Grief is hard. Funerals are hard. Unfortunately, you can’t avoid the first and you shouldn’t avoid the second. I’m going to tell you why using a specific example; as I’m writing this, I’m grieving for a friend I loved and cared about very much. This wasn’t easy to write, and might be hard to read. But, it feels like I should write this down to both capture the immediate feelings and someday, help you deal with yours.
I’ll start with grief and loss. When someone you love dies, it’s hard to know what to do, what to say, what you should be feeling. And while I wish I could tell you there was, there isn’t a perfect way to deal with those feelings; it just takes time. Know first that it’s okay to not be okay. Give yourself the time and space you need to feel the grief you need to feel.
My friend who died was my little brother through the Big Brothers program. He was 16. We met in 2016, and had stayed in touch after your Mom and I moved to Cincinnati. I’m incredibly grateful for the time I got to spend with him, his younger brother, and his mother. I am honored that she trusted me to be a mentor to him. When I think back to our time together, a thread of joy runs through each memory. Even though I know the Big Brothers program was for him, I swear I had as much fun as he did. Whether we were playing golf, racing go-carts, going kayaking, or just getting dinner, we always had a good time. I cherish the time we had together and the role I had in his life.
In the first two days after he died, my pain was raw, overwhelming. You don’t think you’ll ever see over grief like that. It towers over your world, casting a seemingly never-ending shadow. Losing someone reminds you how temporary and ephemeral our lives are. Suddenly, life felt like a wine glass balanced on the edge of a counter, just a breath away from destruction.
I hugged you tighter, held you longer, and couldn’t help but think about how I’d feel if it had been you. I’ve also become close with my little brother’s Mom and every time I imagined the pain and loss she was feeling, I found myself slipping into her shoes and crying very real tears. For her, for her family, for my little brother, and for myself.
But eventually, you run out of tears. The grief comes, submerges your life, and then, inevitably, washes back out to sea. You can stand on the shore and see the damage it left behind, how it rearranged your emotions, wrecked your state of mind. But as it recedes, it leaves an unavoidable and sometimes unexpected gift: acceptance. Whether you like it or not, this part has to come next. Life doesn’t give you a choice.
It can take days, weeks, or months to get to acceptance. And unfortunately, feeling it once doesn’t make it stick forever. The grief will return, and it might hurt as much as that first day. A memory might bring it back. An object might remind you. Whatever the cue, don’t be surprised if you find yourself overwhelmed again.
Hang on. Breathe in and breathe out. Go back to giving yourself the time you need to process that grief. Like the first time, it will pass.
And eventually, it won’t hurt as much. You’ll see the grief coming, you’ll be aware of what triggers it. And more importantly, as that grief comes and goes, life goes on.
Here’s the practical advice in the middle of an emotional explanation. Life will continue, whether you like it or not. As inexorably as the sun rises and sets, life will go on. Make sure you let it.
Let that sink in.
Some days the grief will weigh so much you won’t be able to move. But other days, when it’s not so heavy, you might actually forget it’s there, just for a minute. Before, I told you to let yourself feel the grief. But now, between the waves of sadness, when life resumes its regular rhythms?
Allow yourself to not grieve. Joy, happiness, curiosity, even inspiration wait in the interim. You may be tempted to re-open that wound, to submerge yourself in the grief you think you should be feeling. Let that go. You don’t owe the rest of your life to the people you’ve lost. Don’t let guilt drag you backwards into suffering you’ve already suffered through.
Let the moments of peace lead back to acceptance, to accepting that life goes on, and to knowing that you have to go with it. It’s okay to let the chill of sadness fade and the warmth of affection suffuse your memories of someone you loved. I promise, it’s really okay.
And that’s how you get through it. It won’t be easy or fast, but you will get through it.
Funerals are an important part of getting through it. Show up for the people involved in these services. Funerals can feel awful, like you’re pulling the wounds open again, but the rituals and ceremony of these services can help you find closure and peace.
Whether your connection is to the person in the casket or the person carrying it, try hard to be there. And to be clear, when I say try hard, I’m not talking about driving across town or moving a meeting. I’m talking about driving to another state or getting on a plane. And life happens; sometimes you won’t be able to actually go. If not, send flowers, send a meal, make a real effort to reach out to the person who’s hurting. These gestures will mean more than you realize.
When the person you care about is in the casket, you go to the funeral not only for them, but also for yourself. Because as much as a funeral is about the person in the casket, it’s not for them.
Funerals are for the living, for the ones left behind. They honor the lives of loved ones and help us collectively make sense of the gaping hole they left in the world. They give us the opportunity to share the emotional burden of a loss, and you have to be present to do that.
A co-worker died of cancer when I was in my 20’s, and I skipped the funeral. I couldn’t drive at the time, (see Fuck up, but don’t be a fuckup for why), but honestly, I didn’t want to go. Funerals are hard. Grief is hard. Facing the grieving family of someone you knew and cared about and trying to express your condolences is really, really hard. Important, but not easy. And that day, I didn’t feel up to it. I should have gone anyway. She was incredibly kind and sweet, and I wish I’d said goodbye. Don’t make the same mistake.
Can’t find the right words? When faced with a grieving friend or family member, it’s okay to not know what to say. Sometimes the right words are no words at all. You don’t need words to be present. Show up and listen. Give a hug, get somebody a cup of coffee, sit down with them and drink a beer. Your job is not to make them feel better, it’s not to explain away their loss.
The best way to help a grieving friend is to recognize their grief, to acknowledge it, and share their sadness. Be with them. This animation How do you help a grieving friend? further explains this idea, copyright Megan Devine and Refuge in Grief.
Grief doesn’t arrive when it’s convenient. It’s sloppy, unpredictable, and it will hit people when they least expect it. Grieving people will try to understand, to find meaning or logic in the random and meaningless. And if it helps them, then let them do it. But death isn’t fair, it isn’t kind, it’s only certain. Help the grieving carry that weight as best you can.
Finally, and I don’t intend this to be melodramatic, but I’m going to offer you some advice for my funeral. If you’re not ready to read this yet, you can stop here. But someday, decades from now when you need it, it’s here for you.
Remember my life, the things I loved, and the time we had together. Enjoy the spread. Have some barbecue, a bourbon, and a cigar. Hug your Mom, (of course she’ll outlive me), and lean on your friends. Know that I made the most of the time I had.
I was blessed with a loving family, incredible opportunities, and the love of your Mom. I had great friends, was privileged enough to travel and see the world, and most importantly, had the chance to be a father. Know that you brought me endless joy, unimaginable pride, and more love than I knew I could feel. Being your Dad was the best job I ever had, and better than any I could imagine.
Someday, your grief will give way to better memories. I’m sorry I’m gone, but wherever I went, wherever I am, know these two things: you carry a piece of me in your heart, and I will always, always love you.
Always,
Dad
I originally planned to finish this series in twelve months, intending to write one entry a week for 52 weeks. But, other things came up and I didn’t have as much time as I thought I would. We moved, you started a new school, I had other projects, etc. But finally, I’m starting my last entry in September, nine months after I’d planned. Which is the perfect intro to this one.
Time is funny like that. It marches on like a metronome, indifferent to how much you wish it would slow down or speed up. It offers no do-overs, no matter how frivolously you spend it. And it gives zero fucks what you planned to accomplish in the time you had. Once that time is over, you’ll get no more. But, it also stretches out ahead of you into an unknown future, offering untold possibility and infinite choices.
Which is why I hope you both learn to make choices about how you spend your time and understand what those choices mean. Because while there’s never enough time for everything, there’s still enough time to do almost anything.