Summary

The author shares personal insights on grief and offers guidance on how to support someone who is grieving, emphasizing the importance of understanding individual experiences of loss.

Abstract

The author, who lost their mother as a teenager, reflects on their journey through grief and the complexities of coping with such a profound loss. They discuss the inadequacy of comparing different types of grief and the insensitivity of questions like "Were you close to her?" which attempt to quantify the pain of loss. Instead, the author suggests open-ended questions and support that respects the unique nature of each person's grief. The essay also highlights the importance of recognizing that grief evolves over time and that ongoing support is crucial, even long after the loss has occurred.

Opinions

The author believes that grief is a deeply personal and incomparable experience, and that comparing losses (such as the death of a mother to the death of a pet) is unhelpful and dismissive.
They express that the question "Were you close to her?" is an attempt to measure grief, which is not only impossible but also overlooks the complexity of loss.
The author advocates for listening and presence as the most valuable forms of support for someone who is grieving, rather than trying to relate through personal anecdotes or comparisons.
They suggest setting reminders to check in with those who are grieving, acknowledging that people may still be struggling long after the initial loss.
The author emphasizes that grief can manifest in different ways, from a dull ache to an overwhelming presence, and that it can change over time.
They share that asking open-ended questions like "What do you need

Stop Asking If I Was Close To Her

Some tips to support me as I grieve

I lost my Mom as a teenager and, as a result, I’ve become a sort of death-Olympian. I have a gold medal in grief. I just published my most personal essay to date about how my grief ages with me.

Right after my Mom died, I avoided the topic altogether. I couldn't talk about it. It was the type of pain that took everything out of me. I was a reamed lime carcass, shriveled, devoid of all life-force.

Back then, the word Mom was like Voldemort from the Harry Potter series: I didn’t want to read it, speak it, or see it. I couldn’t go into Target during April or May because the Mother’s Day paraphernalia made me sick to my stomach.

When it wasn’t painful to talk about, it was awkward. Usually, when the topic turns to death, people try to exit the conversation as fast as they can. In many cases, this is helpful. Often, the bereaved and the grieving don’t want to talk about it.

Sometimes, though, the responses can be irksome and, at worst, damaging. Here are two responses to grief that rub me the wrong way:

“I get it”

The worst grief comparison I got was this one:

“I get it. My dog died last week.”

That one left me speechless.

I was talking to one of my classmates at lunch, just weeks after Mom died. When my new friend compared my loss to the loss of her dog, a wave of something akin to nausea washed over me, almost immediately replaced by profound fatigue. I don’t remember how I responded. I don’t remember how I got to class that afternoon (or that year, for that matter).

For years, I was angry about that encounter. However, when I look back on that moment now, nine years later, I’m not angry, or even surprised about the comparison of dead mom to dead dog. I recognize the intent for connection. I validate my own grief and I validate hers.

The lesson I learned from that conversation is that grief is an incomparable phenomenon. The loss of a mother is not the same as the loss of a dog, or a sister, or even someone else’s mother. No two griefs are created equal.

It’s hard not to compare when trying to relate to someone. Ever since that day, I do my best not to tell people “I get it” unless I’ve listened first and truly do.

“Were you close to her?”

This one is a doozy.

My Mom was my best friend. My entire life revolved around her. You can read more about this in my last piece. When she died, I felt completely ungrounded and entirely alone. I describe myself as a lost balloon, floating nowhere but up and away.

But I hate having to weigh the objective severity of my loss.

When someone asks me if I was close to her, I know they’re trying to gauge how much pain I’m in, like the 1–10 scale at the doctor’s office.

I’ve learned that it doesn’t work that way. Losing someone is complicated, no matter how close you were to them, whether you spent one day or every day in their presence.

Grief can’t be quantified. Some days it’s a dull ache, like a bone that never fully heals and still reacts in cold weather. Other days, it’s as loud as the garbage truck smashing shit right outside my window here in Berkeley. Now, nine years out, there are some days when I almost forget; when I feel like I’m thriving and loved and connected.

Death is death, no matter how you slice it. It’s complicated. Part of being human and getting to live in this life with others is the confusion and pain around leaving it.

Instead of asking someone if they were close to who they lost, I try to ask open-ended questions. This leaves more room for the griever to say what they need to. Or to evade the conversation, as I did for many years.

Some good things to ask

Some simple and roomy questions I’ve been asked:

“What do you need?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“What’s been helping, lately?”

“How are you taking care of yourself?

In my experience, the best thing you can do for me is listen. Sit with me. Set a calendar reminder to check back in a few months later, when everybody forgets that I’m still struggling.