If we were standing together beside the fresh grave of your loved one, I would wrap my arms around you and quietly urge you to take the best possible care of yourself in this time of grief.

Be gentle with you and your sad, battered heart. Do what brings you comfort. Whatever it is. 

Sleep the extra hour.

Take the long walks

Whenever you can, sneak away from the office and take a hot bubble bath in the middle of the afternoon.

Watch stupid, funny TV, or sad movies. (Grey’s Anatomy was my go-to. Four seasons one year.)

Snuggle up with your dog, or cat. 

Call a friend.

Survive the horrible, dark days. Hang on. They will pass.

Your comfort list is different than mine, and that’s OK. Do whatever feels good — just nothing that hurts you or anyone else. No binging a crazy amount of chocolate chip cookies or booze. Be safe.

Be gentle with yourself

And let it out. It hurts, dammit. It’s OK to cry. It’s OK to be angry. Do what you can to not let that stuff stay bottled up inside, where it can become poison.

The best way to be of service to someone who is grieving is to listen or simply be still and quiet beside that person. There’s nothing to say that will fix it.

This loss won’t hurt this much forever.

But right now, it just hurts. So much that it may be hard to breathe, or move or even know what to ask for.

So — if you know the person well — you’ll think of a little something to offer to do to solve a problem or show kindness. Quietly drop off some soup and bread. Or rake the leaves in the yard. Watch the kids for awhile. You’ll know.

Strange Times

In one way or another, we’ve all been grieving on some level this whole past year — in our separate, private bubbles. We’re sort of together in this — but really far apart, too.

Long ago, a woman named Lee, in Maine, taught me about grief.

Lee would say we all know in our bones how to grieve our losses. And if everyone else just honors that process and gives it space and time, we’ll be OK.

She was right. I wonder what Lee would say about all this.

I can’t hug or talk to her anymore. And we’re not supposed to hug right now — which strips so many of us from the natural, instinctive ways in which we grieve. A whole layer of loss, unto itself. 

This sucks. I’m a hugger. Such a strange time we’re living through.

Blue Would Hug You, Too

Anniversary dates of a loss have a way of knocking you around in unexpected ways.

I thought I got ahead of this March 11 one by reflecting and writing about it earlier this week. I had my head down Thursday, immersed in my work, checking my boxes. 

But as the workday ended, I read a kind letter from the head of an academic organization about all we’ve been through together and it unexpectedly touched my heart. Beneath our job titles and labels, we are all human, after all.

Kindness. 

Blue, the big dog, my emotional sponge, sensed my sadness.

He whined beside me until I gave into the tears. Of course, he carries on when he wants to be covered up with a blanket, so it could of been that, too.

But I don’t think so. I came down to the floor to sit and hug him. He leaned in with his long, red-brown body and snuck in some kisses, licking my face.

We both feel better now. He’s sleeping soundly. I’m going to make some hot tea on this rainy, warm night and watch and read some of the coverage.

What a year. Maybe some reflecting and grieving together will do us all some good, help us heal. I welcome the collective healing.

Be gentle with yourself. Take good care of you.