TIME AND TEARS: Thoughts on Friendship & Grieving

She cried in the morning.

I lay in the bed across the hall and wanted to go to her, to comfort her, to just hold her while she grieved. But it wasn’t my arms she wanted to feel around her, it wasn’t my words she needed to hear. In those early hours when the first rays of sun seep through the seams in the shutters, she needed the man who had brought her coffee and eased her into morning with gentle touches, whispered words and a sense of belonging that could only be found in the blanket of love. He was the only one with whom she’d feel safe enough to share her grief, but he was who she grieved.

When the tears would dry enough to allow breath, she would find her way through the fog. That’s when the mask would shift into place. She was suddenly calm and focused, organizing schedules and making plans, directing everyone around her with the strength that made others feel safe. She was always on the move and yet somehow possessed a stillness, an innate ability to listen and know how to provide the comfort she didn’t feel.

We are so much alike. She would only grieve alone or through the words on a screen, apart from the love she so desperately needed and the compassion that could deter her grief rather than become a conduit for it. I stayed at her side, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet, always feeling, but never crying.

She only cried in the morning. It was going to be a long journey.

That’s not what people want to hear. It’s not what society has taught us to expect. We’re taught about the stages of grief, as if it can be broken down into bullet points and action steps. We’re told it takes time, that the experience will be different for everyone, then we’re disparaged and pushed to move on when the mourning persists longer than what others think is reasonable. They don’t understand the sadness, the new responsibilities, the everyday losses that suddenly come to light after we lose a loved one. They don’t understand the hopelessness. When time passes without response, they stop checking in and stop giving invitations. Their lives go on while we struggle to keep our heads above water. And we watch it, sensing another wave of sadness on the horizon, but unable to do anything to stop it.

I think of that as I sit with another friend. She’s recovering from a brutal cancer treatment. Although physically she has bounced back, mentally and emotionally she is struggling every day. Anxiety and fears peck away at her confidence. People make her anxious; being alone sends her into panic. Day-to-day chores and activities have become a challenge; her focus is foggy at best. Worse, her inner voice tends to be more shaming than encouraging, telling her she should be stronger, she should be better. She resists those thoughts almost hourly, determined not to let them take root. She fights the demons of depression that seek to dig their talons into her, but she’s tired. So very tired.

She misses the woman she was, the strong, independent social butterfly. That woman could very well be a character in a book she read years ago, the details hazy and forgotten. She is separated from that reality. When was the last time she laughed? Felt joy? Was it all an illusion? It doesn’t feel like anyone understands how deeply she mourns for herself.

She only cries in private, where no one knows, where no one tries to explain or fix. Where no one expects the old her to show up.

When my partner lost his father, he was barely able to breathe. He was buried beneath the pain of loss, unable to deal with the knowledge that he would never see him again, never hear his voice, never feel the comfort of his love again. He closed himself off, unable to deal with any light or life that pierced the darkness in his soul. The comfort offered by friends and family felt like expectation. It left him frustrated and anxious. He wanted to be left alone., but that wasn’t what the people around him thought he needed. He became angry at their good intentions until they became bricks stacked one by one on the walls between them. It’s almost a fortress now, a sanctuary away from the emotional demands of friends and family.

He only cried in darkness. It helps him; it hurt the people who loved him.

When my mother passed, I went through the motions. I took time off to grieve, to travel, to learn to breathe again after being her caregiver for so long. I stepped back into a life I didn’t recognize or want, with emotional demands that were foreign to me, with fears, anxieties and a seething anger that threatened to erupt at any moment. My friends didn’t understand. Even if I’d been able to find the words, I didn’t have the strength to explain. I was being buried alive by the burning pain and the ash of grief.

My friends tried to pull me back into the circle. I remember the invitations, the phone calls, the impromptu visits asking me to talk, to explain why I couldn’t talk, begging me to say anything. I wanted to find comfort in their concern, but I didn’t. I felt the demands and disappointments, the needs I couldn’t meet. The waves of mourning were ripping through me, and they became the rocks I was tossed upon, tearing at my body and ripping at my heart. I just wanted to get away, to run away from everything that was once safe and familiar but had become a cross I couldn’t bear. So, I did.

I only cried alone.

I remember that time as I stand on the sidelines of grief. I’m in that position a lot lately. Too many friends are dealing with loss, struggling for air in this life they now face. I see the weariness behind the masks they wear and the weight of the walls they are silently building. I can almost hear their footsteps as they run away, seeking new people and places, anything but the painful familiar. I know they are looking for that place to freely grieve without the demands of who they were and what they’ve known pulling on them. But I want to be their safe place. I want to be their friend. It’s not easy.

There’s a delicate balance between support and expectation when dealing with someone in mourning. You want them to know you are there to share their grief, to hold their hand in the silence and embrace them through the darkness, but you don’t want the knowledge to become an expectation, the experience to become a burden. You want them to have the freedom to heal, but you need to be with them. You were with them on the mountain top and now you want to be with them in the valley, good times and bad, because that’s what love is, right? Or is it?

I’ve been reaching out. Consistently. I feel the rejection. Consistently. I try to focus on what they need, but it’s not easy to know. Everything has changed. I know that. They are mourning, adapting and morphing. They are becoming. Too often that happens in silence.

Relationships demand two-way communication. That’s never more apparent than when one side goes silent, or when they disappear.

It’s hard to reach out without response. To spend weeks and months sending notes, making calls, and just “showing up” to only get very brief responses, if any at all. I’ve tried to quietly walk with them on their journey. Words and actions become conscious decisions, deliberately thought out so they won’t feel any pressure. But I worry. What if they don’t feel my genuine love for them? What if my caution doesn’t show my care? What if I pour out my heart and allow myself to be “normal,” and it comes across as some kind of pressure for them to respond in like. It’s an emotional tightrope to walk, but it’s nothing compared to what they are going through. It feels selfish to make this about me.

I worry for answers. Am I expecting too much? Not enough? Am I being needy? What if they need to be needed? Am I being too deep? Too superficial? Too boring? Am I being too quiet? I drive myself crazy wondering how to be what they need. I pray for guidance. I pray for peace. I pray they will have all they need to recover.

Mostly I just miss my friends.

This must have been what my loved ones were feeling when I was withdrawing inside myself. They were afraid of losing me. Their fears became an albatross around my neck. In my grief, I didn’t realize they were grieving for me. Until it was too late and I vanished. Or maybe they left. It’s hard to say. When I resurfaced from the depths of despair and found my equilibrium in the new world I would live, they were gone. And I found myself grieving again.

I understand now. Grief is a tangled web with threads weaving into unforeseen areas and unimagined depths. There’s no definitive path or secret to survival. There are no real answers, except maybe one: love. When I think about what I needed, what my friends will need, it is all I know for certain. Love when they are mourning, love when you are hurting. Love when you’re close, when you’re distant, when they’ve gone and when they’ve returned. Love the person the person you are and the person they are becoming. Life will go on, and it may be different, but love never fails.

Until then, I will cry when I miss them.