My Black is NOT Cracking.

I’ve been working on this book about loss for the past year.  I’ve written about my own experiences, but also have been thoroughly researching the topic. The purpose of this post is not to depress the living s#*t out of you.  I am hoping you’ll find it helpful.  I will get back to the topic of healthy aging in the next post.  I promise.

When you’re writing with the intention of publishing, they always tell you to identify your target audience. Well, that part is easy. With regard to this topic, my audience is everyone, because at some point, everyone will experience loss and grief. And at some point, everyone will need the support of friends, family, or maybe even strangers to make it through.

I experienced the devastating loss of my granddaughter on June 4, 2022. She was a passenger in a car driven by a reckless, intoxicated driver who lost control, slammed into a fire hydrant, and flipped the car. She was ejected—thrown from the vehicle—and, according to a witness (whose words I wish I could unhear), was partially trapped beneath the overturned car. He walked away without a scratch. She lay dead in a ditch, covered by a sheet, with one of her Nikes lying in the middle of the road. I’m sorry to be so graphic, but this is the visual image I see when I close my eyes. This is what everyone wants me to “GET OVER!”

What I experienced wasn’t just grief; it was trauma. PTSD, I’m sure. To arrive at that scene and hear the wails of your only child coming from inside an ambulance is just something you can never unsee; a sound you can never forget. It’s a pain that finds its way back into your body, your chest, your throat every day and every night without warning.

And if that loss wasn’t enough, it came with more loss. My daughter still lives and breathes, but in so many ways, I lost her too. The always-smiling, always-laughing child I raised is gone. My identity as “Mom-Mom” was gone. My purpose felt gone. Quite frankly, I lost everyone in my immediate family who loved my granddaughter, because we were all forever changed. We were all shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces.

And sadly, I lost people I thought were friends. When I needed them most, they disappeared. The silence was deafening.

I recently attended a conference. It is a conference I’ve been going to for twenty-seven years. Over the decades, I’ve made countless acquaintances; people who’ve known me long before I was a grandmother. They had listened to me talk about my granddaughter for twenty-one of those years. From the moment she was born, they saw pictures and videos, heard about her achievements, and came to know her through me. They came to know me as Mom-Mom.

The first year I went back after the accident was brutal. The first question was always, “How have you been?” The second was, “So, how’s your granddaughter?” And then came the moment I had to tell them. Their faces fell. The words, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” echoed again and again.

I kept to myself that year. When I could, I tried to join in, to be social and to remember what living felt like. But the truth is, I was trying to be the old me and she no longer existed. She was gone. Shattered. I was just trying to piece together whatever mosaic of myself still remained.

The second year I attended post-accident, one so-called friend said to me, “I’m so glad to see you’re in a better mood.  I’m sure I’ve mentioned this in a previous post.  #1. Please NEVER refer to grief as a “MOOD!”  And #2. Please don’t have your first conversation with someone grieving and lead with how great your life is.  And that is all that I’m going to say about that!

I skipped the next year and only recently returned. The conference has always been a mix of work and play for me. A professional event, yes, but also a kind of annual vacation. It’s a place where I feel safe traveling alone because I’m surrounded by hundreds of familiar faces. It’s social, but with plenty of space for solitude when I need it.

This year, I tried hard to be more social again by having breakfast, lunch, or drinks with people I’d known for years. And yet, time after time, I was asked, “How are you?” and “How’s your daughter?” and the one that really got to me was, “Are you better?”

That one’s easy to answer: No.
We’re not better.
We may never be better.
We are changed.
Don’t ever ask that question.

During my alone time, and there was a lot of it, though that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing as I managed to finish the first draft of a screenplay I’m submitting to my first competition. But I also spent a lot of time thinking. Thinking about grief, and about how little people really understand it. Thinking about how I might help others who are grieving, or those trying to support someone who is. Because one day, everyone will know loss. Most people lose their parents eventually. But losing a child? That’s something fewer will ever know, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

So, I want to share what I hope might help both those grieving and those trying to support someone who is. Some things to consider doing, and just as importantly, some things, in my opinion, you should NEVER say.  You’ve just read three of them!

Let’s start with this: Actions speak louder than words.
When you hear the same phrase over and over, it starts to lose meaning. It’s like being in an abusive relationship and hearing “I’m sorry” after every blow; it becomes hollow. And yes, I know you’re thinking, what are you supposed to say then?

I wrote about this two years ago. When you don’t know what to say, simply say, “I love you.” It’s never the wrong thing to say to someone you care about who’s grieving. If that feels too intimate, then, “I’m here for you.” And mean it. Be there.

I remember not wanting to be hugged. Not because I didn’t need it; I desperately did, but because I was afraid I’d start crying and never stop. I’d tell people, “Please don’t hug me,” because I needed control. But silence isn’t the answer either. Being invisible isn’t the answer. “Giving me space” wasn’t what I needed.

Sometimes, you don’t need to say a thing. Just be there. Sit with me. Hold my hand. Send a simple text that says, “I’m thinking of you.” Offer your shoulder, your ear, your time. Because the truth is, there’s nothing you can say to make someone feel better.

If you’re old enough to remember vinyl records, you’ll get this: when the record had a scratch, it would skip; repeating the same lyric over and over until someone finally got up and moved the needle. It was annoying as hell.

Well, I hate to tell you, but hearing “I’m sorry for your loss” can feel the same way. It’s a phrase stuck in a skip. It might come from a place of love, but for me, it had lost all meaning.

So, if you ever find yourself sitting across from someone grieving, whether it’s been a week, a year, or a decade, remember that grief doesn’t have an expiration date. There’s no “better” waiting on the other side of it. There’s just different.

Grief changes your DNA. It rearranges the furniture of your soul. You learn to carry it, but it never gets lighter; you just get stronger. You start to build a new version of yourself out of what’s left, even though the pieces never quite fit the same.

Some days, you find yourself laughing again and realize you didn’t plan to. Other days, a random song, scent, or photo will knock the wind out of you. And that’s okay. That’s grief; unpredictable, unrelenting, and ever-present.

I’ve come to understand that grief isn’t just about what’s been lost. It’s about love; a fierce, undying love that no longer has a place to go. It lingers, looking for somewhere to land. And so, we talk about them. We write about them. We keep them alive in stories and memories because that’s what love does. It refuses to die.

So, if you truly want to help someone grieving, don’t disappear. Don’t avoid their lost love one’s name. Don’t rush their healing. Just be there. Sit with them the silence. Let it be uncomfortable. And understand that sometimes, presence is the only language that matters.