grief

Week 7 – Tips for Communicating and Helping People in Mourning

Tips for Communicating with a Person in Mourning

Be gracious. Do not be surprised if someone deep in mourning gets a little snippy with you, is irritable, is not very talkative, or tends to dominate the conversation. It’s not you, it’s that mourners have a lot got going on. I know many of you reading this are likewise deep in mourning — be gracious with yourself and with your family. I’m sorry if those around you haven’t experienced much grief — it’s incredibly hard to fathom a grieving mind if you haven’t experienced a deep personal loss.
“I’m sorry” may feel like such a weak thing to say, but it encompasses a tremendous amount of emotion and care. The short phrase empathizes with the mourner and often creates an understanding between two hurting people.
Acknowledging the situation is better than avoiding the topic altogether. It may be awkward to speak up, but a simple “I see you,” goes a long way 💙
The less decisions a person in mourning needs to make, the better. Mourning requires an enormous amount of mental energy, and helping make a decision alleviates a bit of mental fatigue. Don’t be surprised if a griever locks up / shuts down if you ask them what you perceive to be a simple question. Nothing is simple in grief. Nothing.
Presence is best 🤍. Be here, share here, create space here.
It’s okay to ask “How are you doing?” It’s a simple phrase that shows you care, but monitor your tone while asking. There’s a significant difference between an excited “how are you!?” and an empathetic, “so, how are you doing?” Odds are, a mourner is not likely to match excited energy.
It’s not okay to ignore the situation. I get it — it’s awkward and you may not know what to say nor how to act, but a simple acknowledgment of “I’m sorry for your loss,” is preferable to pretending to act normal. Talk about the elephant in the room. It’s all that the griever thinks about. Occasions where I feel like I have to act “normal” — where I have to pretend to ignore the grief that’s on my brain 100% of the time — are my least favorite.
It’s okay to ask if a mourner wants to talk about it — if you’re close friends with the mourner, they may crave the kindness of a listening friend. If you are more of a stranger to the bereaved individual, the mourner may be incredibly uncomfortable talking about the situation. No matter the reaction, it’s okay to ask. Better to ask than to ignore the situation.
Letters just might be my favorite form of communication. I’ve received a few letters and even packages from people and they are incredibly thoughtful and sweet. Unlike a text or phone, letters are calming — there is little pressure to respond and they are crafted with care. Sending a mourner a letter is a kind thing to do, and it means more to the griever than you realize. Even if a griever does not reach out after receiving a letter — the griever likely forgot — that letter meant a lot.
Calls are easier to answer than text and/or instant messages, but a mourner might not always want to talk and they will likely forget to call you back. Don’t feel bad if you call multiple times – calling shows that you care. Texts and instant messages are great too! I just tend to only answer about 2-3 messages a day, so it can take a while to get to them.
Keep inviting, even if the mourner keeps turning down invitations. Celebrations are incredibly difficult for a mourner, though we are truly happy for others. Grieving makes one sensitive and easily overstimulated. If a mourner thinks an event will be triggering, he or she is likely not going to attend the occasion. Triggers mean tears or irritability, and a mourner will not want to take attention away from someone else’s event by letting their emotions surface. Mourners want to support their friends, but they have very little capacity to do so.
Understand that it’s really difficult for mourners to leave their home. Seriously, I barely want to leave. My home is such a safe place, anywhere outside home is simply uncomfortable. Leaving home takes a tremendous amount of effort.
Remind the griever how much he or she means to you. Again, someone in mourning simply can’t show up for their friends in the same way they did before. This can make a griever feel incredibly isolated, feel like a bad friend, and anxious about their relationships. Mourners need a lot of reassurance and reminders that they are loved and are not a burden. We are hyper aware of how little we can give in relationships, and that scares us.
Declaring “Your mom is always with you,” is not helpful. Perhaps it will be in the future, but in the first few days it’s more of a reminder of the chasm between my life and my mom’s death. This phrase is Especially painful for a suicide survivor, who are left with an incredibly deep abandonment wound; thus stating she’s with me when it feels like she chose to leave is incredibly painful.

Tips for communicating with Suicide Survivors

If a cause of death is not published immediately, it is likely because it is due to a highly sensitive cause of death, such as suicide; it is rude to ask the family “What happened?” prior to the family’s announcement. Curiosity is natural, but be courteous of the family when a cause of death is not published.
Starting a sentence with “I’m sorry to ask you this,” or “I’m sorry to pry, but…” typically indicates that it is an inappropriate question to ask. Do yourself and the bereaved a favor and do not ask that question.
Do not ask someone how their loved one took their life. This is insensitive and the information rarely helps.
Do not ask if foul play was involved or if it’s possible that it was not a suicide. Suicide is one of the harshest ways someone can die — a survivor of suicide wishes more than anything else that their loved one did not take their life.
Do not ask if their loved one left a note. This is an incredibly sensitive area. Suicide is incredibly confusing and damning, and information regarding a note is incredibly private and sacred. If a loved one did leave a note, it’s not likely that the survivor would want that information published. The absence of a note, likewise, contributes to the confusion of the situation.
Listen. Survivors have a lot to talk about and a lot to process. Create a safe space for the wounded, and be patient. It’s difficult to put deep thoughts and feelings into words. A survivor may want to share details surrounding the suicide, and that should be considered a privilege (not a right). This sacred information should be honored with respect and reverence. Know that what a survivor shares is private: honor a survivor’s trust and do not share the sensitive information entrusted to you.
Saying “It doesn’t matter how they died,” is dismissive. When someone takes their own life, there is no natural cause, no illness, and no accident to blame. Thus, someone bereaved by suicide can only blame the person who committed the act and his/her self. Suicide creates an arduous mental cycle.
Don’t speculate why they did it. I’ve had several people tell me that my mother likely ended her life because of the loss of her son. You’re essentially telling me that my life and the lives of my siblings and father did not matter enough to stick around for… that’s a pretty mean thing to say. Let me make it perfectly clear that you have absolutely no idea why she ended her life, so do not come to a survivor with a list of possible reasons you think their love one did it.

Practical Ways to Help

The Go Fund Me is still active: https://gofund.me/e4fe4ebf this provides freedom for us to be out of work for an extended amount of time. Giving here eliminates the stress that comes from lost wages.

LiveWell Behavior Health, the organization that Mom used to work at and the place many of my family members are currently receiving therapy, created the “Harmony Project” to “carry forward her legacy by fulfilling one of her deepest dreams: helping others find healing and wholeness. The Harmony Project provides scholarships to individuals in our community seeking meaningful mental, emotional, and spiritual support through professional mental health services.” You can read and donate here: https://www.livewellbehavioralhealth.com/center This is such a beautiful way to honor my mom and we couldn’t be more grateful for all that LiveWell has done for our family.
Lawncare: My Dad has a beautiful lawn with gorgeous trees and plants, buuut of course weeds grow incredibly fast here — if you drop by, maybe scan the lawn before coming inside and pick some weeds if you are willing and able to.
Meals: The meal train was incredibly helpful! Please do this for your grieving friends. While a meal train is no longer necessary and we are getting back into “normal routines,” it would be nice every once in a while if someone called and said “I’m bringing dinner Tuesday!” and offers their company. Someone deep in grief may not be ready for company, but a meal is always welcomed. Deep grief makes one feel as if he or she must relearn every simple skill they’ve known for years.
Gift cards: People gave many gift cards and this was and is incredibly helpful. As I mentioned before, making dinner every night can be overwhelming in general… it becomes even more overwhelming when mourning consumes all of one’s energy. Gift cards for coffee or even sweets like Crumbl are super sweet as well. Someone even gave me a massage gift certificate and that was super sweet and helpful too — I can’t tell you how incredibly tense my body is right now. Grief manifests in the body as much as it does the mind.
Any little act of service helps: Small tasks are incredibly helpful — doing a load of laundry, wiping down a counter, windex-ing a mirror, etc. Sometimes it’s hard for me to even remember to put a pair of shoes on. It’s invaluable to notice those little things that may be neglected and to help one another out.

Education/Book Recommendations:

Educating yourself is one of the most helpful things you could do for my family, and ultimately your own. No matter what, everyone eventually dies. Educating yourself now will create a culture of empathy and understanding for my family and, ultimately, will prepare you and your family for when you face unimaginable loss.

Surviving Suicide Loss by Rita A Schulte, LPC, is a book my family has asked many of our close friends to read. While there are differences between the author’s situation and my family’s, it will provide a glimpse into the depth of our struggle. It discusses the mental load that suicide survivors wrestle through, and provides insight into mental illness. Stigma is an enormous hinderance to both those who complete suicide and those left behind. Amazon link: https://a.co/d/8dmsDun
It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine is an excellent book that discusses the cultural dismissal of grief and loss. We live in a culture that has left behind the art of lamentation and grief, leaving mourners with even more confusion to their natural response to tragedy. Amazon link: https://a.co/d/bHe9yHY

Thank You

Ultimately, I want to thank you for the tremendous support you have shown me and my family.

Grief makes one’s soul raw and incredibly sensitive to both pain and compassion. Thank you for your care and love for me and my family.

If any of these tips help and if you read any of the books, please let me know! I’d love to know your thoughts.

Week 6

I know pain, I know it well. I am friends with sorrow and companions with anguish. I’ve made a home with sleepless nights and solitary mornings. My eyes sore and strained, my lungs feel heavy and weak.

I have known sorrow for years, it has always been with me. It resonates throughout my mind, into my chest, and it overflows from my eyes.

I was just getting used to happiness. Laughter and joy, for what felt like the first time, finally took residence in my soul. I was healing, I wasn’t afraid of the worst case scenario anymore. I felt freedom and the good gifts I had, I felt plenty in my abundance, I felt safe with my family.

We were building a home here, we were building a life here. Our days were filled with sunshine and laughter. My only concern was what joyous outing we would participate in over the upcoming weekend.

I thought we were in this together.

I thought we loved this life, and maybe we did. I thought we were all healing and moving forward after catastrophe. But while I flourished, part of her soul was dying.

She couldn’t tell me, she couldn’t tell anyone. That will never make sense to me. That will always haunt me. That will always terrify me.

Some days it feels impossible to truly smile. How many days did she feel like that, too?

Every day of this nightmare, it’s like I discover something new. Something new about my Mom, something new about my reality. I’m forced to process a complexing piece of information day after day, thought after thought, moment after moment. It’s exhausting. It’s haunting.

Maybe ghost stories were never really about apparitions but about the horrors left behind by the deceased. The painful thoughts they force you to think, the painful loss you have to shoulder. The painful dreams that wake one up in the middle of the night. I feel haunted by my mother and haunted by her actions.

I can’t feel a mother’s love from the grave. Not like this. Not when she leaves me with all this. All I feel is the pain and abandonment from being left behind.

The saddest part is that she never would have wanted that, but she doesn’t get to influence or comfort me anymore.

Week 5

One sentence has flurried in my mind since I read it Wednesday:

Perhaps I did not deserve their deaths, but I did not deserve their presence in my life either.
Jerry Sittser, A Grace Disguised.

It stings. I don’t like it. But, but, but. But perhaps it’s true.

From my point of view — a 27 year old woman, a sister and a daughter survivor of suicide who has always love my family deeply — it’s incredibly tempting to submit to cynicism. Thoughts like Nothing I did mattered flutter through my brain. It didn’t matter if I was the best daughter or the best sister in the work, they still left. The sad part about that thought is that it’s entirely true.

I’m sure many are thinking similar thoughts… if I’d only… if I was a better _______ … I wish I would have… the list goes on.

Suicide tends to reverberate guilt throughout its affected community. The truth is, you could be the best mother/father, husband/wife, brother/sister, son/daughter, or the best friend and this nightmare could be your reality, too. Chances are, if you’re reading this, you are and you were — you were a good _____. In fact, you were probably great. Odds are, you loved my Mom well and you laughed together often. And yet…

The thought Did any of it matter? haunts me once more.

I loved my Mom… did that matter? I was a good daughter… did that matter? We loved my mom. My entire family loved my Mom deeply. Her community locally and globally loved her deeply.

Oh, this shattering outcome makes it too easy to believe that none of it mattered.

“Why don’t I get to have a Mom? I loved my Momma,” I sob endlessly to Scott (thanks, honey).

Then I despair that it feels like none of it mattered. That’s an incredibly easy lie to believe until someone knocks on my door to bring us dinner. Until we check the mail and have letters and packages from friends we haven’t connected with in years. Until we read the text messages. Until we feel the warmth from your embrace. Until we hear the care in your voices.

It did matter. It does matter. All of it mattered. Your kindness matters, your help matters, your love matters. It’s easy for me to believe that nothing I do matters, until I receive boundless kindness from those around me and I experience comfort and healing from each little act of kindness and care. That matters to me, and it reminds me that what I do does matter, and that what you do matters, too.

Day 30

The sorrow that I dreaded has made its home in my heart, where it will forever languish.

I am so sad, forever.

Perplexing thoughts cross my mind and the minds as many as people try to make sense of this situation, but it is truly senseless. My mom’s death highlights mental illness — mentally sound people do not and cannot end their own lives. There is no reason, there is no “why,” there is nothing to blame or to conclude about this situation other than the advancement of mental illness. My mother hid it extremely well. She knew well what mental illness is, and perhaps she did not realize the depth of her own struggles until her mind was too impaired.

She didn’t do this to us, she didn’t do this at us, she didn’t do this in spite of us.

There is much we don’t know and won’t understand and to a point, it doesn’t really matter: nothing will bring her back.

My Mom’s death doesn’t forfeit her love, it doesn’t forfeit what she believed, and it doesn’t forfeit all she strived to do and who she wanted to be.

In her right mind and in her fullest, she loved life. Her laughter filled the room and bellowed from every conversation. Her smile beamed brightest around her family and with her friends. She loved getting to discover the depth of others by asking provocative questions and teasing the answers out of one another. She loved Jesus and she wanted to experience the fullness of life that God promises here on earth (John 10:10). She was passionate about mental health and desperately wanted to see others healed on this side of eternity, and I think she believed that wholly for herself, too.

Mom fought a horrific battle that she could not share with us, and while that hurts us more than anything, these facts detail a torment she kept in the shadows. If only, if only she applied her studies and reached out in the way she encouraged others to do. Maybe she spent so much time encouraging others in the hopes that she, too, would find the courage to reach out.

She wanted to make a difference, she wanted to heal. She wanted so much from this life that gave her so much. Her life was beautiful and full of laughter and love, and, in her best moments, she felt that wholly.

My mom did not die because of any one thing: she died fighting an unspeakable battle, one we’ll never know how long she fought. This painful reality scorches my heart and sometimes it feels impossible to believe that my life is good and beautiful and kind, when all feels so dark and cruel.

But I know — I know, somehow, there is grace in this. My family and I have so much life left to live, and our lives will be filled with laughter and love and goodness and opportunity that we cannot begin to imagine right now. We are blessed. We are blessed with each other, we are blessed with our outstanding community who supports and mourns with us, and we were blessed with my Mom.

My Mom was a light and a gift that I will never have again, and her absence brings tumultuous tears to my eyes each day. While this is so dark, my Mom was not all of the light in the world.

I will carry this grief with me forever, but this sadness and this grief does not dismiss the many years of joy and abundance still to come.

Grief gifts us with a new understanding of God and life and the universe. It strips us bare of any preconceived ideas rooted in anything but truth, and the fire of affliction will bring about unimaginable glory.

Right now, it’s physically impossible for us to imagine or even desire a good life when my Mom was what made our old lives so good, but we will experience blessing and healing and a new good life.

Day 29

Mourners temporarily lose the ability to reflect on the past and dream of the future. In his book A Grace Disguised, Jerry Sittser describes the sacred “eternal presence” of those who experience catastrophic loss: reflecting the past becomes painful for the grieved because of the multitudes of memories with their loved one, and, simultaneously thoughts of the future create pain because of the absence of their loved one.

In this prison of the present, grievers become sacredly aware of the ordinary and mundane. It provides a chance to slow down, evaluate priorities, and reconsider one’s life with the most basic wants and desires at the forefront of one’s mind.

Oftentimes, this accompanies a strong desire to be close to one’s remaining surviving family. This catastrophic grief provides the opportunity to shelter together and requires the bereaved to relearn how to exist with an “amputated self,” as Sittser describes. The “amputated self” describes the loss of identity that a mourner suffers — it’s questions about one’s identity like Who am I without my Mom?

Catastrophic loss quiets the background noise of one’s life. It destroys, entirely, the life we once knew and the life we once hoped for. In the initial months and years of catastrophic loss, it can feel impossible to believe that a good life is possible when the one who made life so good is no longer with us because we lose the ability to dream of a good life.

It’s the 29th day without my Mom. That thought sickens me. It’s an excruciating reality, and I still don’t want to believe it. I’m so sad that tomorrow is truly an entire month without her. I cannot describe how dreadful that feels. I just miss my Momma. I wish this wasn’t real.

Day 28

I have a lot of unread messages and a lot of comments I haven’t responded to, but I see them. I like to save them for nights and when I can’t sleep.

I am grateful for your overwhelming support, for the food, the gift cards, the cards, the encouraging messages, the comments, the phone calls. Thank you.

It’s hard to fathom we’re all here. It’s hard to accept. I wish so badly it wasn’t real — we all do. I am so sorry, I am so sorry for our loss. I am sorry you’re hurting so much, too.

My Mom had a beautiful and vast influence. She touched the hearts of many, and now the many mourn. I am sorry we’re all working through the weight of this quizzical grief.

I’m so sorry for my mom. I am so sad for her. I am endlessly sad for her. This is not what she would have wanted.

I am so haunted by answerless questions, and I know we all are. After Patrick died, one of my professors said “Knowing ‘why’ rarely helps,” and I have wholly believed that for years. Knowing why would never be enough — we would all think “we could have worked this out.”

I loved my Mom so much. I know we all did. I know that, in her right mind, she knew that too. I am devastated that she did not leave earth feeling that love. Maybe, maybe in her last few moments she did. Maybe she felt it all as she drew her last breath. Maybe she did, I hope she did.

When Patrick died, I had this vision of him entering heaven with tears pouring from his eyes while he said “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” and Jesus held him and said “It’s over, it’s over. You’re home now.”

I haven’t gotten a vision like that with my mom. Truthfully, I haven’t been able to picture her much at all… I think it is too painful for my mind to recollect at this point.

I am so sad her mind lied so cruelly, and I will forever be sad of that.

I wish so bad I could hold her hand one more time and remind her how much we love her. I wish so desperately she wasn’t gone. I would have loved more than anything to bear our burdens together. I know we all would.

I know this life will be good without my Mom, and I know too well how God brings grace and beauty from horror. But I hate that I have to say goodbye, and I hate that it will be good without my Mom. It reminds me so much of Tolkien’s famous words:

Frodo: I can’t do this, Sam.
Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness, and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it’ll shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why.
Two Towers

I love you, Mommy. I’ll always love you.

Day 27

Heart pounding. Body trembling. Eyes crying. Terror, sheer terror, in the middle of the night. Can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking, can’t breathe.

It’s not like this every night, but it was like this last night.

We spent the past six years since my brother’s suicide saying: “Please, no one else do this. We’re going to make it. We can do this”

We said it regularly. We said it on anniversaries and at random. We said it again and again and again.

We didn’t make it. She didn’t make it. She smiled and shook her head affirmatively as she said it, and she didn’t make it.

When someone in one’s family dies by suicide, all family members instantly fear another suicide. It’s horrific. It’s horrifying — it’s so horrifying it will make you cry til you can’t breathe and scream until you can’t speak.

That was our reality, that was what my family lived through. That’s the pain we lived with for years, and the fear we lived with for six years. And then it happened, again.

Again and again and again we pleaded that none of us would do this. We encouraged honesty, we checked in on one another, we regularly had this discussion.

It had been six years. I thought we made it. I thought we were all safe. I thought my mom was safe. She said she was safe.

One third — one third of my family has died by suicide. That’s one out of three so far. Do you know how absolutely horrific that is? No, I get it, you “can’t even imagine that,” and I’m honestly grateful that you can’t. It’s a terrifying reality.

Now here we are again, and I am mortified. One in three… one in three… what does that mean? What does that mean for my nieces and nephews? What does that mean for we survivors?

The horror… the sheer horror.

My mother lived a beautiful life. Though she endured significant trauma, she overcame so much. She was excited about life. She had multitudes of plans and dreams. She loved her life, and she didn’t? How on earth am I supposed to reconcile that?

How horrible. With all the beautiful, wonderful, incredible things Mom had going for her… how horrific that she still desired to die more than to live. How absolutely terrifying that, in that vital moment, she could not see the beauty of life. She could not remember her beautiful plans. She could not feel how wonderful her life was. In that moment, she wanted to die more than she wanted all the amazing things she had to live for. I know she loved so much and she was looking forward to so much. I know that. But for some reason, none of that mattered in that moment.

That is absolutely horrifying, and, now, I can’t trust the rest of my family. I can’t trust the other survivors who say they’re not going to do it, because she said that too, and I believed her.

I believed her. I believed her. I believed her, and she’s gone.

I am in anguish. I believed her.

Day 26

Losing a parent feels like losing one’s foundation.

Losing a parent to suicide feels like finding out one’s entire life was a lie.

Distraught – that has been the word most on my mind today.

Suicide makes one relive and rethink every interaction with the lost loved one, and, today, it’s made me angry. I’m angry my Mom is gone. I’m envious of everyone who gets to have a mom. I see a mother loving her young children, and I think of my mother and how much I know she loved me and our family. But I see a mom with her young children and can’t help but think how could you [Mom] do this to me?

How could she be so hopeless? She truly had so many things she loved, looked forward to, and enjoyed about life. She never uttered a word about hopelessness, but it was there. Maybe it was always there.

Maybe every day for the past 51 years was a blessing, maybe every day was one more day than she thought possible. Who knows? We’ll never know, so it almost doesn’t even matter.

I am distraught. I am distraught that my mother had these thoughts. I am distraught that she couldn’t think of all the beautiful things she had to live for in her last day on earth. I’m distraught because, as hopeless as she clearly was, she did have so much that she loved and so much that she did look forward to.

I am distraught because I am angry with my mother for choosing this. I am angry at God for allowing it — which is likely bad theology, honestly. God gave man the power to choose, and my mother chose poorly on that day. I am distraught because I have to have all of these thoughts and think through all of these things. I am distraught because every day feels like I’m learning something tragic I didn’t know — as if my life hadn’t had enough tragedy in it already.

Thanks, Mom.

I am distraught because I loved my mom. I loved her so much, and any of us would have done anything for her. I am distraught because she hurt immeasurably bad and there is nothing I can ever do about that, ever. I am distraught because I will carry this cross with me for the rest of my life.

I am distraught because I know that God is good, and that God will bring good and beautiful things into my life — things I will never get to share with my mother, whom I loved so much.

I am distraught because I have to watch my Dad and brothers not have a wife and a mother. I am distraught because I have to watch my husband and my in-laws not have their mother in law. I am distraught because I have to watch her friends not have their friend. My beautiful Momma.

I am distraught because she did this. I am distraught because, in her mind, she had to do this. I am distraught that people’s minds can do that to them.

I am distraught that little things in my house get messy — my bathtub needs cleaned, my library has books and pens that I don’t know what to do with because I’m still using them and still reading them.

I am proud. I am proud that I am brushing my hair every day. I am proud that I am getting up every day. I am proud that I am leaving the house every day. I am proud that Dad and I are going on bike rides every day. I am proud that I am eating every day. I am proud that I am showering [almost] every day — sometimes I don’t remember if I have or haven’t showered, but I know I’m brushing my hair and teeth each day. I am proud that I am exercising every day. I am proud that I am going to therapy. I am proud that I am doing the bare minimum to at least be physically okay. I am proud that I started reading my Bible each day. I am proud that I am letting people help and support me. I am proud of a lot, and I am thankful for a lot.

Parents really are foundational. I feel like a house whose foundation has cracked in half. Restore me, Lord, for I my foundation crumbled.

I have enough without my mom. My life is still good without my mom, but, God, I wish I had my mom to share my life with.

Day 25

Grief eclipses everything.

Amazingly, it’s not all tears all the time. The majority of the time, it’s a deep feeling of sadness, it’s nausea, it’s brain fog that prohibits one from completing sentences and tasks, it’s an impenetrable void, it’s a minute consciousness of one’s mind and body, it’s a general feeling of unwell, it’s high anxiety, it’s somehow both lethargy and the need for movement. It’s the inability to smile, or, at least it feels that way a lot of the time. A smile seems like so much effort, but smiles still come naturally, too.

It’s a tiredness, it’s a shortness, it’s an irritability. Yet, gratitude persists as well. Thankfulness for friends, for messages, for meals, and for simple beauties.

It’s so sacred, and it’s so miserable.

We went to Jeremiah’s today — that was the last place Scott and I saw my mother. When we left, a beautiful rainbow wrapped the sky. We marveled.

We didn’t cry, but we did lament. Pausing to remember. Oh, how I wish we’d gotten to say goodbye. How I wish none of this was happening. But, we saw a rainbow. And what do we make of that?

I’m angry, sad, and confused. At the end of the day, I’m just a survivor, writing to detail a bit of what it’s like.

Day 24

It’s a nightmare even my mind would not have conjured. I miss my Mom.

Tonight, I thought of how loving my Mom was. She loved with her whole being. In a death like this, sometimes it’s incredibly difficult to surmise what is real and what is true. It is true that my Mom loved deeply, and that she loved well.

Notes on Conversations with the Bereaved:

It’s okay to ask “How are you doing?” It’s a simple phrase that shows you care, but monitor your tone while asking. There’s a significant difference between an excited “how are you!?” and an empathetic, “so, how are you doing?” Odds are, a mourner is not likely to match excited energy.

It’s not okay to ignore the situation. I get it — it’s awkward and you may not know what to say nor how to act, but a simple acknowledgment of “I’m sorry for your loss,” is preferable to pretending it’s normal. Occasions where I feel like I have to act “normal” — where I have to pretend to ignore the grief that’s on my brain 100% of the time — are my least favorite.

It’s okay to ask if a mourner wants to talk about it — if you’re close friends with the mourner, they may crave the kindness of a listening friend. If you are more of a stranger to the bereaved individual, the mourner may be incredibly uncomfortable talking about the situation. No matter the reaction, it’s okay to ask. Better to ask than to ignore.

Exposed