Grief, much like life, is a paradox. Unexpected, but also inevitable.
It’s the uninvited adversary we never see coming, though we’re always acutely aware that its arrival may be just around the corner.
When it shows up on our doorstep, we’re shocked but never surprised.
Grief is inevitable for all of us. The loss of a job. The loss of a relationship. The loss of the life we thought we would have…
These losses are all part of the human experience, and every single one of them is accompanied by their own unique form of sadness, denial, bargaining, anger and acceptance.
But, arguably, the worst grief of all is the loss of life itself.
Last week, my hometown of Fulton, NY was devastated by a tragic car accident that left one teenager dead and another critically injured. Though I didn’t know either of these kids personally, and I’m all the way across the country, the impact of the loss has shook me to my core.
It’s left me pondering my own mortality, and the mortality of the people I love most.
It’s left me reflective of the loved ones I’ve lost along the way.
But most of all, it’s left me really f’ing sad and heartbroken for their families. I can’t imagine a pain worse than losing a child.
And I know I’m not alone.
When we lose someone we love, not only do we lose that person, but we also lose a version of ourselves that only existed with them.
We lose our hopes and dreams for that person, and we lose all the hopes and dreams for our own future that included them in it.
We’re reminded that our own lives are fragile and that our own future isn’t promised.
The ripple effects of the loss are far and wide.
I’ve lost several people close to me throughout my life; each painful, devastating, and life changing. But the way I grieved for each person couldn’t have been more different.
Steve had just turned 37 years old when he died from cancer in 2009. Though I had lost distant friends and family members prior to that, his death was the first that really shook me.
Knowing my step dad was about to die did nothing to alleviate the shock of it actually happening.
Here one moment, gone the next; and in that moment, I knew nothing would ever be the same.
No more family dinners. No more holiday parties with Steve’s snarky banter.
My family was forever changed, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
I responded by overworking, traveling, and drinking. A lot. I made it my mission to ‘live life to the fullest’.
But mostly, I just wanted to hide from the pain of losing him, of losing what my family once had, and of facing my own mortality.
Then there was Talese.
Less than a year after my step dad passed away, and a mere week after moving from Utah to NY, I got a call that changed my life forever.
My best friend was dead, and she had taken her own life.
I will never forget that phone call. I was driving to visit my cousin when the call came in. When I heard the news, I pulled over to the side of the road and completely lost it. I drank myself into oblivion after that and the rest of the night was a blur.
Talese’s death was harder to ignore, her absence so profound, that instead, I just put my life on hold.
I headed back to Utah two days after I got the call, and stayed there, in limbo for the better part of a year.
Existing, but not living.
Staying suspended in time, as if refusing to move forward would change the outcome.
I missed the person I was with Talese. How could someone who made me feel so alive, no longer be alive?
I immersed myself in spending time with other friends who loved and knew her. I continued to drink a lot. Her death became the focal point of my existence.
It wasn’t until I got pregnant with Dominic that I was forced to move forward, ready or not.
I slowly but surely allowed joy and connection back into my life, and tried to find other ways to keep her memory alive.
Six years later, there was Shelly.
Shelly was my friend Ryan’s mom, and by all accounts, a second mom to me and a second grandma to Dominic.
She welcomed us into her family with open arms as if we were her own, and it stayed that way from the time we met until the time she passed away.
Holidays, birthdays, and special occasions were almost always spent with Shelly’s family. She was the personification of warm and loving. She gave me the acceptance and support that I so desperately lacked, and we always felt at home when we were with her.
And then she took her own life.
It was heartbreaking for everyone, and it changed everything.
Though I felt more capable of acknowledging and allowing my feelings of loss and sadness than I had with Steve and Talese, losing Shelly also led to some irrevocable shifts.
It forced me to confront a relationship I had been unhappy with for a very long time, which inevitably led to more loss and more grief.
Despite the differences in my grieving process for each person, there have also been some very common threads…
Defining life in ‘befores’ and ‘afters’.
A whole lot of ‘what if’s’.
And yet another paradox: Feeling like I just saw the person yesterday, but simultaneously feeling like it’s been a lifetime.
Grieving can present itself in so many unexpected ways. But the reality is, there’s no wrong way to grieve. Every single response to grief makes sense in its own way.
And here’s the rub. It’s a lifelong process.
Constantly morphing and changing, but never really going away. Over time, it just shifts into something a bit easier to coexist with.
Seeing how the Fulton community has shown up for each other during such a devastating time has truly provided a glimpse into the resilience and love that underlies the human spirit.
Which brings me to one more paradox about grief…
It’s often the catalyst for hope, love, connection, and support.
In no way do these things minimize the sheer heartbreak of losing a loved one…but they might offer just a glimmer of hope in the darkness.
After all, grief, too, is something we all share.
It’s painful, and messy.
It’s also inevitable.
Though scary, perhaps it’s the inevitability that reminds us that we’re not alone.
We’re all in this together, after all.