I find I have a much harder time dealing with a loved one’s loss than a loss of my own.
When the loss is mine, I can own it, mourn it, weep, recover.
When the loss—or greater loss—is that of someone I love, I can barely breathe due to the crushing longing to swallow her pain whole.
I want to free her of the sadness, make her feel safe and light and whole again. I want to do that thing I do when I protect, fix, help, heal, do anything to throw myself between the beautiful people who brighten my world and any darkness that tries to touch them.
I used to think this was pretty messed up: me and my world-class levels of compartmentalization strike again. But today as I hugged and walked away from a grieving friend, I realized that it has its purpose.
Maybe I am just one of many anchors sprinkled in the sea around her great vessel of hurt that make her feel steady, make her know the waves can’t wash her too far from us. We’re there, just out of arm’s reach, keeping her tethered to the now as she processes the past, and what she had wished for in the future. We’re there not to take her pain away—a frustratingly impossible accomplishment—but to be the thing that she doesn’t have to worry about, the dependable strength she quietly draws from as the pain fills her up, then releases as she recovers enough to only need the reserves within herself.
The thing about loss is that we can’t avoid it. We can’t stop ourselves from losing people from our lives, and we can’t take away the experience of losing someone from those we want to protect.
I guess what gives me comfort is that today as I sat in a quiet church, throwing a silent rope to a friend who probably didn’t even see me in the sea of dark suits and broken hearts, maybe she felt my pull. Maybe she and those whose loss was the greatest felt a little steadier as the web of ropes other were throwing at them, too, criss-crossed into something woven and sturdy that I can only imagine looked lovely from up high.
Kim Bongiorno is an author, full time freelance writer, and the blogger behind Let Me Start By Saying. You can find her on Facebook and Twitter, hire her to write for you or speak at your event, or catch her words as they fly around the internet.
This is why we are friends. You care so deeply for those who share your world. I would ask you though to trust in the strength of the people who are hurting that with the love and support of those around them that they will find their way out of the pain. The pain of loss is the price we pay for love. It is a price worth paying. In the end the knowledge that we can love deeply, suffer a loss and continue to take the risk for that love over and over is because at the core we are strong. She is strong on her own and because of friends like you. Remind her of her strength and allow her to share her pain. That is all anyone can do.
What a beautiful way to describe such an impossibly terrible time – I’ll keep that image, I’m afraid we’ll all need it in our hearts sooner or later. I’m sorry for your and your friend’s loss; I know she feels your strength.
This is a fantastic, thoughtful post, Kim. My brother and I were raised together, but are technically half brother/sister. When his father passed away, my heart broke for him. His dad always treated me as if I was his own daughter, even though we were not blood related. And he was a wonderful dad to my brother. When he passed, I felt as badly as if my own father had passed, and I prayed for strength for my brother. As strong as he is, I wanted him to know I felt that loss for him.
When my brother lost one of his twin girls at just 1 month, the grief I felt over losing a niece I would never get to hold, kiss and spoil was eclipsed by the devestating sadness I felt for my brother. Your description of how it feels to witness someone you love suffer a loss is spot on and beautifully described.
I am not sure why it is showing I have posted “early theme adopters”…
We are similar in this vein. I loved the analogy.
My friends have told me of their similar pain and concern such as yours Kim. When I lost my son, several friends told me “I was afraid, uncertain of what to say…so I didn’t.” Some stuck around later – others I never saw again. You see, just because someone doesn’t know how you feel – doesn’t mean they can’t help you. Just knowing you’re there…means everything.
Great post Kim. Look forward to seeing you at the next conference.
Lynne Houston
Life as a Mortician’s Wife
Kim, spot on with the post here. A loss is a loss but, it is harder to feel for someone else. In general, we all live everyday of our lives not thinking about how a quickly a person can be lost. As a person who lost his wife suddenly, this was a tragic loss and a completely raw situation. Now approaching 6 years later things are different.
Recently, I have had to help a friend who suffered a loss of their own.
You do feel helpless, imagining what should or can I do to make things better. Unfortunately, only time and the support of friends, family and other is what gets you through it. What does make things a bit better is to have the support of friends, family and others sustain for a period of time longer than just a week and those imaginary ropes are real.