Bits of My Brain in Blogular Form

Dear You,

On Friday, one of my best friends lost one of her best friends.

Death is a stange phenomenon. It is a necessary evil. We watch it happen to others and can brush it off, seeing it as a part of life, but when it directly affects us by taking someone we care about, death takes on a whole new weight.

Seven years ago, my father died. I was thirteen years old. It was sudden and completely unexpected. Needless to say, none of us saw any need to say goodbye. Almost a month into the new year, his resolution was “to be a better husband to my wife, and a better father to my children.”

I returned to school after staying home for a week, only to find that those in charge had told the entire school–hundreds of students an teachers–of my “family emergency” on the afternoon announcements. My first day back, I was approached by teachers and students I had never seen before, who offered their condolences and asked if I was okay. I was humiliated.

Being thirteen, I knew no one my age who had experienced anything remotely similar to the death of a father. My sister shut down, and I didn’t want to burden my mom, who had just lost both her soulmate and the father of her children. I had no one to talk to, no one who would understand. I don’t remember a great deal of that year. And I don’t mean that chunks of days are missing here and there, I mean that there is a good five or six month period of my life that is an empty void.

Somehow, I made it through. Years later, I realized I became the protector of my family, staving off my own grief until my senior year of high school when it finally started hitting me. My mom, too, knew no one who would understand, and so sought out forums for widows and widowers, and was recently married to one. I still think my sister hasn’t grieved yet.

Grief isn’t selfish. It wasn’t hard for me simply because I lost my father. It was hard for me because I had to watch my mother struggle through something most of us can never imagine. It was hard for me to see my sister change. It was hard for me to see my entire family and group of friends affected. It was hard to see all the people I knew would be grieving grieve. What was just as painful, if not more, was realizing how many people had been affected who I hadn’t considered. One of the few memories I have from the funeral is of my best friend from third grade, who I have scarcely seen since, coming toward me, bawling, with a hug. And the grieving didn’t stop there–my dad was a local celebrity. His afternoon radio show had been on the air for near fifteen years. Every time we went out to dinner, at least one couple would recognize his voice and come over to meet the famous Phil Bailey. The grieving was public. His face was in the newspaper, he was featured on the cover of other well-known local publications, he was mentioned on the news, on the radio. Years later, I am still meeting people who find out I am his daughter and tell me how much they loved his show and miss him. These are people he never met.

I used to read headlines like, “47 Killed in Plane Crash,” or even just, “5 Killed in Bank Heist”, and brush them off. With billions of people in the world, what’s 47? Furthermore, who is going to miss five people?

If you stop and think about how many are affected by the death of just one person, you should be surprised. Think of one person in that bank heist. Think of all his family, all of his friends, the people he went to elementary school with, the ones he graduated college with. Think of the cashier who saw him buy groceries every Sunday. Think of the boss who was about to offer him a promotion. Think of the people who work at the bank, whose fears of such incidents are now realized. I needn’t go on.

What I’m trying to say is that I know–much better than most people my age should–how alienating grief can be. Grief is unlike any of life’s other problems. Usually, if a friend comes to us with a problem, we can empathize and probably offer advice, regardless of if we’ve experienced something similar. Unless you have experienced grief, you cannot understand. I don’t say this in angst or irrationality, I say this in hoping that it will help both you and me. My mom says she came across many people who, just shy of a year after his death, asked her, “Aren’t you over it yet?”

I cannot speak for all people who are grieving (and please note I said “are grieving”. It is a lifelong process, and none of us will ever be “over it”; the pain just lessens with time). The best advice I can give to someone who knows someone experiencing grief is to be there, and be sensitive. Let those who are grieving know that you are there for them. They may not want to talk to you now, and they may not remember to or feel right about calling you when they need you. Remind them you’re there, and treat them like a real person! Grief isn’t logical, and you shouldn’t try to understand it because you can’t. I honestly don’t mean to make Death sound like an elite club. I am simply speaking from experience.

I can’t be more specific about what grieving people need for two reasons, one, every single person grieves in a way that is solely their own. There are some universals, and in that way, I am glad my father died so that I can be there for the friends who have lost loved ones since my father’s death. I know what it is like not to have someone to talk to, so I’m glad they don’t have to experience that. The second reason is that I still don’t know what I want from others. Seven years isn’t as long as you think.

My thoughts about how far-reaching death’s impacts can be were proved Saturday evening when one of my best friends, Gabby, told me that a best friend of hers had died. I had never heard Word One about Lily Burk from Gabby, and yet I have nearly been brought to tears several times in the last few days (and actually a couple times during the writing of this post) because I am feeling for my friend. On one hand, I am sure I’d have a lot of helpful things to say to Gabby. But on the other hand, not only is every person’s form of grieving completely their own, but with every relationship comes a different kind of grief. I lost a family member and I lost a parent. Gabby lost a friend. I have no idea what that’s like.

This letter has been largely incoherent. My one hope is that it causes your mind to start working.

And Gabby, I love you so much. I wish I could be with you.

Love,

Me