you never forget the ones who show up
A death-phobic culture is the hardest place to grieve. People would rather talk about work and the weather than what keeps them up at night. Death is something to be feared and avoided, treated as an inconvenience at best and a failure at worst. Perpetual bliss and happiness is the goal, and positive thinking, rampant materialism, an individualistic mentality and productivity hacks are how we get there. Until grief bursts our bubble.
“We are allowed to be deeply into basketball, or Buddhism, or Star Trek, or jazz, but we are not allowed to be deeply sad. Grief is a thing that we are encouraged to ‘let go of,’ to ‘move on from,’ and we are told specifically how this should be done.”
You’re not allowed to break down (and certainly not over a pet). You’re not allowed to grieve for too long—your three days of bereavement leave should be enough (except you don’t even get those for animal companions). You’re not allowed to miss too much work, to fall too behind, to cry too often or too loud. Sometimes, you’re not even allowed to talk about your grief for fear of being criticized or misunderstood by the people around you who seem to think grief is some kind of competition—only people with real losses get to mourn or receive compassion. Animals don’t count (or at least not as much).
When your furry or winged or hooved best friend dies, there is no funeral. No newspaper obituary. No public ceremony of any kind where the burden of grief can be shared in a safe, supportive, understanding environment. It’s so isolating, so empty, this disenfranchised grief, how it’s unrecognized by society at large and unfelt by nearly everyone around you. Because they are your baby, the bond is a singular, personal one. You alone enjoyed the depth of your relationship, the day-to-day intertwined familiarity, and thus you stand alone in your grief.
That’s why you never forget the ones who show up for you during this time.
The ones who get it. The ones who may not quite get it, but still want to support you because they can see you’re hurting.
The ones who send cards or flowers or keepsakes. The ones who bring you food—homemade or store-bought, equally thoughtful.
The ones who send books and poems and pictures and songs, who call to check on you, who light candles on your behalf, who include you in their prayers.
The ones who show up in person, if they can. If you’re ready. If you let them.
The ones who don’t care what you look like. Or smell like.
The ones who let you cry as long as you need. The ones who rub your feet and sit with you in silence, knowing you can’t bear to talk.
The ones who offer no advice, no platitudes, no solutions, no here-let-me-make-it-better strategies—just their simple presence.
The ones who deeply listen, and ask questions, and let you share treasured memories. The ones who have special memories of their own to share.
The ones who don’t try to take your pain away from you or talk you out of it or only talk about their pain instead.
The ones who wash your dishes, who bring you groceries, who make you a cup of tea just the way you like it.
The ones who take you on walks for fresh air or watch movies with you when a distraction is needed.
The ones who participate in healing and memorial rituals with you.
The ones who hug you and hold your hand and curl up next to you on the sofa.
The ones who make you laugh so you can remember how good it feels, how it’s okay to allow yourself the lighter moments, too.
The ones who remember all the important dates, especially the birthday and the death anniversary, and let you know they’re thinking of you.
The ones who make sure you know you matter, your beloved pet matters, your grief matters.
All these unspeakably kind words and gestures will be etched into your very soul, the shining fabric of your being.
It’s the ones who show up for you who help you find your way in the darkness, who remind you love is still present and active in your life, who reveal the intricately woven invisible bonds connecting us all, right below your skin.
This is what counts. This is what matters. This is how to be a human in the world.
I’ll keep these kind words and thoughtful gestures with me for the rest of my life.
Be someone who shows up—for yourself most of all.
