The inevitable cost of love

To the newly, woefully, bereaved, still trying to make sense of the way that death just rearranged your life, I have no words for you. That's not because I don't care, or that there isn't so much to say, only that I understand that there aren't any, not right now, that would reach you or soothe you, or grant you any peace. We all wish you peace, in time, and trust us, those who circle around you, up close and at a distant, we're frustrated with our lack of ability to help.

When we were young and experience romance and relationships for the first time, we were told that love should never hurt. This well intentioned but incorrect advice was meant to steer us away from danger and abuse, but ultimately, it's fallacy left us underprepared for the truth. The price of love, all love, is pain. Though not everyone will pay the price, or pay equally, someone pays, and hurt is inevitable. Love, in it's physical, tangible, comfortable sense will always end, and someone will be left holding the bill, and feeling the sorrow. No matter what severs the tie, a break up, infidelity, or death, love (that is born in joy) ends in heartache.

To the newly bereaved, holding your broken heart in your hands, as I witness your pain, I ache too, in solidarity. Your broken heart breaks my heart. Watching the tsunami of your loss wash over you and being helpless to save you or protect you makes your friends and family sick, they ache in a way that is unique to deaths bystanders. We understand you're drowning now, and there's very little we can do but wait for you to wash up on the shore where some healing can begin and we can be of some use to you again.

To the ones on the sidelines, witnessing the bereaved as they experience indescribable pain, longing to help, to do something, anything to minimize deaths' impact. I'm so sorry to tell you that you can't. Not really. You can only stay close, stay ready, and wait for the storm to abate and for it to be safe to wade in and pull your friend or family from griefs aftermath. That is when your work will begin. This is your pain, the cost of your love, to desire to help and support and protect, knowing that at this time, when it's needed the most, it is its least effective.

To the ones breathless and drowning in sorrow. I wish I could walk you through this, here's what I would say if your heart and your ears would have it...

• It only feels like you're dying too, but this pain is actually a reminder of just how alive you are and how deep your love is.
• It won't always hurt this bad, I promise, it won't.
• You don't have to grieve in any one way, there's no correct form for navigating your loss, be weird if you want to, do it your way, just make sure you get through this part, the part that feels like it won't ever end.
• It's okay to tell the people who are circling you right now, desperate to be of use, hopeful to help in some way, that you don't want them around right now, or that you aren't ready, they'll get it (or they won't, and that's not your problem).
• Believe whatever you need to believe to get through the day. If a thought makes you hurt a little less then it's right. Believe that.
• Just keep breathing. Ask for help when you want it. Ask for space when you need it. Feel what you feel. You can't do this process wrong.

To the ones on the sidelines waiting to be called in to heal and sooth your friend in pain, hold your position. You're going to need a thick skin now, people in this sort of pain are unpredictable and ever changing, remember its not about you. Stand by, but not too close, be available but not underfoot. Be warm and comforting but not overly sweet or upbeat, and be ready for what your friend needs to change, suddenly and often. Be constant, be adaptable and be patient with the bereaved, as those who are swept up in grief experience a pain that can present like a wild and untamed insanity.

When my identical twin sons were born, seemingly both in good health, their father and I were obviously thrilled, and feel deeply into love with them. When one of our sons died twenty days later, we each went a bit insane with pain and grief, a madness that eradicated who we were and replaced us with two perplexing shells for our family and friends to deal with. In hindsight, I can see how what a confusing mess I was, my pain made me irrational and unreasonable, it made me angry and desperate to control things that weren't mine to control. Nearly thirteen years later, I'm grateful for all of you who let me fall to pieces and go insane and who waited for me to come together again, in my own time, then helped to heal the wounds that losing our son had left.

Now, thirteen years later, I can tell you from experience that you can survive the pain you never saw coming, the pain you were never meant to experience and the pain that seems so appallingly unnatural that it will surely devour you. You will live through this, but first you'll have to go through it, and it will take as long as it takes and there is very little anyone can do to help you through. But remember, that pain is the cost of love, and you're experiencing it because you had love and despite the pain of endings, it was worth it. It was special, it was life changing, it was beautiful, and it was yours.

Its not ok. But you will be.

Your pain will wash over you like a tidal wave and you will learn to breath under water.

Your grief will consume you like fire and you will be a phoenix who rises up from the ashes, transformed.

Your grief will change you just as the love that bore it did.

The love you lost will leave a hole in you that will be filled in time by the outpouring of love and support from your family and friends. Your loved one will be gone from you but you will feel whole again one day, and that is also completely ok.

To you, friend, bereaved and blinded, I have no words for you. None that can truly be of any use to you right now. I, your friend, your family, your parent, your child, your partner, your person, offer instead my company, my patience and my presence while you do your best to resurface from the tsunami of pain that swept you up.

The cost of your great big love.