I remember a lot of funerals. I’m on a first name basis with a local
funeral director just because of how many times I’ve been in his building. What a difficult job they have, dealing day in
and day out with people at their worsts; during the saddest days of people’s
lives. Asking them questions that they
may or may not know the answers to, and if you don’t know the answers it makes
it even more difficult.
Sometimes I knew the answers.
Sometimes I didn’t.
Sometimes I didn’t.
Sometimes there were funerals with people spilling into the
street.
Sometimes there were graveside services.
Sometimes there were military honors and 21 gun salutes. Taps had never sounded so sad.
Sometimes there were just a handful of close friends and relatives.
Sometimes they were in churches
Sometimes there were graveside services.
Sometimes there were military honors and 21 gun salutes. Taps had never sounded so sad.
Sometimes there were just a handful of close friends and relatives.
Sometimes they were in churches
Sometimes they were memorial services in the funeral homes.
Sometimes there wasn’t a funeral at all.
Sometimes they died of old age.
Sometimes they died far too young for random reasons.
Drowning
Drug overdoses
Car or atv accidents
Sometimes they died of old age.
Sometimes they died far too young for random reasons.
Drowning
Drug overdoses
Car or atv accidents
Fires
Sepsis
Heart attack
An idiot with a gun
An idiot with a walking stick
I’ve seen a 14 month old in a casket. A baby I loved. You never forget that. Ever.
Sometimes there was a lot of crying.
Sometimes there was a lot of laughter.
There’s always one person that says all the wrong things, but well meaning. So you feel bad when you get so pissed off about it, but you still want to tell them to shove it.
Tell them to shove it.
Tell them to fuck right off.
And you know what they’ll do? Get pissed. But then later on, down the road, they’ll say, “Oh, that’s okay. I know it was the grief talking.” And then you’re just like, ‘whatever’ and move on.
But it’s not really the grief talking. It’s what you want to say. You’ve never had a better excuse to just say it. And it’s a very short lived excuse because …
People want you to move on.
They want to see that you’re okay so they don’t worry.
You’re not okay though.
You have moments of okay. You even have moments of better than okay, good, and awesome.
But you have moments of just… darkness blanketing around you because you remembered that they are gone. You were telling some story, or listening to some song, or smelled their perfume or aftershave. It hits you out of nowhere and there goes that rug again, right out from underneath you.
I frequently compare it to getting hit in the chest and having the wind knocked out of you. Because it can take your breath away and you can feel that pain in your heart. You learn that heartache isn’t just an emotional thing… you can physically feel it.
I’ve wondered more than once why it doesn’t kill you. How can you heart hurt so bad and just keep on beating. It shouldn’t be possible.
I had thought I’d felt that pain before so many times. But when it’s a forever person, it doesn’t get much worse than that.
We all know that as we grow up we will lose those older than us. Death is a part of life. We know this. We expect to bury our grandparents, and even our parents. I don’t really consider them forever people because we know from birth that they won’t be. They will be large and very important parts of our lives, but not our forever people. Our spouses are our forever people. Our children are our forever people. Our best friends are our forever people. Our siblings can be our forever people but sibling dynamics are odd things so sometimes they aren’t, sometimes they’re just your childhood people.
I’m not trying to diminish other types of loss, but these losses can be so catastrophic that it alters the course of our entire life.
And people want you to be okay.
I’ve seen a 14 month old in a casket. A baby I loved. You never forget that. Ever.
Sometimes there was a lot of crying.
Sometimes there was a lot of laughter.
There’s always one person that says all the wrong things, but well meaning. So you feel bad when you get so pissed off about it, but you still want to tell them to shove it.
Tell them to shove it.
Tell them to fuck right off.
And you know what they’ll do? Get pissed. But then later on, down the road, they’ll say, “Oh, that’s okay. I know it was the grief talking.” And then you’re just like, ‘whatever’ and move on.
But it’s not really the grief talking. It’s what you want to say. You’ve never had a better excuse to just say it. And it’s a very short lived excuse because …
People want you to move on.
They want to see that you’re okay so they don’t worry.
You’re not okay though.
You have moments of okay. You even have moments of better than okay, good, and awesome.
But you have moments of just… darkness blanketing around you because you remembered that they are gone. You were telling some story, or listening to some song, or smelled their perfume or aftershave. It hits you out of nowhere and there goes that rug again, right out from underneath you.
I frequently compare it to getting hit in the chest and having the wind knocked out of you. Because it can take your breath away and you can feel that pain in your heart. You learn that heartache isn’t just an emotional thing… you can physically feel it.
I’ve wondered more than once why it doesn’t kill you. How can you heart hurt so bad and just keep on beating. It shouldn’t be possible.
I had thought I’d felt that pain before so many times. But when it’s a forever person, it doesn’t get much worse than that.
We all know that as we grow up we will lose those older than us. Death is a part of life. We know this. We expect to bury our grandparents, and even our parents. I don’t really consider them forever people because we know from birth that they won’t be. They will be large and very important parts of our lives, but not our forever people. Our spouses are our forever people. Our children are our forever people. Our best friends are our forever people. Our siblings can be our forever people but sibling dynamics are odd things so sometimes they aren’t, sometimes they’re just your childhood people.
I’m not trying to diminish other types of loss, but these losses can be so catastrophic that it alters the course of our entire life.
And people want you to be okay.
They put time limits on it.
It’s been weeks, you have to stop crying all the time. Pick this day and be better by then. Chin up, feet forward, move on. Or a thousand variations thereof. And they mean well, I know they do. And I let them go because I know that they
have no idea what they’re talking about.
9 times out of 10 it’s someone who has never lost a forever person. They have no perspective on it.
And I genuinely hope that they never gain any perspective on it.
I hope they never have to lose a forever person because every year on the anniversary of the day I learned what that felt like, I still remember it. “This moment, 5 years ago, was the last moment that I had where I didn’t know what this felt like. I didn’t even appreciate it because I didn’t know…”
Everything was so different.
I had had so many losses already. I had memorial tattoos and people whose deaths really, really affected me in a hundred different ways.
But nothing like losing a forever person.
I was the oldest of 7 children. I still don’t know what to say about it now. Am I still the oldest of 7 children? Or was I? Who knows.
3 of them have already died.
1 at 26 years old in his sleep.
1 to suicide at age 30 leaving behind 2 small children.
1 was murdered in her own back yard at 25.
All younger. All people that were still supposed to be around when I died.
But my sister, the one who took her own life, was so integral to my life that it was her death that changed my entire world. It was the night of her death that I mark as the last moments I didn’t know what this felt like. We were 16 months apart in age. Best friends or worst enemies our entire lives. We could fight like the best of them, but when one of us needed the other it didn’t matter. We were there.
It was pretty common knowledge in our social circle that you couldn’t say anything shitty about her in front of me, ever, even if it was true, without me getting pissed. That was a friendship ending mistake on more than one occasion. I could say whatever I wanted, because she was mine.
You could not.
9 times out of 10 it’s someone who has never lost a forever person. They have no perspective on it.
And I genuinely hope that they never gain any perspective on it.
I hope they never have to lose a forever person because every year on the anniversary of the day I learned what that felt like, I still remember it. “This moment, 5 years ago, was the last moment that I had where I didn’t know what this felt like. I didn’t even appreciate it because I didn’t know…”
Everything was so different.
I had had so many losses already. I had memorial tattoos and people whose deaths really, really affected me in a hundred different ways.
But nothing like losing a forever person.
I was the oldest of 7 children. I still don’t know what to say about it now. Am I still the oldest of 7 children? Or was I? Who knows.
3 of them have already died.
1 at 26 years old in his sleep.
1 to suicide at age 30 leaving behind 2 small children.
1 was murdered in her own back yard at 25.
All younger. All people that were still supposed to be around when I died.
But my sister, the one who took her own life, was so integral to my life that it was her death that changed my entire world. It was the night of her death that I mark as the last moments I didn’t know what this felt like. We were 16 months apart in age. Best friends or worst enemies our entire lives. We could fight like the best of them, but when one of us needed the other it didn’t matter. We were there.
It was pretty common knowledge in our social circle that you couldn’t say anything shitty about her in front of me, ever, even if it was true, without me getting pissed. That was a friendship ending mistake on more than one occasion. I could say whatever I wanted, because she was mine.
You could not.
Her loss devastated me.
It completely altered my normal.
I had gotten married just 6 months before she died. I had moved into my first apartment with my
husband 6 mos after she died, had another daughter. A daughter that will never get to know what a
hug from Aunt Rachel feels like.
I had spent months trying to save her. Years, or maybe a lifetime, but months of actively trying to help her not kill herself.
I had spent months trying to save her. Years, or maybe a lifetime, but months of actively trying to help her not kill herself.
I try to catch my breath, but my forever people just keep on dying.
Rachel was a forever person.
Maria was a forever person.
Jen was a forever person. She died in a fire at 21. She would have loved my kids and she’d have been at every birthday party. I frequently wonder what her own kids would have been like, had she had the chance to have them. What kind of mom she’d have made, because it would have been an amazing one.
Gigi was a forever person. And her death is just destroying me. Just over 2 weeks ago, unexpectedly. I know that I left my kids with my husband and drove to Detroit. I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know it was goodbye until I got there. I know I gave her her last rites. I know I said everything I could possibly think of and read her messages from everyone else. And I know I wasn’t ready. I’m not even close to ready to lose her, and that choice was taken from me. I feel like I’ve been thrown back 5 years and I’m exactly where I was then, except this time I don’t have Gigi here to help me through it.
That familiar hole in my chest.
The screaming every time I’m alone in my car. That’s the one place I feel you can get it out. You scream at the top of your lungs in your car driving down a highway and nobody can hear you so you can really let it out. Because with grief often comes anger. And with a traumatic loss, rage. I screamed at least half the way home from Detroit. 6 hours in the car. But you can’t scream for that entire time. Your voice gives you and you run out of breath. That’s why I get it out. The first scream might feel silly but then it just pours out. Until it’s out, you have no more breath left to scream, no more voice. And then there’s tears, so many tears, until you run out. I didn’t know until losing my first forever person that you could run out of tears or breath or …. hope.
With Rachel I remember screaming, “WAKE UP” over and over and over. I knew she couldn’t. I knew she was dead. But that’s what my mind wanted to scream and so I let it. Everything else felt so difficult right then so I didn’t want to make it harder on myself. If that’s what my mouth wanted to scream, I let it scream. I was alone in my car, so what does it matter? With Gigi I still screamed, it was just more like why you? Why you of all the people? I needed more time. I can’t do this again. I can’t lose another forever person without you. I don’t know how to do this.
I don’t want to do this…
But of course we don’t want to.
We have to.
But of course we don’t want to.
We have to.
People check on you, for a while.
It’s not the funeral that’s the hardest.
It’s the day after.
Everyone else goes back to their normal, but your normal is gone.
I think that some people can really use extra bereavement
leave. But I also think other people do
better without it. Sometimes work is a
great distraction for a while.
I tend to hop from one thing to another; thoughts, projects,
etc. The only thing I’ve learned to do
over the years is keep my hands busy so my mind can try to process things. Sometimes it really feels impossible to wrap
your head around it.
Until that rug get pulled out from underneath you again.
Sometimes music is cathartic, other times it can just completely gut you.
Same with writing.
Until that rug get pulled out from underneath you again.
Sometimes music is cathartic, other times it can just completely gut you.
Same with writing.
And here I am.. going through it.
Again.
It feels surreal. I feel like, I don’t know.
I know this routine. It’s so familiar now.
Like old hat, but not old hat. I know the routine, yet the losses are different and you’re never ready.
Either no energy, or a shit ton of it.
Either you’re starving, or no appetite.
Either you sleep a lot, or not at all.
Don’t wipe every tear or you’ll rub your eyes raw.
Stay hydrated to balance out the crying.
But cry.
Get it out, because holy fuck. They’re some really big emotions.
Be patient with yourself. Fuck everybody else telling you that you need to get over it. They didn’t lose the person you lost even if you lost the same person. Each person is someone different to everyone else. You can lose the same person, without losing the same thing.
And geez, the amount of people that try to make it a contest.
I loved them more than you.
They loved me more than you.
I was closer to them than you were.
I knew them longer.
I spent more time with them.
The list goes on and on. I wish it didn’t, but it does.
There’s ALWAYS that one person.
I tell that person to fuck right off.
It’s not a contest.
You lost someone, you ALL lost that person. Be kind to each other and try to make it easier for each other. Think about what the person who died would have wanted you to do? Would they have wanted you to try to belittle someone they loved? To make them feel like they were an afterthought compared to you?
I don’t know about you, but I sure wouldn’t want my loved ones doing that to each other.
I also think it’s super important to always remember that everyone grieves differently. It’s a really mindfucking process. Something that makes you feel better isn’t going to make someone else feel better, it might even make them feel worse.
Stay hydrated to balance out the crying.
But cry.
Get it out, because holy fuck. They’re some really big emotions.
Be patient with yourself. Fuck everybody else telling you that you need to get over it. They didn’t lose the person you lost even if you lost the same person. Each person is someone different to everyone else. You can lose the same person, without losing the same thing.
And geez, the amount of people that try to make it a contest.
I loved them more than you.
They loved me more than you.
I was closer to them than you were.
I knew them longer.
I spent more time with them.
The list goes on and on. I wish it didn’t, but it does.
There’s ALWAYS that one person.
I tell that person to fuck right off.
It’s not a contest.
You lost someone, you ALL lost that person. Be kind to each other and try to make it easier for each other. Think about what the person who died would have wanted you to do? Would they have wanted you to try to belittle someone they loved? To make them feel like they were an afterthought compared to you?
I don’t know about you, but I sure wouldn’t want my loved ones doing that to each other.
I also think it’s super important to always remember that everyone grieves differently. It’s a really mindfucking process. Something that makes you feel better isn’t going to make someone else feel better, it might even make them feel worse.
I’m only 36 years old.
I thought I’d make it to at least 70 before I lost this many people.
Let’s see, the things I tell myself.
I tell myself to be patient with myself, while not being patient with myself.
I tell myself to live the type of life I know they wanted me to. To do the things we talked about doing. To honor them in little ways throughout my life.
I still talk about people all the time, I don’t shy away from conversation about them. I love talking about them. It keeps them alive.
Some days it’s easier than others to honor them.
I thought I’d make it to at least 70 before I lost this many people.
Let’s see, the things I tell myself.
I tell myself to be patient with myself, while not being patient with myself.
I tell myself to live the type of life I know they wanted me to. To do the things we talked about doing. To honor them in little ways throughout my life.
I still talk about people all the time, I don’t shy away from conversation about them. I love talking about them. It keeps them alive.
Some days it’s easier than others to honor them.
But I guess that’s all we can do, isn’t it?
There’s 5 stages of grief, or so I hear. Each one can last different lengths of time and in different orders and such, but I do tend to go through them all.
Denial
Bargaining
Anger
Depression
Acceptance
There’s 5 stages of grief, or so I hear. Each one can last different lengths of time and in different orders and such, but I do tend to go through them all.
Denial
Bargaining
Anger
Depression
Acceptance
I’ll tell you one thing though, especially with the ones
gone far too soon… acceptance is the one
I struggle with the most. The only part
I’ve managed to accept thus far is that I can’t do anything about it. They’re gone and I can’t bring them
back.
I can still talk to them, sometimes I can still hear them.
But I can’t bring them back.
And it kills me.
They take a part of you when they go. And sometimes I wonder if there will be any of me left.
But there is.
I find it at some point, every time.
Of all the things for me to be a pro at, did it have to be grieving?
Sometimes it is day to day. Sometimes it’s one breath to the next.
One foot in front of the other is how you do it.
My kids get me to do it. My husband.
I do it for them even when I don’t want to do it for me.
I had seen a quote years ago that I had printed out and keep nearby.
“Find what you would die for, and live for it.”
And so I do. I live for what I’d die for.
I do those things to honor their memories. It’s so easy to lose that though… but you get it back at some point, when you’re ready. Eventually it doesn’t make you too sad to do because at some point it starts to make you feel closer to them. So you do it.
You honor them by continuing to be the person they loved.
You keep them alive by continuing to talk about them. To keep their stories alive.
It always hurts me when I mention my people and people look at me with pity.
I was telling a fun story. Don’t make it sad. Let me still enjoy my stories with them. Let me still laugh about them, because the person I lost is who I laughed at them the hardest with. Let me be sad when I’m sad, but let me be happy when I’m happy.
And don’t ever pity me for losing them. Because to lose them means I got to have them.
I have been so lucky to have loved so many, so much. To have had them love me and be such an integral part of my life that their loss hurts so much… that’s an honor. That’s a privilege and that is not something to pity.
Death is a part of life and grief is one of the hardest.
And I don’t even know why I’m going to post this except that maybe someone who has lost a forever person will read it and they will be able to relate to some or all of it… and they will realize they’re not alone. That it’s okay because someone else gets it.
I can still talk to them, sometimes I can still hear them.
But I can’t bring them back.
And it kills me.
They take a part of you when they go. And sometimes I wonder if there will be any of me left.
But there is.
I find it at some point, every time.
Of all the things for me to be a pro at, did it have to be grieving?
Sometimes it is day to day. Sometimes it’s one breath to the next.
One foot in front of the other is how you do it.
My kids get me to do it. My husband.
I do it for them even when I don’t want to do it for me.
I had seen a quote years ago that I had printed out and keep nearby.
“Find what you would die for, and live for it.”
And so I do. I live for what I’d die for.
I do those things to honor their memories. It’s so easy to lose that though… but you get it back at some point, when you’re ready. Eventually it doesn’t make you too sad to do because at some point it starts to make you feel closer to them. So you do it.
You honor them by continuing to be the person they loved.
You keep them alive by continuing to talk about them. To keep their stories alive.
It always hurts me when I mention my people and people look at me with pity.
I was telling a fun story. Don’t make it sad. Let me still enjoy my stories with them. Let me still laugh about them, because the person I lost is who I laughed at them the hardest with. Let me be sad when I’m sad, but let me be happy when I’m happy.
And don’t ever pity me for losing them. Because to lose them means I got to have them.
I have been so lucky to have loved so many, so much. To have had them love me and be such an integral part of my life that their loss hurts so much… that’s an honor. That’s a privilege and that is not something to pity.
Death is a part of life and grief is one of the hardest.
And I don’t even know why I’m going to post this except that maybe someone who has lost a forever person will read it and they will be able to relate to some or all of it… and they will realize they’re not alone. That it’s okay because someone else gets it.
And if not, that’s okay too.
Because I would rather you not get it.
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