Grief is Grief is Grief

“One Sweet Day” by Mariah Carey

June 27^th, 2004

This was the only song I could remember about death the day I found out Kate was no longer alive. I played it loud and got underneath the covers of my bed wearing sweaty summer clothes. I cried until my stomach hurt—eventually I would listen to “Purple Rain” by Prince when I missed her. Every time he would say ‘…it’s such a shame our friendship had to end’ I remembered there was one less person I loved in the world. 

I’d burst into tears when I was behind the wheel. I licked the salt on my lips and wished I could say I love you and I miss you. I drove down the roads where I could still feel her ghost. I drove them on purpose wishing we could talk about boys. 

If you must know, when I walk into the grocery to buy flowers for her grave I like to wonder if anyone notices a young woman buying a single rose.  When I drive through the cemetery my car will move slowly, music turned down. No need to wake the dead. There’s a large blue-green pond next to where I will park my car. Geese shit staining the black road telling me where to carefully step. After I lay down the flower and stand in front of her grave, I’ll put my hand on the cold purple marble and say I miss you. 

Back in my car, the music will be low until I reach the side entrance gate. Tears painting my cheeks, hugging my chin. Goddamn it, I want someone I know to see me leaving the cemetery. I want someone to see me crying in my car—for someone to ask if I’m okay. I want this sadness to flood the streets. I want my heart to fucking heal.

                                                      *****

February 18, 2020

My dog passed away about six months ago and I’m still learning about grief. I got my first real lesson in grief when my friend Kate passed away three days before her 20^th birthday. Among the things I learned, the one that still haunts me is how differently everyone responds to it. At the time, I had two other close female friends who knew what had happened. Despite what I thought was to be protocol, they did not offer support, they did not offer condolence, they did not react the way I did.

My dog Gigi was four months old when we met and instantly fell in love. We were in each other’s lives for ten years, almost to the day. She was my best friend. Soul mate. Trying to remember what it’s like to be human again without her has been a challenge. It didn’t take long for friends and family to start asking if and when I was going to get another pet. I’d rather swallow a handful of sharp stones, I don’t tell them. 

Perhaps they don’t know what else to say to me. Perhaps they are uncomfortable with grief. I’m uncomfortable trying to find an answer to their question. I’m uncomfortable with direct messages on social media that have links to adoption sites. I’m fucking tired of feeling like I have to defend my emotions. Grief is grief is grief, my therapist said in our session today. There’s nothing wrong with being fucking sad. 

What do I do with unsolicited advice that sinks through my body and shuts me down? The ones who are close to me, though, they know not to ask. They can see my heart twisting into a thousand red shards of glass. They know how capable I am of reacting. 

When the grief hits, I am not always at home. I could be at work, at a bar, at a friend’s house. It sneaks and sneaks and I’m unprepared. When I get home, I have to remember no one is waiting for me. The rooms will be silent and I will crawl into bed knowing I won’t have to wake up early to walk her. 

This is how I heal. It seems strange to me that other people feel they can have an opinion on our grief, as if they feel entitled to assert some kind of control over our own emotions. So, instead of worrying about what other people think I need to do in order to stop being sad, I’m going to write. Instead of sinking I am going to swim and feel lucky that I am even here at all.