a worse to come, how the heck do I deal with that? I had assumed in the immediate days after that maybe putting something on the schedule to "enjoy myself" in April, May, or over the summer would give me enough time. I can't believe I'm this far and at the same time so short. I can't imagine attempting to enjoy life on a vacation or adventure in the next month or the next 2, 3 or 6 months even.

Losing Ryan froze my life.

Maybe time applies to a much longer period. Or maybe those are just stupid catch phrases used by people that have never experienced loss.

It's OK

It's ok - to not eat, to skip meals, or to survive for a time on coffee and cranberry red bull.
It's not ok - to order food when you're out with others and then just push it around on the plate... just to make them feel comfortable.

It's ok - to talk about and include Ryan in conversations without missing a beat or explanation.
It's not ok - to pretend like He never existed.

It's ok - to make a comment/joke about not sleeping.
It's not ok - to keep telling people day in and day out that "I'm fine/good/etc."
I'm not.

It's ok to not be ok. The things I've seen, heard, smelt, reacted to and experienced are pretty fucking horrible. The constant reminders of dreams stolen, the insensitive comments heard, the stares and the shuns and the avoidance in the time afterward... People can't be expected to carry on like normal under that.

It's ok - to ask me thoughtful question.
It's ok - if I drone on and on or get lost in a story. You don't have to avert your eyes and change the subject.
It's ok - if I tear up a little or cry hysterically. I love him so much.
It's ok - to admit I've hurt every single day of the last 76 days.
It's ok - if I incorporate rituals to get me through the bad anniversaries.
It's ok - if I acknowledge that it's getting worse and I know it will keep getting worse, for an unknown time.

It's not ok - to keep that secret.
It's not ok - to isolate someone for their practices, rituals, or behaviors.
It's not ok - to tell someone "call anytime" or "we'll get together soon" just because you think it's the right thing to say. I don't need false promises.

It's ok to not be ok. Because regardless of whether it's your first or you fifteenth loss, the person you mourn was a distinct individual unlike any other. Your love for them, your interactions and time spent, promises made, children conceived or dreamt were all unique to the two of you. Your bond - physical or emotional, times spent in laughter or in tears, trials and times of conquering.....all of these memories point to the gift of time that you gave to someone else. It's ok if losing a future opportunity for that is devastating-----of course it is.

Ryan was my first loss. This is not an "upset for dropping ice cream" sadness. It's heart-wrenching, stomach-turning, question-your-presence-on-this-earth GRIEF. He can't be replaced. It's ok to not be ok for quite a while.

Zebra Amongst Horses

As an extension of what not to do/say:

A very awesome person, who my Every Day really loved, asked if I also got the stop-and-stare and go-the-long-way-around-when-they-see-you-coming recently around other people. He went through work getting sidestepped and pity stares.

It happens all the time. People's excuse for "I don't know what to say" manifests in alienating and awkward behavior. Like that's helpful... A (hopefully) comforting text I sent:

Someone told me that people who have experienced loss are like zebras in a herd of horses. The horses stand around looking at you wondering what the heck you are. Fuck the horses; if they're going to be assholes then hang out with zebras.

I added the last part myself.

What NOT to Say: It's all in (insert deity)'s plan

Two weeks ago I got a birthday card from someone I haven't seen in a while nor spoken to in just as long. You know, one of those obligatory family cards that means nothing to you but is typically thought of as a nice gesture.

This one has the standard empty "wishes for your year/day" poem and then a handwritten letter which read:

"I'm so sorry to hear about the untimely death of your friendmy fiance. The loss of someone you know and care about is seldom pleasant fucking awful. However, I am confident that your awareness of the love and grace of our precious Lord allows you to understand that "all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose." Please trust God to reveal the meaning and purpose some day! Trust God, please! May you have a blessed day! We love you"!

I made my edits on the card, sealed it up and considered putting "Return to Sender" in fat permanent marker across the front. I also made a note "If that's all you can say, you shouldn't have wasted money on the card." My grandmother, listening through snotting angry tears, convinced me not to.

I understand people don't always know the right thing to say. I was pretty sure most of the elder generation at least learned "If you don't have anything nice to say - don't say it at all." I did.

There's nothing wrong telling someone that is suffering from a loss "I don't know what to say". In fact, most days, I don't know what to say either. If you're absolutely compelled, perhaps an "I'm thinking about you" is clean and easy. Justifications, even most offers of consolation may be received very differently. Grief is very personal, and very different for everyone affected. And religious offers, even if you think it would help... well, it's not about you.

It's been 48 days. I'm pretty proud of myself if I shower more than once/week.

Additionally - if you "know" the person grieving (I use that term loosely) but in particular had not met the person lost, perhaps you're not in the best place to provide personal enlightenment.