I’m Grieving. But I’m Not Fragile.

Something unexpected happened after I lost Doug.

People became careful with me.

I understand it. I think many of us simply don't know what to do with someone who has lost a spouse. In our culture, death and dying are often treated as subjects to avoid rather than natural parts of life to acknowledge, honor and talk about. So when someone we care about experiences an enormous loss, we become uncertain. We worry about saying the wrong thing. We worry about bringing up the person they love. We worry that an invitation might be too much or that laughter might somehow be inappropriate.

And perhaps, underneath all of that, we worry that the person grieving is fragile.

I’m grieving. But I’m not fragile.

You can't say Doug's name and suddenly remind me that he's gone. I already know. I know it at a level that is difficult to explain unless you've experienced the loss of a deeply loved spouse yourself.

You aren't going to make me miss him by talking about him.

I already miss him.

What has been surprisingly difficult is sensing that someone might stop themselves from mentioning Doug because they're worried about how I'll react.

Please don't.

If Doug would have naturally been part of the story before, let him be part of the story now. Say his name. Tell me something you remember. Make me laugh with a story I've heard a hundred times, or better yet, tell me one I've never heard before.

You don't need to filter your memories or your emotions for me.

So much of the last leg of our journey was about dementia. I treasure the stories that take me back to the years before it became such a significant part of our lives. And when someone shares a memory that gives me a glimpse of Doug through their eyes, I get to see another little piece of the love of my life.

That's a blessing.

His name may bring tears to my eyes, but it also brings a hug to my heart.

If tears come, so what? Let them come. Yours too. If laughter comes with them, even better.

The same is true of my laughter, my quiet, and the moments when I want to talk about Doug.

What I don't want is for the people around me to feel responsible for managing any of it.

Healing moments

Some of the most healing moments these past few weeks have been remarkably ordinary.

An invitation to spend the day on a boat. Lunch with friends. A pedicure. Sitting around a table talking and laughing about things that have absolutely nothing to do with grief.

They treated me like me.

That's what felt so good.

The absence of Doug from my side doesn't change who I am. I still love to laugh. I still enjoy good food and good conversation. I'm still curious. I'm still independent. I'm still funny and snarky. I still love deeply and give a damn about the people in my life.

I am also grieving. But I am still a whole person. I have a hole in my heart, not a hole in me.

Grief is part of my life now. It hasn't replaced everything else that I am.

And grief is deeply personal. Mine won't necessarily look like someone else's, and it may not look like what you imagine grief is supposed to look like.

Please don't put me in a grief box.

Don't decide what I need or what I'm capable of because I'm grieving. If I need solitude, I'll choose it. If I want company, I'll seek it. If I cry, let me have the moment. If I laugh, laugh with me.

And if my grief makes you uncomfortable, I understand. Grief isn't something everyone has experienced. You don't need to know the right thing to say. You don't need to protect me from Doug's name, my tears, or your own happiness.

Please don't feel a need to change how you are with me.

Be you. Talk to me about the same things we've always talked about. Tell me what's happening in your life the good things and the hard things. Share your joy with me. My grief doesn't diminish my capacity to be happy for you.

When you are simply yourself with me, you give me the space to simply be myself with you.

That is one of the most precious gifts you can give me.

So if you're unsure what I need, ask me.

Invite me. Include me. Say Doug's name. Tell the story. Share what's happening in your life. 

We don't have to pretend everything is okay, and we don't have to protect each other from grief.

Grief doesn't need to be avoided, managed, or made more comfortable. It needs room to be what it is, and permission to look different for each of us.

I don't need you to know how to be with someone who is grieving.

I just need you to know how to be with me.

And maybe together we can become a little more comfortable with the uncomfortable. We can keep talking, laughing, crying, sharing stories, loving and missing Doug, without deciding for one another what any of it is supposed to look like.

I have room for all of it.