Grief and Friendship
Grief is funny; it hits at odd moments and tends to take everyone in the room by surprise, including me.
Like this summer I went to visit my dear friend Susie at her new home in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We’ve known each other for 16 years and Susie’s had my back for the 8 years since my daughter Chelsea died. But this time was different. Something happened at the dinner table; we were laughing about how she and her husband met.
We all lived on St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands then, and went to the beach almost everyday. One time Susie was already swimming, and I was putting on my usual thick coat of sunblock when a sudden gust of wind blew over the big sun-umbrella next to me. I chased the umbrella, tripped, and face-planted onto some poor guy who was just sitting on a beach chair peacefully reading a book about surfing… I knocked him flat on his back. I was mortified but pretended to be nonchalant, and I even asked his name…. while I fumbled around his body, trying to get up without doing anything embarrassing or hurting him any more than I had already.
Susie saw what happened and came running over to help pry me and the umbrella off the poor guy. As she pulled me up by the hand, I introduced them, Susie, Michael. Michael, Susie. Four years later they were married. The three of us love to rehash that old story, especially over one of Susie’s fabulous southern meals and a good bottle of wine. Laughing, I said, “I was so embarrassed I could have just died.” Then I flashed on my daughter, Chelsea, being dead and stopped laughing… It was noticeable.
Susie stood up and asked me to join her the kitchen to help her with the dishes. We hadn't even finished eating yet. Then she laid into me “for my own good,” going on and on about how I needed to drop this whole grief business. That “Chelsea doesn’t need to be a part of every conversation.”
That got me pretty riled up, and there we were, two close friends, shouting at one another about why I should or shouldn’t be sad. OKAY, Wine may have had something to do with the volume. But I was crying and yelling, “This is who I am. I came here because I love you and want to be around my dear friend. Why are you scolding me?” Susie had one hand on her hip and the other pointing at me yelling, “I love you! You're my good friend and I don’t want you to be sad!” Then we got a look at ourselves in the hallway mirror.
We looked so ridiculous; we started cracking up. I mean, how stupid to be arguing about grief and love. We both went to bed shaking our heads at the absurdity of it. Meanwhile, Michael had slunk off to bed wondering if I would still be there the next morning. We were that loud.
The next morning, Susie apologized saying she didn’t have children and couldn’t possibly understand what I had gone through or why it would continue for so long. I told her, “It will never end, Susie. Can you still be my friend through that?” She gave me a big hug, and we took our coffee out onto the deck - overlooking a hillside covered with pine trees and a cool, dark pond below us. Her mountain home is peaceful, and we settled into the mood.
Ugh! It isn’t easy to be friends with someone who has lost a child unless you’ve lost one, too. I belong to a grief group for bereaved parents called The Compassionate Friends. It’s been a haven for me since 2017. And recently, I began leading the group, which has helped me turn a corner. I can put my story aside to be for others - the person I needed when Chelsea first died - someone who “gets it” and will just listen without giving advice. No doubt, there will be triggering moments in the group, I may get sad, but sending love out into the room is an expanding action. It’s grief and growing.
This summer, Susie showed me how my sadness can affect others who care about me. She taught me that good friends understand, even when they can’t understand… And, you know, that goes for me, too. If I can put my pain aside for bereaved parents, then I can put it aside for my friends. The truth is, the pain is always there, but so is the love. I’ve had a long time to grieve fully for my daughter. With therapy, grief groups, and the gift of time, I think I’ve gained the fortitude to understand my friends’ feelings, as well as my own.
So, I want to say to Susie and all the other friends who gave me the time I needed to grieve, “I love you! Thank you, my friends! Your feelings count too!”
Grief is funny; it hits at odd moments and tends to take everyone in the room by surprise, including me.
Like this summer I went to visit my dear friend Susie at her new home in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We’ve known each other for 16 years and Susie’s had my back for the 8 years since my daughter Chelsea died. But this time was different. Something happened at the dinner table; we were laughing about how she and her husband met.
We all lived on St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands then, and went to the beach almost everyday. One time Susie was already swimming, and I was putting on my usual thick coat of sunblock when a sudden gust of wind blew over the big sun-umbrella next to me. I chased the umbrella, tripped, and face-planted onto some poor guy who was just sitting on a beach chair peacefully reading a book about surfing… I knocked him flat on his back. I was mortified but pretended to be nonchalant, and I even asked his name…. while I fumbled around his body, trying to get up without doing anything embarrassing or hurting him any more than I had already.
Susie saw what happened and came running over to help pry me and the umbrella off the poor guy. As she pulled me up by the hand, I introduced them, Susie, Michael. Michael, Susie. Four years later they were married. The three of us love to rehash that old story, especially over one of Susie’s fabulous southern meals and a good bottle of wine. Laughing, I said, “I was so embarrassed I could have just died.” Then I flashed on my daughter, Chelsea, being dead and stopped laughing… It was noticeable.
Susie stood up and asked me to join her the kitchen to help her with the dishes. We hadn't even finished eating yet. Then she laid into me “for my own good,” going on and on about how I needed to drop this whole grief business. That “Chelsea doesn’t need to be a part of every conversation.”
That got me pretty riled up, and there we were, two close friends, shouting at one another about why I should or shouldn’t be sad. OKAY, Wine may have had something to do with the volume. But I was crying and yelling, “This is who I am. I came here because I love you and want to be around my dear friend. Why are you scolding me?” Susie had one hand on her hip and the other pointing at me yelling, “I love you! You're my good friend and I don’t want you to be sad!” Then we got a look at ourselves in the hallway mirror.
We looked so ridiculous; we started cracking up. I mean, how stupid to be arguing about grief and love. We both went to bed shaking our heads at the absurdity of it. Meanwhile, Michael had slunk off to bed wondering if I would still be there the next morning. We were that loud.
The next morning, Susie apologized saying she didn’t have children and couldn’t possibly understand what I had gone through or why it would continue for so long. I told her, “It will never end, Susie. Can you still be my friend through that?” She gave me a big hug, and we took our coffee out onto the deck - overlooking a hillside covered with pine trees and a cool, dark pond below us. Her mountain home is peaceful, and we settled into the mood.
Ugh! It isn’t easy to be friends with someone who has lost a child unless you’ve lost one, too. I belong to a grief group for bereaved parents called The Compassionate Friends. It’s been a haven for me since 2017. And recently, I began leading the group, which has helped me turn a corner. I can put my story aside to be for others - the person I needed when Chelsea first died - someone who “gets it” and will just listen without giving advice. No doubt, there will be triggering moments in the group, I may get sad, but sending love out into the room is an expanding action. It’s grief and growing.
This summer, Susie showed me how my sadness can affect others who care about me. She taught me that good friends understand, even when they can’t understand… And, you know, that goes for me, too. If I can put my pain aside for bereaved parents, then I can put it aside for my friends. The truth is, the pain is always there, but so is the love. I’ve had a long time to grieve fully for my daughter. With therapy, grief groups, and the gift of time, I think I’ve gained the fortitude to understand my friends’ feelings, as well as my own.
So, I want to say to Susie and all the other friends who gave me the time I needed to grieve, “I love you! Thank you, my friends! Your feelings count too!”
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