FriendGrief

Friends Grieving for George Harrison

2012-02-29T10:41:00.000-06:00

George Harrison's birthday was a few days ago. He would've been 69 years old. I find it almost impossible to think of that gangly, 20 year old "quiet Beatle" on Ed Sullivan's Show as a senior citizen.

Last fall, I wrote this about him, after watching the excellent "Living in the Material World" documentary about his life. As in "The Concert for George", his friends talk about their love for him. I highly recommend both films, whether you're a Beatlemaniac or not. Because you'll find yourself marveling at the beautiful, complicated friendships he treasured so much:

A few months ago, I blogged about Paul McCartney’s concert at Wrigley Field and how his tributes to John Lennon and George Harrison were so very different: while the song dedicated to John was full of regret and guilt, the one for George clearly showed the love they felt free to express to one another.

HBO has been showing Martin Scorcese’s documentary about George Harrison, “Living in the Material World”. His wife, Olivia, and son, Dhani, spoke fondly and honestly about George. But it was in the words of his friends that you really got a sense of the man: strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures.

One friend admitted that it was still difficult for him to talk about George, ten years after his death.

Another laughed about George being stubborn enough, even as he was dying, to buy a house in Switzerland to avoid the tax man (the subject of one of his best-known songs).

But it was Ringo’s emotional story of his last visit with him, at that house in Switzerland, that stuck with me. By then, George was too sick to get out of bed. Ringo had to leave: his own daughter was in Boston, diagnosed with a brain tumor, and he had to get to her. When he told his friend why he was leaving, George asked, “do you want me to go with you?”

They both knew it was impossible, but it was a measure of the man to want to support his friend, even as his own death approached.

As the almost 4-hour documentary shows, George wanted to leave the world a better place. Most would assume he would do that with music, and he certainly did. But for his friends, the music was almost incidental. It was the love he showed his friends that made their world a better place.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Most would say, I suspect, that he goes with them every day. So it is with our friends, too. Friends die, but friendships don’t.

http://youtu.be/KZbGVHk3tBA

Learn more about “Living in the Material World” at George’s website.

When a Friend’s Diagnosis Scares You

2012-02-27T13:58:00.000-06:00

“I read the news today, oh, boy…”

When I was a kid, it seemed that old people talked about nothing but aches and pains. If asked how she was feeling, the most optimistic response my great-aunt could come up with was, “well, not too bad”.

And while I’m not there yet, as we age we see glimpses of declining health. Sore knees and weakened eyes become the rule rather than the exception, both in ourselves and our friends.

We may complain about not being able to play certain sports anymore, but, hey, we’re still here, right?

Then one day you get the phone call or the email, or you see a post on Facebook. One of your friends is sick, really sick: dying. And the world stops.

We go into crisis mode: contacting our friend, offering assistance in any way we can. We stop obsessing about stupid things and concentrate on what we can do to help. We get out of ourselves, though it may only last a little while.

Deanna Watson, writing in yesterday’s Times Record News of Wichita Falls, Texas, is in the midst of one of those times. Her colleague, sports writer Nick Gholson, had surgery last week for advanced colon cancer.

Time has a way of standing still when we hear shocking news. Our minds struggle to understand the words and what they mean. They didn’t get all the cancer? What does that mean? Can they operate again? There’s something they can do, right? You’re going to be okay, right? RIGHT???

It’s the shock of the news, but it’s also the rush of selfishness we all feel: what about me? Some people may even feel guilty later on if they realize how they’re reacting, but it’s so very human and understandable.

We love our friends, or they wouldn’t be our friends. We share our lives with them. We want to always be able to do the things we do with them now, or have done for years.

So if your reaction to such devastating news is to think “I need you to be okay, I need everything to stay the way it is right now” you’re not alone. I remember thinking the same thing – and not admitting it to anyone – when hearing that friends were close to death.

The difference between this and dealing with the devastating news that a friend has died is that they’re still very much alive. As devastated as you are, you’ve been given a gift: time. No, it’s not as much time as you assumed you’d have. But it’s time: time to say what’s in your heart, time to help them, time to just hang out and be the friend you’ve always been.

Watson talks about how rattled she is: forgetting things, almost being in a daze. But she is as lucid as can be in the close of her article. Hers are words that we can all relate to and follow:

“I’m a different person today than I was, say, on Monday, when little things bothered me. I can feel it. I’ve aged.

I’m sure there will come a day, probably sooner than later, when the little things bother me again.

A friend will hurt my feelings.

I’ll drive over the speed limit on a winding, country road.

I’ll work a few minutes late, trying to squeeze in one more task.

I’ll fuss at the clutter in the living room.

But I can do that another day.

If I get another day.

This week, I’m learning a lesson I’ve been taught many times before.

Today is the only day that’s certain.

You fight for tomorrow.”

Disenfranchised (Friend) Grief

2012-02-23T12:20:00.000-06:00

Last April, I wrote about the concept of "disenfranchised grief". If you've experienced a lack of empathy - perhaps even a callous disregard for your grief - you already know what I'm talking about. On this blog and in my book, I try to shine a light on this kind of grief:

I didn’t know when I decided to write my book that there was such a thing as “disenfranchised grief”, coined by Dr. Kenneth Doka of the College of New Rochelle, in 1989. In the 2002 revision of his Disenfranchised Grief: Recognizing Hidden Sorrow, Dr. Doka observes how the grief a friend experiences can be dismissed:

“Often there is no recognized role in which mourners can assert the right to mourn and thus receive such support. Grief may have to remain private. Though they may have experienced an intense loss, they may not be given time off from work, have the opportunity to verbalize the loss, or receive the expressions of sympathy and support characteristic in a death.”

Sometimes the disrespect is intentional, sometimes not. But you’ve probably experienced the following situation:

“The role of the friend or similarly close relationship may simply be ignored – unrecognized or unacknowledged. Such persons may attend the funeral. They may even be expected to be there out of respect for the deceased and in support of the family. But they remain passive participants, their own need to mourn overlooked.”

So, if it makes you feel better, there is a reason your grief felt compounded by the lack of respect you experienced. Grieving a friend is not acknowledged in the same way as grieving a family member.

It’s up to all of us to let those around us know the importance of our friendships and the depth of our grief. Then and only then will grieving a friend receive the respect it deserves.

Writing about Grief Gets to You, Too

2012-02-20T10:44:00.000-06:00

The "Survivor Tree"
at Ground Zero

I’ve had interesting reactions when I tell people I’m writing about the experience of grieving the death of a friend.

“Oh…that’s depressing…”

I insist they’re – mostly – wrong, and truly, I believe it.

But there are times when you want to rush the grieving process along, when it wears on you, when it seems as though it will never end.

I’ve found the same thing goes for reading and writing about it. You think it won’t affect you. But it does.

One of the hardest – though not the hardest – topic I’ve written about here and in my book is 9/11. It’s not because I knew someone who died that day; I was mistaken in thinking that would be the case.

It’s a difficult topic for most people to think or talk about: the enormity, the shock, the ongoing ramifications.

My second research trip to New York was for the 9^th anniversary of 9/11. I went to various observances, including the Naming Ceremony. I visited the 9/11 Visitors Center, as well as the NYPD and FDNY museums. I read two books on that trip, written by survivors. I figured it would be emotional, so I built in a day to do nothing 9/11-related.

I spent a good part of that rainy, raw Sunday at the Cloisters. I knew before I walked into Ft. Tryon Park that I desperately needed its serenity. The panic attack that started as I approached the entrance gradually subsided, until I left the grounds hours later, calmer and almost relaxed.

But it wasn’t enough. The following evening I went out for drinks with a dear friend, a sweet, gentle man. I found myself trying to pick a fight with him – for absolutely no reason. The fact that he was also stressed (about other things) didn’t help. I had no reason to be angry with him – in fact, I wasn’t angry with him. But I realized when I got back to my hotel that the affects of all the 9/11 research had gotten to me. In fact, I could still feel them physically a week later.

The following year, I was back again. This time, lesson learned. I spread things out over a longer period of time. I said no to attending some observances. I gave myself plenty of downtime. I collected the newspapers, with commemorative sections, but put them away to read later.

I watched virtually no television coverage. I struck up more conversations with strangers – cops from Toronto and England, bartenders, waitresses. I partied late at Fashion Night with a woman I’d grown up with. And I took one complete day off – the 12^th – to decompress after 4 straight days of activities.

On the 13^th, the second day it was open, the friend I’d picked on the year before accompanied me to the new 9/11 Memorial. I went to all the other observances alone, but for this one I knew I needed a friend. It was emotional for both of us to visit it – me, for seeing my classmate’s name, him, for having lived through the attack. The tears were a relief. We went out for drinks afterwards.

We sat with our same vodkas at the same table at the same bar we’d visited a year before. This time the conversation was not the same. This time we were relaxed. We talked about our kids and getting older, we talked about baseball and theatre. We laughed. We hugged.

The airplane analogy worked: if the cabin loses pressure, you’re instructed to put your own oxygen mask on first before you try to help anyone else.

That’s a very tough thing to remember if you’re grieving or just writing about grieving. It’s next to impossible if you’re a caregiver.

But it’s worth remembering today: you can’t help anyone else if you don’t take care of yourself.

Wherever you are in the grieving process, take a moment today to step back. Turn off the computer or the TV. Turn off the lights and sit in darkness. Breathe. Find a way to recharge your batteries.

Remember something incredibly stupid you did with your friend. Let yourself laugh, even if you wind up crying.

Take care of yourself.

Friend Grief When a Colleague Dies

2012-02-17T10:49:00.000-06:00

Jeff Zaslow and The Girls from Ames

In the course of your working life, you will have worked with hundreds, maybe thousands of people.

Co-workers may play in the same band, or share a claustrophobic cubicle. They may work on a project together, or just pass by in the hallway. They may share living quarters, like firefighters or monks. They may work together for weeks or months or years.

Not all co-workers are friends: many are rivals. But often shared experiences, born from impossible deadlines or the excitement of creating something special, forge lifelong friendships.

Several people I’ve interviewed for my book have talked about their grief at losing a colleague. Others are talking about it this week, with news of the deaths of two journalists, Jeffrey Zaslow and Andrew Shadid. I knew Jeff a long time ago.

In 1990, Jeff had been chosen to be one of the successors to Ann Landers. He arrived in Chicago with a unique blend of genuine compassion and goofiness. He held huge singles events – “Zazz Bash” – on Navy Pier, hoping others would find someone to love as much as he loved his wife.

Jeff’s family was not with him in Chicago, and he asked his Sun-Times readers if they would invite him into their homes for dinner. You know, invite him for a typical family dinner and talk about whatever you wanted to talk about.

I was development director at Chicago House, a residential and support agency for people living with HIV/AIDS. I invited Jeff to come to dinner at one of our locations. Serious negotiations followed, to ensure that the residents’ privacy was not violated (not all wanted to talk or have their pictures taken).

There was still much hysteria about AIDS in 1990, and it was to Jeff’s credit that he didn’t shy away from my invitation. I remember his phone call the next day: how deeply he was affected by what these men had endured – not just the disease itself, but the prejudice, fear, and outright hatred. He asked to come back again a few months later, to follow up with the men he met.

Jeff remained a friend of Chicago House, although I had left the agency by the time he came for dinner a second time. I don’t think I ever saw him again after that, but his respect for the residents was something I never forgot. I followed his career, and read his books, including The Last Lecture and The Girls from Ames, and looked forward to his newest book, The Magic Room: A Story About the Love We Wish for Our Daughters.

When I found out he died in a car accident, I was shocked and saddened. In remembering his kindnesses, I found out that he had an impact on many he worked with. Three of them wrote about him after his funeral.

“’Do you want to write something?” an editor asked. I said “No.”…I wanted to honor Jeff by shutting up, an underappreciated art form. But silence felt worse…Silence has no utility, it isn’t a sharp enough blade to scrape at the icy loss that Jeff’s death frosts over the world. I wish I could wrap this up tidily, with an inspiring thought that counterbalances the tragedy in the world and leaves you with a smile. Jeff was so good at that. Alas, he is not here, a hard fact that touches on the often cruel nature of life, one that we lucky enough to have known Jeff will struggle with for a long time.” – Neil Steinberg, Chicago Sun-Times

“We take the measure of our regrets that we didn’t more often take the opportunity to see him when he was alive, that we let ourselves be lulled into complacency by presumed longevity, his and ours…The subtext of this and many other funerals is that tomorrow is a possibility, not a promise. Life is fragile and short, even at the longest. Soon enough you will be sitting in another pew witnessing the memorial of another friend – or they’ll be sitting there for you – so there’s no time like now to start appreciating and enjoying them.” – Eric Zorn, Chicago Tribune

“During his last lecture, Jeff modestly suggested that ideas, curiosities and relationships are the stuff of happiness, the building blocks of a well-lead, meaningful life. After the symphony of words ended, after the pall-bearers rolled the casket up the aisle, we rose from our seats and silently exited the synagogue – uplifted and humbled by Jeff’s example, still mesmerized by our loss but resolved to try to honor his ideals.” – Andrew S. Doctorff, Huffington Post

I checked Jeff’s website this morning, Jeff Zaslow, to see if it had been updated. It hasn’t. But I found an article on it that Jeff had written about Randy Pausch, the computer-science professor made famous in his book The Last Lecture. In the article, Jeff recounts how people reached out to Randy after his diagnosis and speech. One was a man who suffered from serious heart problems:

“The man wrote to tell Randy about Krishnamurti, a spiritual leader in India who died in 1986. Krishnamurti was once asked what was the most appropriate way to say goodbye to a man who was about to die. He answered: ‘Tell your friend that in his death, a part of you dies and goes with him. Wherever he goes, you also go. He will not be alone.”

I hope that wherever Jeff is, he knows that countless friends and admirers have left a part of themselves with him. And that part of him is with them, too.

Trying to Avoid Friend Grief? Good Luck with That

2012-02-15T09:54:00.000-06:00

A rose for each classmate who died

First of all, right off the bat, I’m going to say you can’t avoid friend grief. You can’t avoid grieving when a friend dies. But bear with me and read on.

We grieve our friends because we love them. We grieve for anything we’ve lost: hair, energy, good looks, high metabolism, our first car. Why wouldn’t we grieve for friends?

When someone is a part of your life – or was a part of your life – and they’re gone, there is a noticeable hole. Your life is now incomplete. That part of your life existed in part because of that friend. Your witness is gone.

What if I hadn’t had the courage to strike up conversations with total strangers a year ago January at the Writers Digest Conference? What if I’d just gone back to my hotel room instead of tagging along with seven other people for dinner? My writing – and the past year – would not have happened in the amazing way it did.

What if I hadn’t started talking to the other girl cooling her heels at the CYC dance sophomore year in high school? What if we hadn’t discovered that she and I were both waiting for the same girlfriend to show up (who didn’t)? We wouldn’t still be friends today.

What if I hadn’t taken the stage managing class I didn’t need when I first moved to Chicago, so I could try to meet people? What if I hadn’t agreed to stage manage the teacher’s next show? I wouldn’t have launched a career that included directing, founding a theatre and a trade association before morphing into a fundraising career.

At each of those moments, I did something that took, well, more guts that I normally possessed. Did I know those decisions were going to change my life? Of course not; I only know that in retrospect.

But what came of each moment was the beginning of a friendship – or two or three or twelve: friends who kept me going when life threw me curves. Friends who have encouraged me and loved me and tolerated me and been brutally honest with me: in other words, the definition of a true friend.

Not all of those friends are still here. Some I’ve simply lost touch with; too many have died. But perhaps more so than with family, our friends are a great barometer of the different times of our lives.

The program for my wedding welcomed our friends and identified the different groups: my husband’s California friends, my high school girlfriends, my theatre friends. We met them at different times in our lives. So it stands to reason that they knew us in different ways than those who met us at other times.

Think back to when you were in high school, or when you were married, or at your first job. You were a different person in each situation. Your friends knew you in that particular context. They didn’t know the “you” before that.

Now think of the special ones, the ones who continued to be your friend after you graduated, after you divorced, after you changed careers. Those friendships aren’t just based on a narrow definition of who you were: those friendships are built on mutual respect and love for who you’ve become.

Why wouldn’t you grieve for them?

Gatherings, whether they’re class reunions, weddings or even funerals, give us an opportunity to reconnect with people from our past. And almost everyone is nervous about that.

Why? Because we’ve changed, thank God, since we were 17.We’re the same, only different (And so are they, we often forget). Will they still like me, we wonder?

Some will, some won’t, but they’re still part of your past. They’re still part of the times in your life that make you who you are. And you’re still part of the times that make them who they are.

If you’re very, very lucky, you and your friends from those special times will still connect. Maybe you’ll only see each other at class reunions, have a great time, and that’s it. Nothing wrong with that.

But maybe you’ll both see those planned or chance reunions as an opportunity to re-establish your friendships.

The saddest part of a reunion is talking about who’s died. And the conversations inevitably revolve around how they lost touch with others. There may be regret, there may be full-fledged guilt. But there doesn’t have to be.

Take some time today to think back on a particular time in your life – not your whole life, just one period. Maybe it’s when you moved away from home, or when your kids were small, or you started that first really important job.

Think about the people who you considered friends. Maybe they were other moms, other new hires, other lonely kids far away from home for the first time. Remember why you became friends in the first place.

It’s so easy now to track down people. I’ve done it through my university alumni website, as well as Google and Twitter and Facebook.

So try to find one old friend, just one, and reach out to them. Maybe it’s the age I’m at, but I find when I’ve done that in the past few years, it’s always a very positive response. I can’t guarantee that’ll happen for you. But a brief, friendly “you popped into my head today and I just wanted to say hi” can make someone’s day. Including yours.

So, no, I’m sorry, you can’t avoid grieving when a friend dies. But you can make the effort now to never have to say “I should’ve called when I was thinking about it.”

“We’re at That Age” – Well, That Sucks

2012-02-13T13:08:00.000-06:00

Anytime my husband and I discuss a friend’s health issues – or sudden death – I can count on him to say, “we’re at that age”. It’s meant to explain away whatever’s happening, as if it were the only possible reason.

Of course, to some extent that’s true. One of the downsides of growing older is that we lose a lot of people we love. We expect our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles to die; after all, they’re a generation older than we are.

But when people our own age – not to mention those younger – die, it’s a double loss. Because when our friends die, we lose a little of ourselves, too.

I’ve spent the past couple weeks dealing with loss and possible loss. One friend died suddenly. Another insists he’s fine, though his track record for revealing personal information is sketchy.

The one that’s been particularly tough for me is someone I’ve known and loved since I was in college. The story of our relationship is rather complicated, but most of that time we’ve been close, even while living far apart.

He had a health scare. Actually, he was extraordinarily lucky. About to be wheeled into the operating room for minor surgery, the anesthesiologist stopped everything. There was something wrong with David’s heart and it would be dangerous to proceed.

After a trip to the cardiologist, there was more sobering news. Not only did he need surgery, but he’d already had several silent heart attacks. We discussed the news mostly seriously – not completely, because there always have to be jokes between us.

Last week, he called me the night before surgery to tell me he was ready and (for him, anyway) calm. Then he told me that his partner had a short list of people to call if the surgery “went bad”. I was on the list.

Well, I thought I’d been handling all his news pretty well until he said that. I struggled to not fall apart. “Are you upset?” he asked, surprised. “Of course I’m upset,” I snapped. After a few well-chosen words I can’t repeat here, I conceded that I’d be much more upset if I wasn’t on the list. We wound up laughing, speculating about how I would express that particular displeasure.

But before we hung up I told him something I hadn’t told him for almost 35 years: I love you. Now he was the one choking up.

The day after the surgery I got a text from him: everything was fine, but he’d have to go back. Well, to me that meant everything wasn’t fine.

Last night he called. He’s back home, sounding stronger than our last few conversations. I got all the gory details; there will indeed be more surgery in 6 months. Now he faces radical lifestyle changes, which he is more than happy to follow, especially given how much better he felt almost immediately.

We talked about many things, and joked as much as possible. This time when we hung up, he was the one to say “I love you”.

It was a close call: for him and for me. Over the years we’ve argued and screamed, performed on stage together, shared a grad school advisor, laughed and cried. Mostly I think of going out dancing with him, doing our Fred and Ginger routines even at the height of disco.

This morning I told another friend this story. “It’s never too late to tell someone you love them,” she said.

But as we all know, sometimes it is too late. Sometimes we’re too self-conscious. Sometimes we assume they know, so we don’t need to say it. Mostly we just feel like there’s plenty of time.

There isn’t. There’s never enough time.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, a day for spending money to prove romantic love.

How about if you also make it a day to prove you love your friends? You don’t have to buy candy or send flowers. Just send an email, make a call or text.

Tell them you’re moved by the spirit of that chubby little cherub, and you wanted to let them know how much they mean to you. Yes, I know it’s hokey, and possibly a little pathetic. But do it anyway.

The worst thing that could happen is that you embarrass yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time, right?

The best thing that could happen is that there will be no doubt in your friend’s mind how important they are to you. Bonus: you won’t feel guilty later on for not telling your friend you loved them.

“We Didn’t Lose a Person…We Absorbed Him”

2012-02-10T12:38:00.000-06:00

Photo by Carlos Iamagua

One of the reactions we have after the death of a friend is fear: fear that they will be forgotten.

People who have made a name for themselves in their chosen professions will likely be remembered in some way. But normal folks – the 99%, if you will – do not have buildings or highways named after them. They don’t leave works of art that will live forever. They’re just…normal folks.

So when faced with these truths, what’s a friend to do? You donate money to their favorite charity. You wear a t-shirt with their picture on it. You have Mass offered on their birthday. You make a point to stay in touch with their family. You name your child after them.

I’ve wondered about my great-great grandfather’s relationship with the best man at his wedding during the Civil War, a man named George. In all my years of genealogy research, I’d never found a ‘George’ before then in the family. But in 1868, my great-great grandfather gave that name to his son. It started a four-generation tradition of naming the first son of each generation ‘George’.

They must have been close for my great-great grandfather to name his first son after him. Some day I may do a little research into that man, too.

Your friend was part of your life – part of you – and although you will never forget them, somehow that’s not enough. You want, understandably, for them to somehow go on living.

How does that work? How do you find a way to honor that very special person you were honored to call “friend”?

On Sept. 12, 2009, Glenn Wright (aka “Spoof”) was killed in a case of mistaken identity, as he did chores for his grandmother on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Gang members were seeking retaliation for an earlier attack, and stabbed Wright from behind.

Wright, only 21 at the time, was an artist, volunteering his time at the East Harlem Tutorial Program. A group of his friends, also artists, decided to channel their grief into art.

Six young people created an art show at the Brick Gallery at The Point in Hunts Point in his honor, calling it “House of Spoof Collective”. According to a story in the New York Daily News,

“As music blared across the courtyard, about 100 people filed through the small gallery taking in photographs, paintings, silkscreen prints and graphic designs.

Outside, several artists painted murals on a courtyard wall. Two others took to a ladder to install a larger-than-life picture of Wright on the side of an old smokestack.

‘We took a lot of Glenn’s characteristics and put them into this. He was a very humble, giving person and we tried to incorporate that,’ said Carlos Iamagua, 22, another member of the collective. ‘The way I look at it, we didn’t lose a person, we absorbed him.’”

His friends in the collective found an immediate way to not only express their grief, but their love for Wright. And taking it a step further, they pledged to support young artists, thus keeping their friend’s legacy a part of their lives.

Part of Wright’s legacy is a scholarship at the East Harlem Tutorial Program. In an article in The Uptowner by Nate Rawlings, a family member explains the importance:

“He was nothing but good,” Wright’s father, Peter Wright said. He hoped the scholarship that the scholarship will become a lasting tribute to his son. “He wasn’t famous enough,” Peter Wright said. “A lot of people forget.”

So we see two things: something immediate and something longer-lasting. They are keeping their friend in their hearts, in a way that honors him every day.

Me? I’m writing this blog, this book, and other things because I promised Delle Chatman I would.

What are you doing to keep your friend’s memory alive?

Another Look at Friend Grief and Anger

2012-02-08T14:16:00.000-06:00

A few months ago I decided to write about friend grief and anger. To be honest, I don't remember what possessed me to do it. But the reactions I got from this - and follow-up posts - were painful and raw. It reminded some people of their anger. It also gave some people comfort. So be warned that this could do either of those things - or something completely different. Anger is the dirty little secret of grief. And that's what we're considering here:

Anger can be unattractive, there’s no question about it. It’s messy and unpredictable, sometimes loud and violent. And in a world where we like things to make sense, it’s often unacceptable. But never more than when you’re grieving. There’s a long list of people we can be angry with:

The person who died: why didn’t they take better care of themselves? Why did they take such a stupid chance? What were they thinking?

The medical community: why didn’t the doctor force them to take better care of their health? Why didn’t the paramedics get there sooner? Why hasn’t someone discovered a cure for cancer, etc.?

God: why did you make a good person suffer? Why did you leave those children without a parent? Why them? Why now? Why not someone else? Why not me?

The family: why didn’t they make him go to the doctor? Why did they let her live alone?

Why?

Death is, after all, the great unknown. Despite stories of white lights and visions of deceased relatives, no one’s come back from any extended time in the afterlife. We don’t know what awaits us.

And we REALLY don’t know why people die when they do. We say “it was just their time,” and obviously, it was. As a friend, that sense of helplessness can create even deeper anger.

Many times when I’ve grieved I’ve been angry, although I rarely shared those feelings. Despite being one of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ famous stages of grief, it’s probably the least acknowledged.

Anger can be useful, but when turned inward, is more likely referred to as depression. That’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about white-hot, body-shaking, screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs anger.

You’ve already realized that the grief you feel for your friend is being devalued because you’re not family. And that can add to the anger you already feel.

Even those who are also grieving are unlikely to accept your anger. Think of Sally Field melting down in the cemetery in Steel Magnolias, and the shock on her friends’ faces. The minister in The Big Chill - “I’m angry, and I don’t know what to do with my anger” - is much calmer about it, but the look in his eyes is anything but.

The problem with suppressing the absolutely justified anger we feel when a friend dies is that it will bubble up eventually. It will present itself suddenly and loudly and often in a completely unrelated situation. And that presents its own complications. Screaming at a barista who doesn’t know you won’t bring back your friend.

So, if you’re angry that cancer treatments and cures came too late for your friend…

If you’re angry that your friend’s family dismissed her threats of suicide…

If you’re angry that your friend drove drunk…

If you’re angry that an evil person chose your friend at random to kill…

Embrace that anger: accept it and embrace it. You’re angry because of the pain that your friend’s death has caused. That’s, dare I say it, normal. Frankly, it would be strange if you weren’t angry. You’re angry because you loved them and wanted them to stay close to you always. Selfish maybe, but normal and human.

So, as long as you don’t hurt yourself or anyone else, you have my permission to be angry. Then you can work on channeling your anger into positive action, to keep your friend’s memory alive every day of your life.

Time is Not on Your Side

2012-02-06T07:23:00.000-06:00

I thought I'd repost this today, as I prepare to attend the memorial service for John Northage. All evidence to the contrary, most of us live our lives as if we have unlimited time: time to do and say the things that are important. Today I'm reminded that our time here is too brief. If you have something to say to your friends, say it. You'll both be glad you did.

“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

I heard that line while watching a rerun of Law & Order: UK, and I thought it was perfect for the topic of grieving the death of a friend.

As I’ve interviewed people for my book, there is one subject that raises genuine passion. They’re telling me the story of a friend who has died. Sometimes there is a lot of pain: they were shut out by the family, maybe not even notified; they were not allowed access to their friend while they were dying. Maybe they couldn’t get off work to go to the funeral.

Maybe their story is not so sad, but rather an example of how a friend’s life – and death – served as a catalyst to change their own life.

But if I ask “did your friend know how you felt about them?” more often than not there is regret. No matter if they functioned as a caregiver, or kept in close contact while they were ill: there is almost always regret.

“There wasn’t anything I could do, but…”

The regret is that most people never tell their friends that they love them. I didn’t tell my best friend I loved her until after 9/11. “I know that,” she insisted. “I know, but I needed to say it.”

So I took Fitzgerald’s comment two ways. First, that we have to stop making excuses now for not calling, not emailing, not getting together, because we never know what tomorrow brings. And second, stop assuming they already know, and say the words that are in our hearts.

Tell them you love them while you can.

The First Year of Friend Grief

2012-02-01T09:47:00.000-06:00

ihavethesecret.wordpress.com

"525,600 minutes...how do you measure a year?" ("Seasons of Love" from Rent)

In the case of Friend Grief, there are many ways to measure the past year. A year ago today, in the midst of a 21" snowstorm here in Chicago, this blog went live.

I'd returned from my first Writers Digest Conference a week earlier. I knew before then that I needed a blog, but I was stalled on the details. Actually, I was obsessed with the details. So I asked Dan Blank a question during his session: how do I do this? Word Press or Blogger? Template or Custom? He said what my panicky ears needed to hear: just do it. Start writing and worry about the other stuff later. So I did.

When I started this - indeed, for the first few months - I was determined to keep myself out of it: "just the facts, ma'am". I was introducing the idea that grieving a friend is different. I was teaching. I was going to sound professional. I was not going to talk about me. There was no bolt of lightning, but before long I realized I could do both: inform and share at the same time.

It felt uncomfortable at first; still does, sometimes. But once the article on my experience in the AIDS community appeared in Windy City Times (Forming Community), I couldn't go back.

The popularity of some topics has surprised me. The roll at the bottom of this screen shows a changing list of the five most popular posts: AIDS, Winnie the Pooh, anything Beatles-related, and the most surprising of all - friend grief and anger - show up frequently.

None of this happened in a vacuum, or on my own. The topics come easily - too easily, sometimes. But there are people I want to thank (besides Delle: she's always at the top of the list and she knows it).

I want to thank Dr. Kenneth Doka at the College of New Rochelle, who coined the phrase "disenfranchised grief". His generosity and support are deeply appreciated, both with the blog and my book.

I thank my writing buddies who have encouraged me, offered suggestions, inspired me and made me laugh this past year. They keep me honest - Dan, George, Kathy, Porter, Karl, Jeanne, Gaby, Kristie and more who I didn't know a year ago, but who now feel like life-long friends.

More importantly, though, I thank those of you who are new to Friend Grief and to those who return on a regular basis. This site is for you, and anyone who has grieved the death of a friend. Anyone who has been shocked by the lack of empathy for your loss. Anyone who has used that experience as the inspiration for major change in their own lives.

There are lots of us out there, and this is a place where we can gather: to learn, to share, to laugh, to cry. To remember some of the most important people in our lives.

And don't forget: you can also follow me on Twitter, Google+ and on Facebook. Those of you who subscribe/follow/like will be getting a little surprise later in the spring.

Again, many thanks for sharing this journey with me. It's been an amazing year, and there's more to come.

"Let's celebrate remember a year in the life of friends." ("Seasons of Love")

Spread the word.

And stay tuned.

A Death Notice on Facebook

2012-01-30T09:17:00.000-06:00

John Northage, Jr.

I had something else in mind to share today. But as often happens, the universe had other plans.

I logged onto my Facebook page this morning to see a post that confused me at first. It was a friend's Facebook page announcing his death. For a brief moment, I thought it must not be him. It must've been his father who died. But when I saw his son's link, announcing that John had died of a heart attack yesterday, I knew it was the worst possible news.

My daughter was 6 months old when I first went to John's wife for acupuncture. We bonded quickly, over our close age and beautiful baby girls born within weeks of each other. John, at that point, was more in the background. A teddy-bear of a man with a gentle way about him, he did the body work on patients, which I didn't need.

Over the past 17 years, both my husband and I had gone to John for treatment: my husband for occasional back pain, and me for extended cranial-sacral therapy after my concussion. John literally held my hand through the ups and downs of my recovery, always honest and supportive. The day he said "you're done" was a day I had despaired of ever seeing. But he was right, I was done with his treatments.

I could have never gotten through the frustrations of my recovery without him. I could never have made progress without his calm attention to my needs. I will be grateful to him for the rest of my life.

As I shared the sad news on Facebook, calling my husband and the friend who had originally referred me to John and Althea, I found myself unable to stop the tears.

The tears came from sadness first, but also from anger. He and his wife had plans that would be forever altered. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

The fact that this news came two days after finding out another friend is having heart surgery next week (and has, in fact, had 3 or 4 heart attacks already without realizing it) was a little too much to bear at first.

My husband is fond of saying "we're at that age". But really, what is the age when you should expect your friends to die? What is the age when it doesn't hurt as much?

So now we wait for information about a memorial service, and how the family would like John to be remembered.

For now I'll just remember John as a talented therapist with a big heart and a bigger smile who will be sorely missed.

Online Life and Death

2012-01-27T15:12:00.000-06:00

I'm going to share an interesting article about a topic I've written about recently: what happens to your online identity after you die?

We've looked at Facebook memorial pages, and the new Facebook app that allows you to create a video that will be posted after you die.

But Facebook isn't the only website to consider. We spend a lot of time online, not just socializing or surfing the web. We also shop and bank online. We store and share photos online. We write blogs. We set up automatic bill payments.

If you're like most people - including me - you've probably not made any arrangements for those accounts after you die. But it came up a while ago when I got a LinkedIn invitation from someone I knew...who had recently died.

Here are some questions to ask yourself (and your family and friends):

Who knows your passwords?
Who knows which bills you pay automatically online?
Who knows how to access your photos?
Who will control your blog?
If you've designated an executor for your estate, do they know the answers to these questions?

As it turns out, the law's a little murky on this. I was surprised to read in Alissa Skelton's article on Mashable that only five states have created laws governing the management of digital assets (such as bank accounts, websites and social media accounts) after death.

Basically what happens is that the internet doesn't know you're dead. So everything you normally do automatically will continue to be done. And those things you do yourself will not be done. It's a mess that the Founding Fathers certainly never envisioned.

So check out Alissa's article here: Facebook After Death: What Should the Law Say?

You might be surprised and intrigued.

I know: it's one more thing to do. But take a minute to at least think about it.

And then make plans, so that the family and friends you leave behind will have one less stressful task.

Pitching My Book at Writers Digest Conference

2012-01-24T19:56:00.000-06:00

George Davis tweeting at WDC12

I've taken a few days off here to attend the Writers Digest Conference in New York.

In addition to workshops and speakers addressing the craft and business of writing, there is a Pitch Slam, where hundreds of writers pitch their books to brave agents. I was one of the hundreds.

I spent most of the conference with friends (not all of whom I'd ever met in person before). A few of us had met there last year, our friendships deepening over the phone and internet. We practiced our pitches on each other, tweeted madly and bared our souls over calamari and frozen custard (not at the same time).

As I stood in lines 10-deep to wait for agents who'd braved what passes as a winter storm in New York City, I felt pretty focused. Just before I'd walked into the room, a video had popped up on my Facebook newsfeed: a video of my friend, Delle.

Seeing her and hearing her voice was initially jarring: it had been taped a year after her cancer surgery. My first reaction was "your hair looks awful". But the timing - just minutes before I pitched the book she inspired, while wearing one of her scarves - was nothing if not perfect.

It was as if she appeared at that moment to calm me and cheer me on. Our mutual friend, Kim, didn't know where I was when she posted it, but I thank her for doing so.
The closing speaker on Sunday said something that really resonated, not just with me, but everyone there:

"Someone out there has been waiting their entire life to read your book."

Will keep you posted on the progress of the book.

Grief Lessons from Winnie the Pooh

2012-01-18T08:14:00.000-06:00

A.A. Milne (and friends)

Today is A.A. Milne's birthday. I've read his Winnie the Pooh stories in English and Latin (Winnie ille Pooh, as I recall). I was in a show in college with his great-niece. My daughter's nursery was full of Pooh and his friends. In honor of Milne's birthday, I'm bringing back my reflection on Pooh.

Perhaps my favorite children’s stories are about Christopher Robin and his best friend, Winnie the Pooh.

There was always an ordinary quality to their stories: get up in the morning and see what happens. Characters had strengths and flaws, but were always accepted

We all have friends like Tigger - the personification of ADHD - whose non-stop energy is exhausting. Who doesn’t have a friend like Eeyore, who assumes the worst in any situation? And Rabbit: I mean, really, who wants a party-pooper like him for a friend?

Actually, we all have friends like them and the other characters in the book. And although from time to time they all get frustrated with the others, they are quick to forgive and forget. Well, maybe not Rabbit…

It’s not Charlotte’s Web: no one dies. But there is a death of sorts in Christopher Robin’s leaving for school.

He knows something’s coming, a day when he can no longer do “Nothing” with his friends. Not only that, he’s going away, to a place he’s only heard about from grownups: the great unknown. He can’t take his friends with him, and he knows that even though they won’t change, he will.

But Christopher Robin and Pooh make a pact to always be friends, always do “Nothing” together, even if they’re apart.

A.A. Milne, creator of the adventures of Christopher Robin and his friends, had a lot to say about the strong bonds of friendship. Following are some quotes from the man who introduced us to a ‘bear of very little brain’, but a heart the size of the universe:

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”

“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.”

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.”

Grief and Anger: Not Pretty

2012-01-17T12:26:00.000-06:00

This post originally appeared in September and generated quite a bit of attention. And why not? Anger is the emotion we try to keep separate from our grief. It represents a loss of control, a lack of objectivity. But control and objectivity do not peacefully co-exist with grief. Here's a reminder of why it's okay to be angry, and okay to let it go:

Anger can be unattractive, there’s no question about it. It’s messy and unpredictable, sometimes loud and violent. And in a world where we like things to make sense, it’s often unacceptable. But never more than when you’re grieving. There’s a long list of people we can be angry with:

The person who died: why didn’t they take better care of themselves? Why did they take such a stupid chance? What were they thinking?

The medical community: why didn’t the doctor force them to take better care of their health? Why didn’t the paramedics get there sooner? Why hasn’t someone discovered a cure for cancer, etc.?

God: why did you make a good person suffer? Why did you leave those children without a parent? Why them? Why now? Why not someone else? Why not me?

The family: why didn’t they make him go to the doctor? Why did they let her live alone?

Why?

And we REALLY don’t know why people die when they do. We say “it was just their time,” and obviously, it was. As a friend, that sense of helplessness can create even deeper anger.

You’ve already realized that the grief you feel for your friend is being devalued because you’re not family. And that can add to the anger you already feel.

So, if you’re angry that cancer treatments and cures came too late for your friend…

If you’re angry that your friend’s family dismissed her threats of suicide…

If you’re angry that your friend drove drunk…

If you’re angry that an evil person chose your friend at random to kill…

Dying: There’s an App for That

2012-01-13T10:19:00.000-06:00

It had to happen sooner or later.

Remember Murder She Wrote and other mystery TV shows and movies? Someone - usually a wealthy, mean, vindictive person - leaves a video for viewing by his/her survivors. There are shocking revelations - perhaps motive for that person’s murderer?

Well, Facebook - recognizing how digitally addicted we all are - has a new app: “If I Die”.

I love that name: “If I Die” - like we have a choice. J

Here’s an article from today’s Chicago Tribune:

Facebook "If I Die" App

It’s a great idea for control freaks (like me). You control what your final Facebook status update will be. You create a video to be posted when (sorry, it’s when not if) you die. Three Facebook friends have to confirm your demise before it can be posted.

Here’s the Facebook app:

"If I Die"

I guess there really is an app for everything.

9/11: Are We Done With This Yet?

2012-01-11T13:37:00.000-06:00

"Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close"

Around the time of the 10^th anniversary of 9/11, several major newspapers - including the Chicago Tribune and New York Times - took a look at the response of the arts communities to 9/11. The results were varied and somewhat disappointing.

The authors of the articles wondered aloud why there were no iconic plays - like Rent - or films - like Philadelphia - which addressed the AIDS epidemic. There’s no shortage of documentaries: the building of the World Trade Center, the attacks, the search for bin Laden, the “truth”. But that’s different. Even Paul McCartney’s 9/11-inspired song “Freedom” fell flat. Why?

Grief is a complicated thing. For those directly affected by 9/11 - friends and family - there is no end to remembering, no end to their losses. It was an event that affected not just them, not just our country, but the world. Anniversaries bring up memories. There is no real closure.

But one thing that has surrounded 9/11 from the beginning is controversy. Whether you’re talking about why the towers fell or why first responders’ cancer diagnoses cannot be directly linked to exposure on the pile, there is controversy.

Next week a new film with Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock opens nationwide. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close follows a family devastated by the father’s death on 9/11. Some people - like me - are looking forward to it. Some people are disturbed by it.

Why do we keep dredging this up, they ask? Why can’t we just forget about it?

I can understand that, especially coming from people who received frantic phone calls and voice mails from loved ones trapped in the towers.

Some events aren’t easily forgotten. What’s more important than the event itself, though, is what we’ve learned from it. So I’m looking for two answers when I see the movie:

What does it say about grief?

What does it say about love?

Those two things - grief and love - are intertwined. We wish they weren’t. But in the end, grief teaches us a lot about love: how we loved those who have left us and how we love those who are still here.

After I see the film, I’ll let you know how - and if - it answered my questions.

Too Busy for Coffee, But Not For a Funeral

2012-01-09T10:56:00.000-06:00

Metropolis Coffee House
My hangout since 2003

“Enjoy the little things in life for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” - Antonio Smith

Lisa Athan has a blog, Grief Speaks (you can also find her on Facebook). She wrote something that really resonated with me. It echoes those New Year’s resolutions we’re all struggling to keep right now.

“I do find it fascinating that we, as busy people living such hectic lives, who pride ourselves on multi-tasking, can drop everything to attend a funeral, yet so long as the person is alive, we decline invitations for lunch or coffee because we’re too busy. ‘Perhaps another time,’ we say. We tend to assume that there will always be a chance for another time.”

You don’t have to be a grief professional to know those words are sadly true. Grief is hard enough without guilt piled on top.

Later this week I’ll share a wonderful, sad story from a man whose friend died. He was lucky enough to see him before he died. But he was one of the busy ones, too busy for the 45 mile trip over Los Angeles freeways to get together with his friend. Now those 45 miles feel like 45 inches.

Maybe the physical distance between you and your friend is great - hundreds of miles, several states, an ocean. Maybe it’s not so great, but the logistics are just as daunting.

Well, lucky for us, we don’t live in prehistoric times. We live in a marvelous age where there are very few excuses for not staying in touch. Imagine: we can…

…write a letter.

…send an email.

…Skype.

…Tweet.

…DM on Facebook.

…pick up the phone.

…even show up on their doorstep.

So, your assignment today (if you choose to accept it) is to pick one friend you’ve fallen out of touch with; one friend you really miss.

Now pick one of those methods of communication.

And do it.

Don’t wait until you read the obituary in the paper, or have your emails bounce back. Do it today. Make a date for coffee.

It’s a lot more fun than going to a funeral.

Remembering Your Friends…In a Eulogy

2012-01-06T11:31:00.000-06:00

This week I said that we’d be looking at some of the many ways we can remember a friend who has died. One way is through words, specifically in their eulogy.

I’ve been to too many funerals where the minister didn’t know the deceased at all, and that never fails to make me angry.

What is the purpose of a eulogy? If the purpose is to make total strangers feel they knew that person, then in this re-post from June, Fr. Duffy succeeded. If he wanted us all to remember Fr. Judge for years to come, well, I think he succeeded there, too:

I’ve never been called upon to give a eulogy for a friend. I wrote the eulogy a hospice chaplain read for my father’s funeral. I’ve made remarks at friends’ memorial services. But I’ve never given a formal eulogy: never stood up in front of a gathering of mourners, script in hand, before a microphone, praying for strength.

The photo here is one of the most iconic images of September 11, 2001. Fr. Mychal Judge was a New York City fire department chaplain. He died ministering at the World Trade Center. His funeral, at St. Francis of Assisi Church on West 31^st Street four days later, was nationally televised.

Franciscans are required to leave instructions “in the event of” their death, and on the morning following the attacks, Fr. Michael Duffy was told that Fr. Judge had left instructions for him to give the eulogy.

I was shaken and shocked … for one thing, as you know from this gathering, Mychal Judge knew thousands of people. He knew, he seemed to know everybody in the world. And if he didn’t then, they know him now, I’m sure. Certainly he had friends that were more intellectual than I, certainly more holy than I, people more well-known. And so I sat with that thought, why me … and I came down to the conclusion that I was simply and solely his friend … and I’m honored to be called that.

I always tell my volunteers in Philadelphia that through life, you’re lucky if you have four or five people whom you can truly call a friend. And you can share any thought you have, enjoy their company, be parted and separated, come back together again and pick up right where you left off. They’ll forgive your faults and affirm your virtues. Mychal Judge was one of those people for me. And I believe and hope I was for him …

How do you sum up a life and a friendship? Fr. Duffy’s eulogy is as good as they get: personal, joyful, mournful. Even if you never met Fr. Judge, by the end of the homily you’ll feel that he was your friend, too.

Thanks to Fr. Duffy for teaching us all about his friend.

For more information on Fr. Mychal Judge, his life and his legacy:

www.mychalsmessage.org

For the entire transcript of Fr. Duffy’s homily: http://www.hnp.org/publications/articles_view.cfm?id=16&yr=2001

A 2012 Plan for Grieving Your Friends

2012-01-04T10:03:00.000-06:00

9/11 Remembrance ribbons on
the fence at St. Paul's Chapel

New Year

Clean Slate

Clear the Decks

If only…

I’m not suggesting ignoring your grief.

I’m not suggesting pretending you didn’t lose a friend.

What I am suggesting is finding a way to channel that grief, finding a way to create something new and positive.

One of the feelings most often felt when a friend dies is that we want to be sure they’re not forgotten.

So maybe we visit the cemetery, or post on their memorial Facebook page.

But how about taking that a step further? How about actively doing something to remember them?

Carol Demitz was a classmate of mine. We didn’t travel in the same circles, but we had classes together in our small Catholic girls high school in St. Louis.

After she died on 9/11, our class made a donation to our school in her name, underwriting new lighting in the hallways.

But every year on the anniversary, when the names of the victims were read at the Ground Zero ceremony, her name was mispronounced (the accent’s on the first syllable, short vowels). I’m a stickler on pronouncing names correctly and it bothered me. When I stood there on the 9^th anniversary, and heard it mispronounced yet again, I made a promise to myself that it wouldn’t happen the following year.

Last May I started in earnest to find out how to correct that. I spoke to several people, finally talking to a woman in Mayor Bloomberg’s office just after Labor Day. She wrote down Carol’s last name phonetically, but could make no promises that the person reading would get it right. I figured at least I’d gone on record, and maybe that was the best I could do.

So on the morning of the 10^th anniversary, standing in the warm sun across from Zuccoti Park, I listened to the names being read again. This time Carol’s name was pronounced correctly, and I nearly burst out laughing. Then I wanted to cry.

It wasn’t something that was important to most people. Even other girls from my class said “we know what’s right; that’s all that matters”. But for some stupid reason, it was as important to me as collecting remembrances for the digital archive. She would be remembered. And named correctly.

We’re going to consider a few ideas in the coming weeks, looking at ways people found to keep their friend’s memory alive.

Some are activities, some are financial, and some are life-changing decisions.

You might have your own ideas, or these posts may trigger your imagination.

And if you’ve done something - big or small, temporary or permanent - to preserve the memory of the friend who meant so much to you, feel free to share it.

New Year’s Resolutions…About Friend Grief?

2012-01-02T10:12:00.000-06:00

Today is the second day of 2012. Have you broken any New Year’s resolutions yet?

We start the year with such good intentions: lose weight, exercise more, save money, travel. We expect that it will be easy to keep them.

Then something happens. We realize just how hard it is to keep those resolutions. We fall off the wagon once, and decide we’ve failed. So we give up. And it’s not February yet. Pathetic, isn’t it?

But I would propose that you go ahead and make New Year’s resolutions about friend grief.

1. Don’t ignore your grief. It will bite you in the butt when you least expect it.

2. Don’t keep your grief bottled up inside. Share it with a therapist, in a group, with a friend or family member, in a journal, online.

3. Realize that grief is unavoidable: “the price you pay for love.”

4. Remember that grief takes different forms. It’s not all about crying. You can grieve a friend by doing something positive.

5. Don’t wait until the funeral: stay in touch with your friends now.

6. Remember what helped you the most when you grieved, and offer those things to others who are grieving now.

7. Don’t set a timeline for “getting over it”. Grief can’t be defined by a calendar. Let it take its own course. It will, anyway.

8. Accept that you’re a different person now - for having loved your friend and for having lost them.

9. Find a special way to remember them and make it a regular/annual thing.

10. Continue to join me here or other social media hangouts:

Twitter: @friendgrief

Facebook: Friend Grief

There’s a lot new in store for this site this year: more guest bloggers, expanded resources page, new opportunities to share stories about your friends, and freebies, too! And suggestions are always welcome, so feel free to contact me at VictoriaNoe@FriendGrief.com with any ideas.

Thanks for joining me here, and I look forward to making our friends proud of us in 2012!

Friend Grief and Closure for 2011

2011-12-30T09:24:00.000-06:00

In my last blog post of this amazing year, I thought I’d revisit a topic that came up a few months ago. Last May, after the death of Osama bin Laden, I wrote about what I called “the myth of closure”. It’s supposed to be something you aspire to, but it often feels just out of reach: because it may never be possible.

“Closure: the sense of finality and coming to terms with an experience, felt or experienced over time.” – Encarta Dictionary

“Closure” is a word frequently invoked in grief-related literature. Events are said to bring “closure” to people who grieve: discovery of remains, burial, 1^st anniversaries, etc.

But the news of the death of Osama bin Laden may only be initially considered closure.

Certainly, the death of the most wanted terrorist in the world is a cause for celebration, even not knowing how other terrorist organizations will respond.

But for those who lost family or friends on 9/11, there is no closure.

Osama bin Laden is dead, but so are their loved ones.

Don’t assume everyone is happy and “all right” now.

Don’t assume the grieving is over. In fact, this news will likely re-open painful memories for all of us who knew someone who died that clear, blue September morning. My first reaction on hearing the news last night was, “but Carol’s still dead.”

“I hope it brings some comfort to the families. No closure. That word should be stricken from the English language.” - Lee Ielpi, whose son, Jonathan, a firefighter from Queens, died on 9/11 (quoted in the May 3, 2011 New York Times).

The death of Osama bin Laden has been heralded as closure for those who lost family and friends on 9/11, the end of the grieving. Now we can finally get back to normal and forget about what happened.

For some people, death is closure, after a loved one has suffered a long illness. For some people, getting to the first anniversary of someone’s death is closure, proof that you’ve survived your grief. Others can point to specific “signs” that made them feel better.

But for society to imply that one event – dramatic though it was – can end anyone’s grief is simplistic.

At my father’s wake, my girlfriend’s mother, who had lost her husband the year before said, “You don’t get over it; you just get used to it.”

For many people, bin Laden’s death will ease their minds. “Justice” has been served.

But make no mistake: their grief has not ended. For them, there can be no real closure.

At least not in this lifetime.

Best wishes for a safe “closure” to 2011!

Friend Grief and Laughter

2011-12-28T08:26:00.000-06:00

This post originally appeared last March, about one of my favorite TV series, The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Although something very tragic had happened, the resulting humor is something we can all identify with - for better or worse.

Laughing at funerals is generally frowned upon (Irish wakes notwithstanding).

People are expected to act a certain way: maybe not grief-stricken, but at least respectful of those who are and the person who has died. You get a lot of dirty looks if you’re the only one laughing.

In recent years, there has been a movement to make wakes and funerals and memorial services more of a celebration of life. Laughing – in the context of shared memories – has become appropriate.

Considered by the Chicago Tribune to be the funniest TV comedy episode of all time “Chuckles Bites the Dust” on The Mary Tyler Moore Show concerned the death of Chuckles the Clown. Dressed as Peter Peanut, he was trampled by a rogue elephant during a parade. Mary’s coworkers immediately began to make jokes, and she was horrified by what she saw as nothing less than cruelty.

But at the funeral, she suddenly finds herself unable to stifle her laughter. Now it’s everyone else who’s disgusted. And in a complete reversal, as soon as the minister encourages her laughter – because Chuckles hated sadness - she breaks down in tears.

Have you ever been the one to laugh when no one else did?

Maybe your memories of your friend made you giggle.

Maybe something absurd – something your friend would have thought funny – happened during the wake or funeral.

Everyone grieves differently.

Sometimes they even laugh.

Don’t be afraid to laugh, even in the midst of your tears. You can probably hear your friend laughing right along with you.

Friend Grief and the Holidays

2011-12-26T06:54:00.000-06:00

I wasn’t going to write about grief and the holidays. There’s a lot out there already, by people much more knowledgeable than myself.

But there’s not a lot out there about dealing with friend grief during the holidays.

Is it different? Is grief just…grief?

The thing that complicates friend grief at this time of year is the same thing that makes the holidays - at least theoretically - great: family.

We are in the midst of several holidays - Thanksgiving (in the U.S.), Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year’s, and Valentine’s Day - that are family/romance oriented. These holidays are defined by family gatherings and traditions.

Many of us take time during these holidays to remember family members who are no longer with us. In fact, the holidays may be incredibly difficult if that loss is recent.

So where does that leave us when it is a friend who has died?

It leaves us…nowhere.

It leaves us with a sense of profound loss, a loss that is sometimes magnified by the lack of rituals surrounding our friendships. Where do we go and what do we do, during this very family-oriented time of year, to remember/grieve/celebrate our friends? And how do we excuse ourselves from our families to do so?

Even those lucky enough to have Norman Rockwell-style holiday celebrations can find themselves in need of time apart from family. So here are a few suggestions, if you haven’t thought of them already:

- Was there a place you and your friend liked to hang out - a park, a café, a neighborhood, a bar? Go out, even for an hour or so, and revisit that place.

- Was there something you and your friend enjoyed doing - shopping at a particular place, jogging, going to the movies? Do it alone, but “take them” with you.

- Seek out a mutual friend: call them, meet them, tell stories and raise a glass in memory of your friend.

It may be difficult, at least the first time, to be there without your friend. But it may be surprisingly comforting. You may feel their presence.

Two years ago, I went to Christmas mass at an Ecumenical Catholic Church (Sts. Clare & Francis in Webster Groves, Missouri), one that welcomes women priests. My friend, Delle, was called to be a priest, but the Roman Catholic Church does not allow that (at least not yet).

I sat in the pew, watching a woman concelebrate mass, and couldn’t stop thinking about Delle. That should be you, I thought to myself, tears overflowing. That should be you. Suddenly, I felt arms around me, as if someone was kneeling behind me and leaned forward (no one was there). And I heard Delle’s voice: “it’s okay.” My tears ended, and I felt a wave of peace.

So, I felt both reactions: pain and joy. And as this holiday season continues, my wish for you is to feel the joy along with the pain, for that is what makes it bearable.

Friend Grief and "The Concert for George"

2011-12-23T07:14:00.000-06:00

This post originally appeared in February, but I’m quite partial to the documentary of this concert. At first I was drawn to it because I’m a huge fan of George Harrison. But as I watched the special on PBS, I became more and more entranced by the commentary from Eric Clapton and others. You’ll see why:

“All I wanted to do was really share our love for George and his music with the people. I need to do this for him, but it’s for me most of all – I need to be able to express my grief in this sort of way.” – Eric Clapton

How do we memorialize our friends? How do we show the world how much that person meant to us, how much our lives changed for knowing them? There’s more than one way to remember your friends, just as there is more than one way to grieve.

Some people give eulogies. Some people donate money to causes that were important to their friend. Some people have the opportunity to do something a little bigger.

One year after George Harrison died, a group of his friends gathered at The Royal Albert Hall in London for a ‘memorial service’. It was called The Concert for George, an evening to celebrate the music and the life of the “quiet Beatle”.

People came from all parts of his life: his wife and son, the two surviving Beatles, his favorite comedy troupe (Monty Python), musicians he’d played with and admired. They shared his music and entertained an audience not just in attendance that night, but around the world via PBS and a commemorative concert DVD. Their efforts supported the Material World Charitable Foundation, established by Harrison in 1973.

There were no eulogies, in the traditional sense. But as you listen to them talk between songs and during rehearsal you realize the true meaning of that night for his friends: to work through their grief while honoring their friend.

“A lot of our grieving has been dealt with by playing this week,” Clapton said. “This is a blessed occasion for me because I can share my love of George with you…and I think most important of all is that his wife Olivia and his son Dhani can experience and witness how much we loved him, through his music tonight.”

Most of us don’t have the chance to memorialize our friends in this way. But the sentiment Clapton expressed is universal. We want the world to know and love that person who meant so much to us: who they were, why they were important to us, and why the world is a sadder place without them.

And as we close in on Christmas, perhaps now would be a good time to let them our friends - the ones still here - know how much they mean to us.

Singing is optional.

Your Own Personal "Big Chill" Moment

2011-12-21T10:11:00.000-06:00

This post originally appeared in February. I think it’s a good reminder to not wait until it’s too late to re-connect or keep touch with our friends. The holidays are a perfect excuse, don’t you think?

Karen: “You'll never get this many people to come to my funeral.”
Michael: “Oh, Karen, I'll come. And, you know... I'll bring a date.”

You’re going about your day – conference calls, grocery shopping, carpool – when you get a call, a text, maybe an email with the subject line “sad news”. Someone you know – a friend – has died. And the world stops.

It happens to us all eventually.

The iconic film about this experience is The Big Chill, the 1983 film about a group of people who reunite for the funeral of one of their college friends. It was a blockbuster, and not only because of the soundtrack (who can forget JoBeth Williams playing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want?” on the organ for the funeral recessional?). It was something everyone can identify with: the death of a friend.

Not all of us will spend the weekend with our friends in a sprawling Southern mansion: playing touch football, getting high, or having sex with our best friend’s husband. But reconnecting with friends on such a sad occasion can still have a profound effect.

Sometimes – too often – you lose touch with those friends. Life gets in the way: jobs, families, living hundreds of miles away – all prevent you from keeping in touch with the people who at one time were the most important people in the world. Still, you wonder how and why you let it happen.

Like the characters in The Big Chill, that gap in contact can create terrible guilt. You may think that somehow your presence could’ve saved your friend’s life or made it easier. Pretty egotistical, huh? But human.

These characters were all extraordinarily lucky: they were all able to come to that funeral from their homes around the country. Not everyone can even get off work to attend a local funeral for a friend, never mind one that is hundreds of miles away.

And most importantly, they were notified. Sometimes friends – particularly far-flung friends – do not learn of a friend’s death for months or even years. The friend’s family may not have liked you or even known about you, but to find out after the fact compounds your grief. And even though the point where you can “do” something is long past by then, the feeling of helplessness can be overwhelming.

One of my high school classmates, Carol Demitz, died on 9/11. We’d celebrated our 30^th high school reunion the year before (although she didn’t attend) with the usual ‘we should get together more often’. But it took Carol’s death – not the first in our class – to put those words into actions: a class gift in her memory, a Yahoo group that’s still going strong more than 9 years later, occasional informal dinners, and a bond that has grown stronger each year. Her death, I suppose, was our Big Chill moment: our wake-up call to nurture the friendships that sustain us, and stop relegating our dreams to the “someday” pile.

Take a moment today to contact a friend – just one; it won’t take long – who you’ve lost touch with. Catch up on news and gossip, reminisce, and make real plans to get together. Don’t wait until you get that call, that text, that email.

“In a cold world, you need your friends to keep you warm.” – Big Chill poster

What are you waiting for?

Why We Miss Our Friends During the Holidays

2011-12-19T13:23:00.000-06:00

We are in the final stretch now, before Hanukkah and Christmas. Many of us are running on adrenaline as we race to get everything bought, wrapped, cooked, served, addressed and mailed. We wonder sometimes why we’re making ourselves crazy for festivities that are over so quickly.

We do it because…well, we’ve always done it, or we’ve let it get out of control. We do it for our families. We do it for the kids. And possibly, we’ll be able to stop and remember the true meaning of the holidays.

Yes, the holidays are about family, no doubt about it. Friends are often pushed aside (family comes first).

I remember coming home for Christmas or Thanksgiving and spending more time with my friends than with family. Friends never seemed to make demands, or expect presents (although they were infinitely easier to buy for). We could just relax and catch up and enjoy ourselves.

I loved the first day back at school after Christmas break, because we’d hug and squeal as if we hadn’t seen each other in decades, when in fact it had been less than two weeks.

Now some of those friends are gone; one even died during the holidays. I knew she was dying, but it was still a shock.

What I miss this time of year about my friends who have died is the absence of pressure: pressure to give them the perfect gift, to make sure everyone gets along all the time, to pretend we’re in the middle of a Hollywood movie.

I miss those friends, no matter how infrequently we saw each other. I miss being able to call them up and say “let’s meet for lunch” or “I can’t wait to give you your present”. I miss catching up and solving the problems of the world (or just our love lives). I miss knowing we didn’t have to “behave”. I miss their friendship and I miss their love.

And after all, that is what the season is all about.

No One Expects Their Friends to Die

2011-12-16T07:06:00.000-06:00

I’m reposting again, a blog entry from last March, originally titled “Let’s Be Careful Out There”.

Last night I had dinner with a few of the classmates referred to here. Most of us hadn’t gotten together in over a year, at our last reunion. But thanks to one persistent woman, there were about 20 of us, laughing and catching up. It was, again, as if no time had passed.

We noted several who weren’t there: one woman whose mother died a few days ago, another whose husband is ill, still another who has MS. We’re at the age when we get paranoid when someone’s a no-show.

So for all our friends, enjoy:

At the end of the morning roll call on the 80’s hit Hill Street Blues, Phil would always remind his comrades “let’s be careful out there.”

They were cops. They knew every day could be their last.

Not everyone lives that consciously, certainly not when they’re younger.

But the truth of the matter is, the world is a dangerous place. Stuff happens, no matter where you live.

We can eat healthy foods, exercise every day, do all the things that are supposed to “guarantee” a long life and still not reach that goal.

This photo is from my 40^th high school reunion. Each rose represents one girl from my class of 122 who died; there are 9. One died our senior year, the most recent, two years ago.

As we age, we lose more and more friends. It’s just the law of averages, and not unexpected. What we don’t expect are the “before their time” deaths.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death before we’re old enough to vote.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death before our hair turns grey.

We don’t expect to experience a friend’s death, period.

So when it happens, we can become skittish, paranoid about our remaining friends. We pester them to lose weight, exercise more, or have that mammogram. We probably annoy them beyond words, and they might even tell us to back off.

Too damn bad.

The price of being a friend is that you are loved.

And you’ll just have to live with that.

Friend Grief and Guilt - “My Name is Alex”

2011-12-14T10:31:00.000-06:00

This blog post originally appeared last February, titled “My Name is Alex”. I think it speaks to another one of those uncomfortable emotions that can complicate grief: guilt. Sometimes there’s just no logical reason why one person lives and another dies. But that doesn’t make us feel any better.

It didn’t help Alex, either.

Family Ties was a successful sitcom in that ran on CBS from 1982-1989 A family led by parents who’d been hippies in the ‘60’s included one son, a conservative Republican, played by Michael J. Fox.

Arguably its most famous story is “My Name is Alex” from the fifth season. Performed live in two back-to-back episodes, the second with no commercial breaks, it opens with the Keaton parents and their two older children returning from the funeral of Alex’ best friend, Greg. The parents are concerned about their son’s reaction to what has happened. Indeed, Alex is a model of forced cheerfulness.

When he’s alone, Greg appears to him – a real, physical presence, cracking jokes about how being dead is a great excuse for missing his economics test. Alex apologizes again and again, because there’s more than grief at work here: there’s guilt. Greg had asked Alex to help him move furniture, and because Greg had shown up late, Alex had refused. “I couldn’t be bothered,” he tells his sister. “Selfishness saved my life.” Minutes after that refusal, Greg died in a car accident caused by trying to make up for lost time.

“I was supposed to be in that car,” he screams, finally falling apart. His parents send him to a therapist, and Alex is resistant, to say the least.

But as he begins to talk about his family and his childhood, he becomes less cynical and condescending, especially when it comes to his memories of Greg. Greg’s willingness from their first meeting to treat the brilliant Alex P. Keaton as just a regular guy was something Alex cherished.

Whether, as the therapist insisted, it all came down to whether Alex believed in God, is debatable. What was clear as the episode drew to a close was that Greg’s death – and life – gave Alex a new perspective on his own future:

“Greg’s dead and I’m alive and I can’t change that. But I can keep his memory alive. I can take his sense of humor and his energy and his warmth and I can make it my home. I can be the best Alex Keaton that I can be and I can use the gift that I’ve been given and I can take time to appreciate the beauty in this life.”

Maybe you are one of those people: someone whose life changed dramatically when a close friend died.

Maybe you became a “different” person.

Or maybe you just took the best parts of your friend and made them your own.

When Your Friend is Trashed in the Press

2011-12-12T11:51:00.000-06:00

The combination of anger and grief stirred up a lot of interest here recently. It comes up occasionally in my book. Honestly, it could probably be a book all on its own. You’re expected to be sad when a friend dies. But angry, too?

You’re grieving…maybe feeling guilty…and now you realize that the world has a completely distorted view of your friend.

Mike Pfeifer and Cliff Kearney were held at gunpoint by three masked men who broke into their home. While Kearney was beaten, one of the robbers fired his sawed-off shotgun to intimidate Pfeifer. When the weapon was pointed at Kearney, Pfeifer grabbed the barrel, and was shot multiple times. The burglars ran, but by the time paramedics arrived, it was too late.

Eight hours after the shooting, the local sheriff’s office released a statement saying the shooting was drug-related. Kearney insisted no drugs were involved, that it was a straight-up robbery by young men who were grabbing TV’s and demanding money. But, you know: young men with guns stealing from other young men. What else could it be?

We’ve all seen retractions in the papers and on websites. Or maybe we haven’t seen them, because they’re buried in 9-point type below the underwear ads on page 17. We live in a 24-hour news cycle that demands instant information. The problem is that the desire to break that story first doesn’t always square with accuracy. “Corrections” are made days or even weeks after the first misinformation was shared. And since that headline isn’t nearly as titillating as the original one, the truth is lost.

So, what’s left to do? You know the truth, and in the end, that’s what matters. But knowing the world has an impression of your friend that is completely wrong…and knowing you may not be able to change anyone’s mind…that takes a toll.

Maybe all that we can do is rein in our natural tendency to believe those first broadcasts. It’s not just the lawyers who make them say “alleged” or “appeared to be” or even “presumed”. They don’t know for a fact, and that means neither does anyone else. Sometimes the facts take time to make themselves known.

So when you’re watching the news, reading a newspaper, or surfing the internet…and you come upon a story about someone’s death…and you are tempted to rush to judgment about that person…stop. Stop and give them the benefit of a doubt. Stop and consider for a moment how you’d feel if that were your friend.

Finding the Words to Grieve Your Friend

2011-12-08T09:10:00.002-06:00

Thirty-one years ago today, John Lennon was murdered in front of his apartment building in New York.

I love this picture of him: confident in his own skin. “This is who I am, and if you don’t like it (fill in the blank).”

Lennon had millions of fans and a lot of friends. Many of them spoke to the media after his death. Some were very eloquent. Paul McCartney was not one of them.

Their relationship as members of the Beatles was one of incredible creativity. But their friendship was volatile. They’d been estranged for years after the break-up of the group, and John had made some very critical, very public remarks about Paul’s solo efforts. But in December, 1980, they were speaking again, tentatively re-establishing their friendship.

In In Other Words: Artists Talk about Life and Work, Anthony DeCurtis recounts an interview with Paul McCartney in 1987. They covered his years with the Beatles (it was the 20^th anniversary of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”). The discussion took a turn when he began to talk about the breakup of the group, segueing into the topic of Lennon’s death. McCartney received a firestorm of criticism for his initial public comment, “it’s a drag.”

“But I said ‘it’s a dra-a-a-ag,’ and meant it with every inch of melancholy I could muster. When you put that in print, it says, ‘McCartney in London today, when asked for a comment on his dead friend, said, ‘It’s a drag’.’ It seemed a very flippant comment to make.

“…All these people who were supposed to have been John’s friends. The rest of us were just gaga with grief and sitting at home crying, watching all the news and watching all the telly, watching anything we could gather, and listening to every bit of radio. It was just like Kennedy dying, only worse for us, and that had been bad enough.

“The pundits come on, ‘Yes, so John was the bright one in the group. Yes, he was a very clever one. Oh, well, he’ll be sorely missed, and he was a great so-and-so.’ I said, ‘Bloody hell, how can you muster such glib things?’ But they were the ones who came off good, because they said suitably meaningful things. I was the idiot who said, ‘It’s a drag.’

I’ve always been a huge Paul McCartney fan, but I remember being taken aback by what appeared to be an almost callous response.

In retrospect, and with the benefit of experience, I know now that he was in shock. Now, when I see “friends” of people who have died waxing eloquent on cable news programs, I’m a little suspicious. I think McCartney’s reaction is probably much closer to what you or I would be able to immediately say to the media.

So don’t feel bad if it’s difficult to put your grief into words. The words will come, eventually. Console yourself with memories. And in the case of John Lennon, maybe a song, too.

Did Your Friend Die This Year?

2011-12-06T16:00:00.000-06:00

As 2011 draws rapidly to a close, we turn our thoughts not only to the holidays, but to remembering those we've lost this year.

It seems every media outlet - TV, radio, magazines, internet - compiles a list of people who died in the past year. We even see this on awards shows, like the Academy Awards.

Below you’ll find a link to the New York Times, asking for photos of people who died this year. You can give a brief (200 word) description when you upload your photo.

Why not submit a photo of your friend, a photo that expresses one aspect of their life? Don’t delay: photos will appear on their website and the Dec. 25 Magazine.

Share your friend with the world.

The Lives They Lived

A Request about Friend Grief

2011-12-03T11:25:00.000-06:00

As you probably know, I’m writing a book about people’s experiences grieving the death of a friend. ‘It’s Not Like They’re Family’: Mourning Our Friends and Celebrating Their Lives is a look at the phenomenon of friend grief: the lack of respect for that kind of grief, and how it’s often a catalyst for major life changes.

I’m looking for stories for several chapters in the book:

Workplace grief: when the friend who died is a co-worker.

Community: when the friend who died is a member of a community (religious orders and first responders in particular).

People who were shut out by their friend’s family, either while the friend was dying or afterwards (not notified of the death or banned from funeral).

And always, what life changes you made after your friend died.

If you have a story you’d like to share, don’t leave a comment here. Email me at VictoriaNoe@FriendGrief.com. I will email you a survey to complete and follow up for additional information.

Feel free to share this request with anyone you know who may be interested in sharing their story.

Many thanks in advance!

"Forming Community" - AIDS@30

2011-11-30T08:14:00.000-06:00

Steve & I at the Drake

"Forming Community" first appeared in April in Windy City Times. I was honored that publisher Tracy Baim asked me to be part of her series on the history of the epidemic. For tomorrow, World AIDS Day, here it is:

The first time I remember being conscious of the effects of AIDS was March, 1983. My girlfriend was in the hospital, after a difficult labor and delivery that called for a transfusion. She worked in the lab at that hospital and knew the blood supply wasn’t safe. When I visited her there, her sheets had more color. But she still refused the transfusion.

Sex in the 80’s – gay or straight – was a challenge. I was tested twice (once a requirement by a prospective lover, once to ease my own mind). I demanded the men I slept with wore condoms, and it was not always well received. There was much grumbling and insisting they were ‘all right’. But that was a deal-breaker, and no one talked me out of it.

I was volunteering occasionally, mostly to help raise money until 1989, when I took a job at Chicago House as development director. I was the only straight person in the office, something that did not meet with great approval.

The animosity I faced as a straight woman in the AIDS community surprised me. AIDS was still considered a gay issue, and there was a bit of territorialism. I suppose I was naïve. I had no agenda; I just wanted to help.

I came from a theatre background, so I’d had gay friends since high school (even wound up dating a couple, unintentionally). However, I’ve never been to a college reunion because so many of the guys I went to school with have died, many of them from AIDS. I found out one of them had died when I saw his panel on the cover of a book about the Names Project quilt.

I got a phone call from my mother one day, also in the 80’s. She had that “someone died” tone in her voice. When I asked her what was wrong, she said she called to tell me that Richard was gay. “And…?” I asked, fearing the worst. “That’s it,” she insisted. I couldn’t believe she didn’t know. Richard was my father’s best friend then, and remained so until the day my Dad died. Their friendship didn’t change because Richard came out; if anything they grew closer.

The work at Chicago House was challenging and exhilarating and sometimes frustrating. The mission statement read: “Chicago House provides residential and support services for people living with HIV & AIDS.” The problem, as it turned out, was the word ‘people’. Everyone assumed we only served men.

So I did something that was, well, wrong. I didn’t ask permission, and I certainly had no right to do it, but I changed that word in the mission statement. I changed ‘people’ to ‘men and women’. It was as if a light bulb went on, the reaction I got now was so different. “You have women living there?” And just like that, funding organizations looked at Chicago House differently.

While I was there, we opened the third house, which was a hospice. I remember it was a very cold Chicago winter day, with wind chills well below zero. Mayor Daley was coming to see the house, along with some media to record the visit. Now, relations were quite strained between the Mayor and the gay community at that time. In fact, he was coming to the house in Edgewater from a meeting with gay leaders at Ann Sather’s.

As usual, he was running late, but when he got there the schedule was forgotten. He went upstairs, with Tom Dombkowski and John Chester (the executive director and board chair), but without the media. I stayed on the first floor, but after a few minutes, he appeared at the top of the stairs and told the media to grab their cameras. “Come up here; you need to see this.” When the tour was finished, he sat in the living room and answered questions for some time.

There was a constant stream of fundraisers: bar events at Little Jim’s and Roscoe’s, drag shows, a dunk tank at Halsted Street Days, and our first black-tie event at the Drake. I was in London the year before on the first World AIDS Day, and a collection was taken up at curtain call in the West End theatres. I stole that idea the following year, and we sent volunteers to theatres to collect money for Chicago House. Some of my most dedicated volunteers have remained friends to this day.

I left Chicago House after a year (I’ll leave it at that), and continued to raise money in the AIDS community as a consultant with groups like Bonaventure House and Stop AIDS. But there was a price to pay, and it was an emotional one.

A year or so after I went out on my own, I went through as stretch of 11 weeks in a row, where someone I knew died every week. Only one was really close, Steve Showalter, who’d been my assistant at Chicago House. But all were men I’d known around the community, had worked with on projects, or just knew socially.

When I heard about the 11^th one, I called my former acting teacher in L.A. and asked if I could visit. I booked a seat on Amtrak: two days with no phones, and no contact with others unless I wanted it. By the time I got there, I was able to hold a coherent conversation; by the time I came back a week later, I could work again.

I bought a copy of And the Band Played On, Randy Shilts’ indictment of pretty much everyone in the 80’s. I remember very clearly throwing the book across my living room several times. I’d read about government inaction, or medical fraud, or politics, and I’d have to stop to…throw the book. I considered at one point buying a copy that wasn’t so beat up, but I think I want to hold on to that reminder of my anger. My best friend asked recently why I read it when I’d already lived through it. The anger: that’s why.

Now and then, I’d mention going to a memorial service, visiting someone at Illinois Masonic, referring someone to Herdegen-Brieske (a funeral home that would take AIDS victims), and I would be asked “how did they get it?” There were few things – then or since – that could instantly infuriate me like that question. My responses were not exactly polite. The nicest I could come up with was “what the hell difference does it make?”

Looking back on that time, I was angry a lot. I felt as if I were living in London during the Blitz: never knowing where the bombs would drop, only that someone I knew would die. And most people didn’t care.

In 1993, I married a man who welcomed my gay friends. He had to: it was non-negotiable. Our wedding flowers all had red ribbons, and our reception was in the Gold Coast Room, the location of the first Chicago House black-tie dinner. One of my former volunteers, Russ Glidden, designed my invitation; another, Fred Eberle, sang at the wedding. We remembered those lost to AIDS during the ceremony.

My late father wanted our first dance to be “Wind Beneath My Wings”, but for possibly the only time in my life, I refused to do something he asked. I couldn’t do it, I told him, because virtually every memorial service I’d ever been to – and there were many – used that song. It was just too sad for me. So we danced to “Sunrise Sunset”. “Wind Beneath My Wings” was the only song played at his funeral.

There are those who feel an ownership to the AIDS crisis, and I understand that. There was certainly a lot of suspicion and occasional antagonism towards any “breeders” who joined the efforts. The gay community was devastated, and my losses pale in comparison.

When asked what I’m most proud of in my life, the little bit I was able to do for the 10 or 12 years I was involved in fundraising for AIDS organizations is close to the top of my list (sorry, my daughter’s at the top).

I wonder if what I did made any difference. Thirty years later I worry about my gay nephew, even though he assures me he practices safe sex. I worry about my gay friends, even the ones who I know are HIV-negative, because I’m used to worrying about them.

I remember a moment in the early 80’s. I don’t know where I was, or what I was doing, I just remember the moment. I thought to myself: “I don’t want to look back and be ashamed I stood by and did nothing.”

What I did wasn’t much, and it may not have changed anything. But I’d do it again, gladly, even knowing I’d lose so many people I cared about.

World AIDS Day 2011 - 30 Years of AIDS

2011-11-28T16:30:00.000-06:00

“Disenfranchised grief” is defined as grief that is not socially accepted or acknowledged. I learned a lot about it in the AIDS community.

Thursday, December 1, is World AIDS Day, this year marking the 30^th anniversary of the pandemic.

I worked in the AIDS community in Chicago in the late 80’s/early 90’s, after volunteering for a while to raise money for much needed services.

If you had told me in 1981 that 30 years later we’d have no cure, I wouldn’t have believed you. Scientists always seemed to be “closing in on” a cure.

If you had told me in 1981 that in addition to having friends who died within weeks of their diagnosis, that I would also have friends who have been HIV+ for over 25 years, I wouldn’t have believed that, either.

No one lived that long - months, maybe years if they were extraordinarily lucky - but decades? I would’ve thought you were nuts. Or just cruel.

The current state of AIDS (as of October, 2011) is grim:

More than 33 million people now live with HIV/AIDS.
2.5 million of them are under the age of 15.
In 2009, an estimated 2.6 million people were newly infected with HIV.
370,000 were under the age of 15.
Every day more than 7,000 people contract HIV—nearly 300 every hour.
In 2009, 1.8 million people died from AIDS.
260,000 of them were under the age of 15.
Since the beginning of the epidemic, more than 60 million people have contracted HIV and nearly 30 million have died of HIV-related causes

Sub-Saharan AfricaMore than two-thirds (68 percent) of all people living with HIV, 22.5 million, live in sub-Saharan Africa—including 92 percent of the world’s HIV-positive children. In 2009, an estimated 1.8 million people in the region became newly infected. An estimated 1.3 million adults and children died of AIDS, accounting for 72 percent of the world’s AIDS deaths in 2009.

Asia and the PacificIn Asia and the Pacific, more than 360,000 people became newly infected in 2009, bringing the total number of people living with HIV/AIDS there to more than 4.9 million. AIDS claimed an estimated 300,000 lives in the region in 2009.

CaribbeanAn estimated 17,000 people became infected with HIV in 2009 in the Caribbean, bringing the total number of people living with HIV/AIDS to 240,000. An estimated 12,000 people died of AIDS in 2009.

Central and South AmericaThere were an estimated 92,000 new HIV/AIDS infections and 58,000 AIDS-related deaths in Central and South America in 2009. This region currently has 1.4 million people living with HIV/AIDS.

North Africa and the Middle EastApproximately 460,000 people are living with HIV in this region and an estimated 75,000 people became newly infected in 2009. An estimated 24,000 adults and children died of AIDS

Eastern Europe and Central AsiaSome 130,000 people were newly infected with HIV in 2009, bringing the number of people living with HIV/AIDS to 1.4 million. HIV/AIDS claimed 76,000 lives in 2009.

Western and Central EuropeIn 2009, there were 31,000 new cases of HIV, bringing the number of people living with HIV in Western and Central Europe to 820,000. An estimated 8,500 people in these regions died of AIDS in 2009.

Source: UNAIDS Report on the Global AIDS Epidemic 2010; Kaiser Family Foundation.

On Wednesday, my post will be unusually long. I’m sharing the article I wrote in the spring for Windy City Times, Chicago’s largest publication serving the LGBT community. Their series, AIDS@30, recounts the history of AIDS: its impact on politics, civil rights, culture, medical research and treatment not just locally, but globally. You can follow the series at Windy City Media Group

Perhaps you know people who have died of AIDS, or are living with HIV. Take a moment on Thursday to remember them, and how the stigma of this horrible disease added to their pain, and maybe yours, too.

Being Thankful for Our Friends

2011-11-25T16:43:00.000-06:00

I don’t think it was intentional, but I seem to have spent a good part of November connecting and re-connecting with friends.

I’m sure the fact that this month was the 5 year anniversary of my friend Delle’s death had something to do with it, at least subconsciously.

So I began to be very assertive about the time I spent with friends. It began with a trip to New York:

Several days there seeing shows, eating and drinking with Eileen, who I’ve known since…well, a long time.

A relaxing lunch on an unseasonably warm day in Union Square Park with an old boyfriend.

Reconnecting with two friends from college (after not seeing either for 30+ years), for a catching-up, laughing lunch on the Upper West Side that we plan to repeat in January.

After I got home, phone calls and emails to five to six people I haven’t talked to in weeks, making solid plans with most of them to get together in the next week or so.

Yes, as I blogged about recently, it’s often easier to make time for a funeral than for lunch. It’s a sad indictment of ourselves and our culture. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Don’t set yourself up for guilt on top of grief, guilt brought on by your very human failure to make time for your friends.

I’ve had some touching responses to this idea, from people who have made a renewed commitment to their friendships. Now, they do run the risk of being rebuffed, because their friends don’t have the time or inclination to see them. But that’s the risk we always take with relationships.

The holidays are upon us now, a built-in excuse for…excuses. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

So, while you’re being thankful for your friends, take that extra step. You know: the one that comes after “we should get together soon.” The one where you say, “okay, how about next Friday after work?” It’s not so hard. You can do it. Just give it a try.

Giving Thanks for Missing Friends

2011-11-23T14:14:00.000-06:00

“As long as you remember him, he’s not really dead.”

I’m paraphrasing a line from Doctor Who, but that’s certainly the intent of the Doctor’s message.

As Americans pause to celebrate Thanksgiving Day, and even those in other countries mark the day with giving thanks for volunteering, it’s a sentiment worth considering.

Holidays - like anniversaries and birthdays - can be painful for anyone who’s lost someone they love. We are haunted by memories of time spent together, and I use the word “haunted” deliberately. The memories don’t necessarily make us feel good.

But as we give thanks, let us remember - without being haunted - our friends.

I’ll remember laughing on the phone with Carol, who watched the Iran-Contra hearings on C-SPAN as she lay dying from breast cancer.

I’ll remember dancing with Steve, so handsome in his tux, in the Gold Coast Room of the Drake Hotel, just months before he developed full-blown AIDS.

I’ll remember sitting at Academy of the Sacred Heart’s Prize Day with Delle, taking pictures of our daughters and making plans for the summer.

I’ll remember conversations with Chris in the cafeteria, full of teenage-angst and solutions for the world’s problems.

They’re not big things. They’re ordinary: dancing, talking, and laughing. But the little things make up our lives: those simple, everyday, sometimes boring things that mean so much to us later on.

My daughter once asked me why grownups don’t just hang out like kids do: they always seem to need an excuse to get together (a meal, a movie, a special occasion). I guess we get so busy we feel we have to make formal appointments, do specific things, because just “hanging out” isn’t important enough.

This holiday I’ll most likely be remembering those times I hung out with friends: in dorm rooms, the basement of my parents’ house, school cafeterias, apartments. I won’t feel haunted, though I may feel a little sad that those friends aren’t here anymore to hang out with.

How about doing the same? Remember the friends who are no longer with you: the little things you did together that cemented your friendship. Feel sad if you want, but not guilty, because even though there weren’t enough of them, those moments did exist.

And while you’re at it, call up a friend who’s still around. And just hang out.

Is It Better to Have Loved and Lost…A Friend?

2011-11-21T17:04:00.000-06:00

“Hearts will never become practical until they become unbreakable.” - Wizard of Oz

“To have memories of those you have loved and lost is perhaps harder than to have no memories at all.” - Van Helsing

Most people who use the phrase “loved and lost” think of a relationship breaking up. But what if it really meant the death of a friend?

Are you better off - even in your grief - for having known your friend?

Do you wish you’d never met them, because the pain you feel now is so intense?

In other words, is the pain worth it?

There are certainly moments - especially when your grief is fresh - when you may think it’s not worth it.

But then who would you be?

My friends have shared their love of music, theatre, films and food with me. My friends have inspired me and frustrated me. My friends have gotten me into and out of trouble. My friends have made me laugh and made me cry. They’ve supported me, called me out when they thought I was an idiot, and challenged me to be a better person.

In short, our friends have made us who we are today.

Grief, they say, is the price you pay for love.

So don’t be surprised that you grieve when your friends die. It’s the price you pay for the love you shared with them: a price we should all be willing to pay.

When to Remember Our Friends?

2011-11-18T15:02:00.000-06:00

Happy birthday, Delle

May 29 or November 22?

January 15 or April 4?

What difference does it make what day you commemorate your friend?

Well, in the case of John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr., there’s definitely a difference.

Few people know that Kennedy’s birthday is May 29. The day we forever associate with him is the day he was assassinated.

The opposite is true of Dr. King: his birthday is a national holiday, but the day he was killed is not as important.

My friend, Delle Chatman, died on November 7. Perhaps because my memory of that day is so clear, I tend to not forget it. Her birthday is tomorrow, November 19.

I was in New York on the 7^th this year, and my girlfriend and I raised a toast to Delle. Tomorrow, well, I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do.

I always think of Delle on my birthday. In 2002, we sat at Prize Day at our daughter’s school, and I admitted I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do for my next birthday. She told me what she’d done for hers, and I copied it: a girls-only, wine & dessert evening of laughing and sharing.

Tomorrow will probably involve green tea, which we shared a taste for, and possibly a red velvet cupcake. It will definitely include a good amount of work on the book she encouraged me to write. And I know for sure it will be full of gratitude for knowing her, for having the privilege of calling her my friend.

What day do you remember your friend? The day they died? The day they were born? Or another day?

The day doesn’t matter. All that matters, really, is that you remember them and what they meant to you.

A Death Café?

2011-11-16T15:21:00.000-06:00

Salon (n.) A periodic gathering of people of social or intellectual distinction.

I always wanted to host a salon. I had visions of the Algonquin Round Table and American expatriates in the Paris of the 1920’s. Make no mistake, I’ve had gatherings like that occasionally, with incredibly talented and opinionated friends. But they never happened often enough for my liking.

So when I read Kristie West’s blog this week about the second London Death Café, it gave me pause.

The concept of the Death Café began in Switzerland, and has spread to London, where Kristie lives. She’s a grief counselor, specializing in helping those who have lost a parent.

A Death Café, much like those celebrated salons, is a gathering of people - fortified by food and drink - discussing a topic most avoid: death. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

Seriously, we could all use a place - even a pop-up café - where we can talk to others about our fears and hopes about death (ours or someone else’s).

You may be one of the many whose grief for their friend’s death was dismissed by those around you. They didn’t get it, to put it mildly. The problem was that you had few if any people to talk to about your loss.

A Death Café is not a group therapy session. But it is a chance for people to open up on a topic most people would prefer to ignore.

If you’re curious about Kristie’s experience at the first two held in London, check out Kristie West.

If you’d like to find out more about the whole Death Café phenomenon, follow @DeathCafe on Twitter.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking about how to start one here in Chicago.

And planning the menu.

How to Avoid Grieving Your Friend

2011-11-14T15:30:00.001-06:00

Sometimes it's too late

I’ve been encouraging (a nicer word than “preaching”) visitors here to reach out to their friends and let them know how important they are to you before it’s too late. What’s too late? Too late is when all you can do is regret what you didn’t do or say. And that happens a lot more often than we care to admit.

Sometimes the idea begins with a simple thought, “I wonder whatever happened to…” Sometimes a discovery triggers an old, pleasant memory. Both happened to me recently.

I was planning yet another trip to New York, and knew I had some unplanned down time while I was there. I called the usual friends I see when I’m there - both of whom I’d reconnected with after long separations. But something made me reach out to two others.

Jan and Jeff were college friends. Jan was my roommate senior year, and we were all in shows together. We were part of a pretty tight group (more on that later). But I hadn’t seen Jeff since 1974, nor Jan since the late 70’s. She and I had been in touch the usual way: Christmas cards and rare emails.

So I surprised even myself a little when I wrote letters to them both: I’m in town, here’s when I’m free, any chance for lunch? I knew what day the letters were delivered, because Jan emailed and Jeff called me.

Last Friday, we met on the upper west side. Except for changes in hair color and weight, we all looked the same to me. We brought each other up to date on what we’d been doing and even future plans. We laughed and joked and reminisced and it seemed for a couple hours on a beautiful day that time had stopped.

Both of them thanked me for setting this up, but I was at least as grateful that they responded. It certainly won’t be 30 years until we see each other again. I’m pretty confident that we’ll stay in close touch now.

There were a couple other guys in our group. I texted one of them to let him know what we were doing and that I’d give him a full report.

After our lunch, Jan emailed me. “Whatever happened to…?” It was a guy I always associated with her. I could see him in my mind, leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigarette at our favorite bar in Iowa City.

Guess I’ll be tracking him down next.

I don’t know if I’ll find him, find him alive and well, or willing to re-establish contact. But I’ll be able to answer the question. And I hope I won’t have to ask myself another one:

“Why didn’t I call sooner?”

If a world-class procrastinator like me can get up off her butt and do this, so can you. Don’t wait until you see the obituary or have your Christmas card returned, stamped “deceased”.

Track them down and contact them.

Do it now.

Whether it’s good news or not, you’ll be glad you made the effort.

The truth is, you’ll still grieve when they die, but at least you won’t feel guilty.

What Else I Learned about Myself from Delle Chatman

2011-11-09T10:28:00.000-06:00

When I told Delle I had an idea for a book, I was nervous. I was hoping she wouldn’t laugh, although I knew her well enough by then to know she wouldn’t. Mostly, I was nervous about saying the words, “I have an idea for a book”: a book that I would write, not a book someone else should write.

I’d never written a book before, never seriously considered it. She was supportive, as I expected: “just do it,” she answered, with a wave of her hand. In her mind, there were no impediments to following through. But there were.

I put the idea aside as her condition worsened and she died. A few months later, I started thinking about it again. I even interviewed a few people, solicited stories from customers and friends. But try as I might, I kept hitting a wall. I couldn’t really put pen to paper. The idea was too jumbled in my mind, and I finally gave up. “I’m sorry,” I told her in one of our frequent one-sided conversations. “I just can’t do it.” I felt like I’d failed her.

A couple years went by. Stuff happened: our daughters were growing up, my mother got sick, I suffered a concussion in a car accident. I didn’t forget about the book, but I chose to ignore the whole idea.

Several months after my accident, I was in Michigan with my family. It wasn’t a good time, and one night I had a strange dream. It was so strange I decided I had to write it down so I didn’t forget it. I dragged out my laptop and began to type. Several hours and 11 pages later, I realized the dream was part of a story. Okay, that was odd. But then it got ever stranger.

I stopped typing the story and suddenly the book I’d promised Delle popped into my head: the format, a working title (which I’ve since abandoned), a tone. Everything that had eluded me before was right there, clear as a bell. Two months later, I was in New York doing research.

That was two years ago. I’ve made several research trips and interviewed a number of people. I’ve started this blog, a Facebook page, a Google+ identity, and tweeted like crazy. I’ve built a following and generated interest in the book from potential readers and agents alike. I’m speaking at the ADEC conference next spring.

The book is not yet finished, although it’s getting close. And I realized with some surprise that there will be second book - specifically about men grieving their friends - and a third, which will be about Delle.

So, what else did I learn about myself from Delle?

I learned many things, but mostly I learned that I could reinvent myself yet again, this time in an unexpected way. I learned that I could write, and write about something that resonated with a lot of people. I learned that I could build a new professional life on the bedrock of our friendship.

That sounds a little melodramatic, and perhaps it is. But I know for sure I would have never considered writing a book - much less one about grieving the death of a friend - if I hadn’t known Delle.

It’s taken me a while to accept, too, that this blog and book could help people. In fact, I resisted the whole notion. But I finally had to surrender. I’m not a professional grief counselor, nor do I pretend to be. If someone needs therapeutic help, I’m glad to make referrals.

But it has been made clear to me that people also need someone who’ll listen, someone who’s been there: someone who’s definitely not a professional. And that’s where I am today, or at least where Delle thought I should be.

I like to think that she’s pleased by this idea of influencing me so profoundly 5 years after she died. I feel like she’s responsible for the wonderful people I’ve met, the incredible opportunities that have presented themselves, and of course, the words. She used to talk about writing as taking dictation from God, but it’s her voice I hear as I type away.

So, that’s what I’ve learned: some powerful lessons about what I’m capable of accomplishing. And I trust she’ll continue on this journey with me.

What I Learned about Myself from Delle Chatman

2011-11-07T11:39:00.000-06:00

Delle Chatman

Five years ago today was election night. I’d talked to Delle’s brother Gregory earlier: “I’m writing my sister’s obituary,” he said quietly. I turned off my computer about 7:00, to watch the election results: just about the time that my friend, Delle, left us.

I was sorting through the research for my book when I came upon a folder simply marked Delle. Inside were a variety of things: the tribute DVD created by “30 Good Minutes”, the PBS program she appeared on; another of her play, The Answer; her obituary from the Chicago Tribune. Stuck inside, though, was a piece of paper I’d forgotten about for five years that brought more than one tear to my eyes.

I had the fortune - or misfortune - to walk into her hospital room after her doctor walked out, five years ago Labor Day weekend. I knew immediately that something was very wrong. Her doctor had told her the cancer was back again. She’d had recurrences over almost 4 years of fighting ovarian cancer. This felt different, very different.

One of my talents is making lists (though not necessarily keeping to them). I sat on her bed and we made lists: who to call, what she needed taken care of until she was released, details revolving around her daughter. She assigned me the duty of notifying her Yahoo groups of what was happening. But she controlled the message:

“Oh, my good friends -

All of a sudden, a crisis has arisen all because The Old Squatter has bushwhacked me again. Do the details really matter?

Please suffice it to say we hope a surgical procedure will make breathing easier. Won’t know for sure for a few days. There are risks from bleeding and infection.

All is in God’s hands.

All and everyone.

My brother Gregory is coming to stay with Ramona. They’ll need freezable meals. Maybe someone can organize that for them.

I feel your love and prayers.

Thank you.

Bless you.

Delle”

I have to tell you, Delle was not a person to whom you were likely to say “no”. But I didn’t want to do this. I thought she should do it herself, and probably said so, but she disagreed. Maybe I just didn’t want to type the words, see them in print, because that would make them real and true.

I already knew from going through my Dad’s illness and death that I was, in the words of A.A. Milne “stronger than you think”. Now I had to stifle my tears and be strong again. It helped that I was mad as hell, more angry than sad that day. It helped me do what I needed to do.

But damn it, what I wanted to do was scream and cry and rage at God for doing this to her. I didn’t want to sit there calmly and compose lists of things that needed to be done for herself and her daughter.

Delle meant more to me than I meant to her. I always knew that, and that’s okay. Those who knew her knew they had to share her with many, many people: other moms, parishioners at St. Gertrude, actors and directors, writers, family, baristas, really anyone she met. No one “vaguely” remembers Delle: they will tell you that they have strong, clear, vibrant memories of her and miss her every day.

But the question I posed on this blog last week was “what did you learn about yourself when your friend died?” I’m afraid it will take a couple posts for me to answer that, at least in the context of my friendship with Delle.

I learned that I can be there for a friend who’s dying. I already knew how to visit people in the hospital, but I also learned how to really focus on normal stuff: meeting at Metropolis for green tea after dropping off our daughters at school; insisting that she buy more comfortable shoes for walking around Paris; taking a road trip to Milwaukee for the Call to Action conference; saving a seat at Prize Day so we had a clear view to take pictures of the girls.

No one wants to see “the look” from their friends: that painful expression that proves how scared they are. I’m sure I probably gave her that look the last time I saw her. I tried not to, but I’m pretty sure I failed. But I’m also pretty sure I succeeded most of the rest of the time (it helped to be in denial).

So, yeah, I proved to myself I can be a friend in the face of a devastating diagnosis. On Wednesday, I’ll tell you an even more important lesson I learned from Delle.

Grief, grieving styles, Delle Chatman, friendship

A Question about Friend Grief

2011-11-04T13:51:00.000-05:00

I posed this question on my Facebook page Friend Grief:

“What’s the most important thing you learned about yourself when you lost a friend?”

We’re here because we’ve experienced the death of a friend. We’ve cried and raged and felt regrets.

But what have we learned?

Not about death, not even about how those around us have dismissed the impact of our grief.

What have you learned about yourself?

Have you learned - perhaps too late - how much your friend meant to you?

Have you learned your friendships are more important than you ever imagined?

Have you learned you are who you are because of your friend?

Did their death teach you that you’re stronger than you thought?

Maybe you have an answer to one of these questions. Maybe you learned something else about yourself.

I invite you to share what you’ve learned in the comment box below, or on my Facebook page (or both, if you’re so inclined).

Next week I’ll give you my answer.

“Old Friends Make Life’s Voyage a Pleasure Cruise”

2011-11-02T15:39:00.001-05:00

Eric Zorn

If you ever wondered why friends are so important to us - men and women alike - just read Eric Zorn’s column in today’s Chicago Tribune.

It points out what I’ve tried to explain in this blog: our grief when they die is unlike other types of grief.

When you read his column, you think, “Well, of course, they would mourn for each other”. And I’m sure they will.

But that kind of experience - friend grief - is often dismissed as unimportant, lacking in comparison to grieving a family member.

But love is love, and when someone we love dies, we mourn them. Our hearts don’t care about titles or legal relationships. All we know is that the world is a sadder place because that friend is gone.

So, in full support of the trip Eric took with his buddies, I ask you to think about friends you haven’t seen for a while. Think about friends to whom you say, “We should get together more often”.

And then get off your butt and do something about that, before you get any closer to port.

Old Friends Make Life's Voyage a Pleasure Cruise

Grieving Your Friend in Public

2011-10-31T13:53:00.000-05:00

Your friend died, and you’re grieving.

For the most part, that grief is private. But imagine if everyone in town was talking about your friend. Imagine if every time you turned on the TV or radio, or logged onto your computer, someone was talking about your friend.

Imagine, too, that upon hearing the news of your friend’s death, you are confronted with members of the media pushing microphones into your face, asking for a comment. How eloquent do you think you might be?

In In Other Words: Artists Talk About Life and Work, Anthony DeCurtis recounts an interview with Paul McCartney in 1987. They covered his years with the Beatles (it was the 20^th anniversary of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”). The discussion took a turn when he began to talk about the breakup of the group, segueing into the death of John Lennon in 1980. McCartney received a firestorm of criticism for his only public comment, “it’s a drag.”

I confess that my reaction at the time - without seeing the videotape - was less than charitable towards my favorite ex-Beatle. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I sympathize with him.

How do you think you’d do?

To Tell or Not to Tell…That You’re Dying

2011-10-28T16:03:00.000-05:00

Many people seem to have had the experience that I described in my last post, "Would You Tell Your Friends That You’re Dying?"

An older woman was distressed that to find out about a friend’s death when the Christmas card she sent was returned, stamped “deceased.”

Another woman was sworn to secrecy by her family member, who didn’t want her friends to know she was dying. She didn’t want to see “The Look”.

A friend of mine refused to accept visitors, and would only talk to a very few friends over the phone.

Make no mistake: I respect each and every person’s decision to live their lives as they wish, especially after receiving a diagnosis of impending death. The decision to tell - or not - is not one that is taken lightly. There are many factors to consider, and every decision - like every person - is different. We may not agree, but we can decide what we’d do in that situation.

But I also feel for those left behind: those who didn’t know and those who were directed to not tell anyone. There is so much guilt, so much regret, left in the wake of their friend’s death. All the things they wanted to say and do, but never did. We all think we have all the time in the world, but of course, we don’t.

Lisa Athan’s excellent blog, Grief Speaks, looked at the very human tendency for procrastination:

We Make Time for a Funeral, But Not for Coffee

The only cure I can think of - the only way we can avoid seeing or giving “The Look” - is to make the most of the time we have. Tell your friends you love them. Yes, you might scare the hell out of them, but at least they’ll know what’s in your heart. And who knows? They might tell you the same thing.

How cool is that?

Would You Tell Your Friends That You’re Dying?

2011-10-26T13:35:00.000-05:00

We’ve all done it, unconsciously, and with no malice intended.

Perhaps our friend tells us that they’re dying. Perhaps we hear the news elsewhere, and then see the person later.

But anyone who’s been seriously ill, or is dying, can tell you that they get “The Look”. You don’t mean to do it. In fact, you might think the expression on your face is one of love and support, successfully hiding the shock and pain you feel inside. Unfortunately, it’s often interpreted as pity.

I’ve read stories of people who were dying and kept their diagnosis secret specifically because they didn’t want to see “The Look” on their friends’ faces. I know people who have isolated themselves, refusing visitors, because they don’t want to see it.

They’re afraid their friends will act differently, too. We’re all used to the way we interact with our friends: joking, teasing, rowdy and outrageous. But in study after study, people who are dying insist they want to be treated the same way: be concerned, don’t be afraid to ask questions, but don’t treat me like a baby.

They want you to continue to be their friend - the same as always - without dissolving into a puddle of tears every time you look at them. And honestly, you want the same thing, too.

But there is a special pain reserved for friends who are kept away, either by the friend who’s dying or their family. You may have felt it yourself. Not fun, is it?

“I didn’t know they were sick.” Wouldn’t you love to have a copyright on that phrase, and make money every time someone said it? It’s hard enough to cope with the death of a friend, but harder still when you’ve been kept out of the loop. It makes you question just how much of a friendship you had with them.

As shown in the movie “50/50”, this can put a huge burden on the patient. They feel responsible for the happiness of those around them. They hold in their feelings, so as not to burden their friends and family. It’s a very human, loving reaction, but how sad to be unable to express yourself honestly when the end of your life is approaching.

Don’t let that be your friend.

And don’t let that be you.

"Living in the Material World"

2011-10-24T16:13:00.000-05:00

A few months ago, I blogged about Paul McCartney’s concert at Wrigley Field and how his tributes to John Lennon and George Harrison were so very different: while the song dedicated to John was full of regret and guilt, the one for George clearly showed the love they felt free to express to one another.

One friend admitted that it was still difficult for him to talk about George, ten years after his death.

Another laughed about George being stubborn enough, even as he was dying, to buy a house in Switzerland to avoid the tax man (the subject of one of his best-known songs).

They both knew it was impossible, but it was a measure of the man to want to support his friend, even as his own death approached.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Most would say, I suspect, that he goes with them every day. So it is with our friends, too. Friends die, but friendships don’t.

http://youtu.be/KZbGVHk3tBA

Learn more about “Living in the Material World” at George’s website.

Why Friend Grief is Different - Pt. 3

2011-10-21T09:30:00.000-05:00

In my last post, I brought up the painful situation of not being notified of a friend’s death.

As we all know, the stress of grief can affect our memories. Try as we might, things fall through the cracks as we plan for the funeral and deal with the loss of a loved one. It’s embarrassing at times. Personally, I’m on a mission to require name tags at wakes. People you haven’t seen in years walk up and say “you don’t remember me, do you?” On a good day, it’s hard to recognize people you haven’t seen for decades. Being at a wake is probably not a good day. But I digress.

Families are usually the ones organizing the funeral events, and chances are, they don’t know every person their loved one knew. They might not even realize there is an online community of friends. So when it comes to notifying people, there are lots of opportunities to be inadvertently left out.

The sadder situation, though, is when friends are deliberately not notified. When you were a kid, you probably had friends your family didn’t like. Maybe that friend was considered a bad influence, maybe they weren’t in the same social class, or maybe they were just ‘different’. But that didn’t mean you weren’t friends. In fact, it may have been the reason you were friends.

Imagine now, being one of those friends - those not-quite-acceptable friends - deliberately not told of your friend’s death. Not knowing you exist is one thing; not approving of you is something entirely different.

I was working with a client in the early 90’s, an AIDS hospice in Chicago, and I grew close to some of the residents. One young man, from a small rural community downstate, was very clear about what he wanted for his funeral: cremation, no church service. His family had disowned him, so it seemed reasonable to assume his wishes would be honored. His friends stood ready to do what he wanted.

After he died - and I remember to this day how horrible his death was - his family appeared to claim the body. They didn’t visit him while he was alive, but took his body home, for burial and a church funeral to wash away his sins.

Despite his wishes, there was nothing his friends could do about it. Needless to say, none of us were invited. We had our own “service” for him, but knowing his wishes weren’t followed by his family left us all with a bad taste in our mouths.

It’s never too late to consider not just the kind of funeral you want - or don’t want - but who should be included. You can put some of that in a will, but really, those kinds of instructions are best kept separately. And don’t keep them in a vacuum! Writing them down is just the first step: share them, or make their existence known, with family and friends. Keep it up to date, or at least give instructions on how to find your most current contact lists on your computer, etc.

And per Kristie West’s great comment on Wednesday’s blog, I’m going to research ways for you to share your wishes and your list of friends on secure websites.

If you’ve ever been left out when a friend dies, you know how it magnifies your grief. Keeping a list of your friends to be notified won’t eliminate all possible errors. But it could go a long way towards ensuring that your friends never feel that kind of pain.

Why Friend Grief is Different - Pt. 2

2011-10-19T14:59:00.000-05:00

From the outside looking in

I have a friend, a dedicated librarian at a public school for special education kids. When I told her about my book, she said she had a story for me.

I sat down with her after school, in the back of her library. She told me the story of a friend of hers. They’d been friends for years, had their ups and downs. But nothing prepared her for finding out about her friend’s death months after it happened. The family knew of their friendship, but hadn’t contacted her.

The pain she felt was real: not just the death of the friend, but the missed opportunities to set things right, and to properly mourn.

Months later, I received an email from her. “You won’t believe it,” she said. The same thing - not being notified of a friend’s death - had happened again. Actually, it had happened two more times.

We’re a very mobile society: we go away to college, move around for our jobs, and retire in other parts of the country. Personally, I’ve found people on Facebook I could never have found otherwise, because they were living in places I’d have never looked.

That mobility can make it difficult for families to know who to contact when someone dies. Just where do they begin to locate friends? Do you keep an address book or Christmas card list? Do you have all your contacts on your computer or phone? Could someone else easily find them?

So, yes, if this gives you pause, it should. You might want to make a note to print out that list and put it somewhere easy to find: with your will, or financial papers. You might want to make a pact with another friend, so there’s someone who can find the information quickly and easily.

Those of us who have experienced the death of someone close to us also know that grief can really muddle your brain. You may simply not be able to think of everyone who should be contacted, until well after the services have taken place. That’s not unusual, and only human.

Not everyone reads the obituaries every day. So as a non-family member, you are at the mercy of the family, as far as notification. Sometimes, with the flurry of activities and details demanding their attention, they just didn’t remember you.

Sadly, my friend suspected, at least in the first case, that something else was going on: that she was deliberately not told of her friend’s death.

On Friday, we’ll consider how it feels to be deliberately left out.

Why Friend Grief is Different - Pt.1

2011-10-18T09:00:00.000-05:00

If you have lost a friend - recently or not so recently - you already know.

Pick up your local paper on any day, and you will find a section devoted to obituaries. Some are news articles about prominent people in the community or the world at large. Some are standard “death notices” submitted by families through the funeral home.

These notices tend to follow a standard format, which includes the surviving family members (sometimes mentioning those who have already died, particularly a spouse). They may list names, or just note the numbers of surviving grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They may list the deceased’s alma mater, career, places they lived, hobbies and charitable causes near and dear to their heart.

What they don’t list are friends.

I was a professional fundraiser for years, and one of our dirty little secrets is that we read the obituaries every day. We look for donors or members who have died, especially those who have already indicated that our organization was included in their wills. I know it sounds tacky, but it’s true.

It was during that time, I believe, when I read a very brief obituary that insisted “there are no immediate survivors”.

“No immediate survivors”

And I remember thinking, “how is that possible?” Did they live in a cave? Did they avoid contact with the outside world? Didn’t they have any friends?

In all likelihood, they did have friends, perhaps hundreds of friends. But friends are only rarely acknowledged in public obituaries. And if it doesn’t happen often in print, how often does it happen in real life?

I believe part of the trend of longer death notices, of Facebook tribute pages, of multiple eulogies at funerals, is to ensure that the person who died is not just remembered, but remembered fully.

A few lines in a newspaper, which the family must pay for, are not enough to sum up a life, no matter how modest.

So friends gather in funeral homes, in bars, in parks, to reminisce and share their grief. They do so mostly on their own, because they are not family. The family traditionally takes care of all the funeral arrangements, the estate, and the death notices. Sometimes they will ask friends to take over specific tasks: watch the house during the funeral so no one breaks in (a sadly common occurrence); transport flowers or food, make phone calls.

When someone dies, their friends are seen as a built-in support system for the family (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But the grief of those friends is something that’s given much less attention, much less respect. After all, “it’s not like they’re family”.

Tomorrow, we’ll look at how it feels to be left out.

Everyone’s Best Friend

2011-10-14T09:24:00.000-05:00

Steve Daley

“Mourning him would be rather silly. He died too soon, but so do we all. The universe is run idiotically, and its only certain product is sorrow. But there are yet men who, by their generally pleasant spirits, by their dignity and decency, by their extraordinary capacity for making and keeping friends, yet manage to cheat, in some measure, the common destiny of mankind, doomed like the beasts to perish." - H.L. Mencken

We all know people like Steve Daley, who shared this quote with his friend and colleague Mary Schmich. They have lots of friends, but when asked, each one will insist that he made them feel like they were his best friend. In some ways - sometimes literally - they are bigger than life.

So their deaths leave a noticeable hole in our lives.

People in the media - local, national, international - are exposed to death every day. Some of them are embedded with troops in war zones; others report from the scenes of drive-by shootings. They might file stories on funerals and accidents. They are required to stay out of the stories themselves, to just report the facts.

But people in the media are human, and sometimes a story hits a little too close to home. Such is the case with former Chicago Tribune sports and national political correspondent Steve Daley, who died suddenly at the age of 62. Daley was one of those people who you just assume will always be there, always be around, because they seem immortal. But they’re not.

Colleagues have weighed in on Daley (no relation to the former mayors) and his importance in their lives. Tribune columnist Eric Zorn provided samples of Daley’s articles and blog posts. Mary Schmich’s column considered their friendship. Even colleagues at the rival Chicago Sun-Times, such as Carol Marin, mourned their friend in print and online.

In the cut-throat world of media, it’s rare to hear of people who are almost universally respected and loved. Steve Daley appears to be one of them.

His friends echoed Steve’s own words from his blog post on the death of his friend, “Shoe” cartoonist Jeff MacNelly:

“They tell you that in this life you’re supposed to get over this stuff. But you never, ever do.”

To read more about Steve Daley, you can check out his blog, Failed Talkers, and the following tributes from his friends:

Mary Schmich "Steve Daley was the Best of Friends"

Carol Marin "A Masterful Failed Talker Passes On"

Eric Zorn “Steve Daley: A Memorial Tribute in his own words”

Why Anger and Grief Go Together

2011-10-12T14:58:00.000-05:00

EvilMilk.com

My posts on anger and grief - and my guest blog on Memoir Writer's Journey - have brought out some pretty emotional responses.

It’s hard to tell, sometimes, just what people reading my blog are thinking. Most posts don’t inspire a lot of comments, either on or off the site. But anger has been one of those topics that had really resonated with people.

I think the comment - off-line - that stuck with me was the woman who thanked me for giving her permission to be angry.

Imagine: a grown woman who needed a stranger’s permission to feel angry.

Why wouldn’t you feel angry if your friend is dead? Yes, of course you’re sad. You feel a hole in your heart and your life.

But it’s ridiculously hard for people - men and women both - to admit anger. Usually, you’ll find anger reserved for the person or situation you blame: the doctors, the drunk driver, the cancer.

Occasionally, you’ll be angry at the friend themselves.

Sometimes, you might even be mad at yourself, for not being able to prevent it.

All of those reasons are valid, if not necessarily accurate. Chances are, there was nothing you could do. Doctors aren’t infallible.

But that anger deserves to be acknowledged and accepted. It deserves to be felt, no matter how messy it is.

I’m a firm believer in anger. I think it’s easy to get stuck in grief if you’ve never been angry. I think it’s easy to get stuck in grief if you can’t get past being angry.

Anger is one of the stages of grief for a reason: it’s a stage. I’m skeptical of people who say they’ve never been angry about the death of a loved one. I think it’s more likely they haven’t gotten there yet.

This is a topic I hope to keep going with from time to time. Anything that provokes strong responses deserves to be discussed, and this is as good a place as any to do it.

Just try to give those around you a heads-up before you let loose.

“Finding Hope in the Midst of Grief”~Guest Post by Victoria Noe | Memoir Writer's Journey

2011-10-11T14:18:00.000-05:00

Today I was a guest on the lovely Kathleen Pooler's blog, "Memoir Writer's Journey". I hope you'll check out my post and her wonderful blog.

“Finding Hope in the Midst of Grief”~Guest Post by Victoria Noe Memoir Writer's Journey

“50/50”

2011-10-10T13:29:00.000-05:00

“You’ve been sucked into the cancer vortex.”

That my friend Delle’s reaction when I told her of my Dad’s diagnosis. She’d been battling cancer herself for almost two years, and knew what was ahead of us.

“50/50” is Will Reiser’s autobiographical film about a 27 year old man whose world is rocked by the discovery of a rare form of cancer.

Anyone who’s been through cancer diagnosis and treatment will appreciate the truths in this film.

The characters are real and mostly sympathetic:

Adam himself, vaguely restless before getting sick, now determined to maintain that everything’s okay. He insists he’s fine, even if it means keeping others at arm’s length.

His mother, already caring for a husband with Alzheimer’s, is angry with the cancer and her son’s refusal of help.

His girlfriend, too self-absorbed to handle the “negative energy” of his new life.

His therapist, new and eager to help, who finally breaks down his walls.

But mostly, it’s his best friend, Kyle, played in all his vulgarity by Seth Rogen, Reiser’s real life friend. Uncouth, immature and naturally offensive to almost everyone, he proves himself to be the best friend a guy with cancer could want. Adam’s discovery in Kyle’s bathroom, near the end of the film, is enough to make anyone cry.

Every word, every scene - and some probably seem weird to those who haven’t “been there” - rings true.

Kyle and Adam go out the night before Adam’s last-chance surgery. What happens will stay with you for a long time. You knew it was there all along, simmering below the surface. But seeing it unfold is remarkably powerful.

Seeing “50/50” has made me re-examine how I treat friends who have cancer. Good intentions, after all, are not enough. Do I treat them with kid gloves? Do I go overboard trying to be natural? Do I talk about myself, to avoid listening to them? Do I dare to tell them I’m scared for them and I love them?

I hope this movie is seem by everyone, and encourages people to offer concrete help to their friends.

And I hope that it encourages people in the fight of their lives to be open to accepting the love and help of those around them.

Here’s a preview:

100 Thoughts about Friend Grief

2011-10-07T19:47:00.002-05:00

Today is my 100^th blog post.

When I started this blog in February, I had one goal: to put a spotlight on the experience of grieving the death of a friend. It appears I’m succeeding.

I already knew there were people out there who wanted to tell their stories, or rather, tell the story of a friend who meant the world to them.

It’s funny, when you become aware of something, suddenly the whole world is attuned to it. Things you never noticed before are now obvious. So it has been with friend grief. It seems everyone has a story to tell about a friend who died much too soon.

Strangers have bared their souls to me, pouring out their frustration and grief. Celebrities have teared up talking about friends who have died. Others have re-directed their lives, because of the influence of that friend.

I don’t know why I got the idea to write my book, which started this whole insane blog/Facebook/Twitter/Google+ journey. It was certainly borne of my friendship with Delle Chatman. My promise to her, before she died, is what has kept me going the past two years as I finally put pen to paper (or more often, fingers to keyboard).

Now I find what fuels me are the responses I receive when I tell people about my book, or they read a post on this blog.

I’ve made a lot of people cry, which was not deliberate.

I’ve given them permission to be angry, which a lot of people seemed to need.

And I like to think I’ve given them a place to come where they know someone understands. That’s what I’ll keep doing, as I start on my second 100 posts and finish my first book (first, because there will be a second and probably a third).

I thank all of you who’ve taken this journey so far, and hope you’ll continue to accompany me, as we celebrate the lives of friends who made a difference in our lives.

Words to Live By from Steve Jobs

2011-10-06T07:45:00.001-05:00

Steve Jobs, the Apple visionary who changed the world, lost his battle to pancreatic cancer on Wednesday.

Although Jobs was known as not always the nicest person to work with, his impact on our lives cannot be overstated.

By now, you may have seen the video of his 2005 commencement speech at Stanford University. He’d been diagnosed the year before, and had successful surgery. He was in remission. But a near-death experience had an effect, even on this impossibly driven CEO.

“No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

When our friends die, it’s a kick in the gut, especially when they’re our age. Our mortality is front and center, and we can’t ignore it. It’s not surprising, then, that many people take a good hard look at their lives: their work, their passions, their relationships. And it’s also not surprising that the death of a friend can be a catalyst for some pretty major life changes.

And though Steve Jobs may not have been a friend of yours, his words resonate. So, while you’re thanking him for your iPod or iPhone or any of the other countless ways he’s changed our lives, it’s worthwhile to consider these words from him:

“Life is brief and then you die, you know? And we’ve all chosen to do this with our lives. So it better be damn good. It better be worth it.”

Steve Jobs 2005 Stanford Commencement Address