A Day in the Life of Loss

I saw a post on Facebook today. It was from a friend of mine who had recently lost her mother. She wrote about how much she missed her, and it was the end that stuck with me: "I've been told that it'll get easier, but it's only getting harder". It felt like such an accusatory statement, considering that is what I had told her at her mother's wake. It was as if she was saying "You promised me it would get easier. You lied to me", and this wouldn't be exactly wrong, but it isn't exactly right, either. Being poor at spoken word, as I stumbled past her at that wake, all I managed to blurt out was a slurred "It will get better". I did not say when. I did not say how. How could I expect her to think anything but that it would get better soon? It was at this moment in time that I realized that what I have to say might actually be of some help to her. I might actually be of some help to a lot of people.

In my 21 years on this planet I have experienced a lot of... unique... situations. Because I have experienced these situations, I have an insider's view. I know, to some extent, what to expect. And I can pass that knowledge along to others who are going through the experience. In the case of the loss of a direct family member, I am triply qualified; I have lost my Father, Mother, and Sister. So, without further adieu, I would like to present to you my first blog post, A Day In the Life of Loss.

You never forget the moments leading up to the discovery that a close family member has died, or the words when you are told. It doesn't matter how many drugs you do or how much alcohol you drink, you will never forget. The night my father was found dead, I couldn't sleep. I was laying in bed thinking about finals. After awhile, I noticed a faint rumbling noise, like a large truck was parked nearby but still running. I looked out the window and saw flashing lights. I immediately thought we had been robbed. I went downstairs and saw our front door was open. There was a stretcher being wheeled in. My mother saw me and rushed to me, cupping my face in her hands so I wouldn't look behind her, and she said to me "Dad's dead". I can't even remember what I had for dinner last week, but I remember every moment of that night, even though it has been 7 years.

When you are told, you immediately go into a state of shock. Not shock in the conventional sense; you don't necessarily feel surprised or upset. As a matter of fact, you don't really feel anything. As soon as the words "Dad's dead" escaped from my mother's lips, a wall hit me leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake. I felt dazed. I asked her to repeat herself. Nothing seemed real. I was sure this was all just a dream and that I'd wake at any second. If I just didn't think about it then everything was okay. So I didn't. And I became cold or hostile to anyone who tried to bring up the topic with me, including my family. And I continued to not talk about it for three years.

Which brings me to my first bit of real advice -- You need to talk to someone. A friend, a family member, a stranger on a hotline if you really need to. I didn't because I was afraid talking about it would put me in increased pain, and it does, but you get it out of your system a lot faster that way. I slowly spiraled down from the shock into a world of depression, which kept getting deeper and deeper, all because I refused to talk to anyone about it or even acknowledge that it was a problem. My attendance suffered. My grades suffered. My mom suffered.

My second piece of advice is don't alienate your friends and family. It's probably true that most of them don't understand what you're going through, but it's probably also true that they're trying, because they care. You may feel like you need to be strong in front of them, but you don't. They feel this loss too, whether personally or through you. Comfort each other.

The first time a loved one dies, the shock is significantly longer lasting. My theory for this is that I don't think we are really capable of understanding that bad things can (and will) happen specifically to us. Bad things happen to other people. You don't expect it to happen to you. When it does, it takes you by complete surprise. I went to school the day after my father died and I saw people carrying out their lives like nothing had happened. At the time, I was completely disgusted and outraged that the world could just continue on when someone so close to me had just died. When someone I loved so much had been taken away from me. What I didn't realize until that exact moment is that the world goes on, even when you don't want it to. Why? Because bad things happen to everyone.

After the shock finally wears off, there will be sorrow and you will feel lonely. After my mom died, I found myself constantly picking up the phone to call her and tell her about my day, or getting excited when I found something on reddit I knew she'd like. When my sister died, I officially lost everyone I had known all of my life. It was an extremely lonely feeling.

Even though you may feel alone, it is important to know that you never are. There are people who care about you, even if they were not as close to you as your family. They want to be there for you. Trust me.

Though it may take many years, it gets better. It's so gradual you aren't sure, at first. You smile a bit more. You find things more amusing. You start wanting to go out and meet people. It's as if you're waking up after a long nap. Sleep struggles to pull you back under, but you know you have to wake up. You have to live again. And eventually, you do. You move on. You are able to love, live, laugh, and learn once more. You are able to remember them fondly, and their memories will make you shed a tear of happiness instead of sorrow.

Someone once asked me what my happiest memory was, and although it is bittersweet, I'd say it is this: the night my father died, after his body was taken from our house, my mother, my two sisters and I sat around the dining room table. We stayed up all night reminiscing about my father -- telling stories and passing around photographs and laughing. I have experienced two more deaths of close family members since then, but this good experience has altered little after them: I sit down with the ones closest to me and my family, remember the good times we had, and I laugh.

I laugh because life is short and a life long lived does not equal a life worth living. I laugh because the people you truly care about never die, they live on in your memories and the things you may do later in life. They live on in the person that you become after the clouds clear and the sun comes out again. They live on in the people you influence for the better, the people those people influence for the better, and so on, into infinity.

I laugh because I owe it to the ones I love to live my life to the fullest.