I remember the invasion when my brother died. Our house suddenly became filled to the rafters with people. Sometimes it helped, but mostly it was a very painful reminder of just how much things had changed in an instant, and how they were never going to be the same. All the attention was overwhelming.
It was helpful, I do want to be clear about that—the outpouring of love and support for my family was heartening to see and feel. It’s a crucial part of the collective grieving process, and that sense of community was impactful. What I’m saying is that part is rather obvious, it’s clear even from the outside; what’s less obvious, from someone who’s lived on the inside of such a tragic event, as someone where it was my family going through it, is that it’s also very, very hard to have all that attention. It’s both things at the same time, irreconcilable, impossible to fix, which is the root of any such tragedy—there is no remedy. Even time brings only scar tissue. We are marked and never the same.
My friend is dying. They have kids, and those kids are going through their own tragedy right now. It’s happening in slower motion than what happened with my brother, but I can’t help but be in their house and think about all those people in mine…how grateful I was they were there, but also how hard.
Night night.