Lots of Friend Grief News

It's spring. After a long, tough winter that tried everyone's patience, it's spring. The snow has melted, the brown grass is turning green. Depending on where you live, flowers have forced their way above ground. Some of you have spring fever, or maybe just hay fever. I feel like I have my own little spring going on right now.

Today is a day that’s been a long time coming. The Friend Grief blog is four years old, and it’s been in need of upgrading for quite some time.

So as of today, I (also) have a new website: VictoriaNoe.com.

This is a big step in a lot of ways. First of all, it’s my name, not the subject of my books. It was important to take this step because my writing has already begun to expand into other areas. That doesn’t mean it was easy. Putting my name out front – rather than the books – has intimidated me for a long time.

This fall will see the publication of the sixth and final book in the Friend Grief series: Friend Grief and Men: Defying Stereotypes. Next year they will be bundled into one book and released on audio. And then…well, that announcement is coming soon, too.

I wanted to expand what I offer online to my readers. So the new website includes a lot of new content:

            Reviews and book group discussion questions for each book

            Resource links specific to each book

            A complete list of my freelance articles and interviews

Sales links to the Friend Grief books as well as My Gutsy Story™ Anthology 2, which includes a story of my own ("I'm Not Gutsy, But You Are")

I’m not one of those authors who’s intimidated by speaking in public. So you’ll find a page devoted to public speaking, with presentations I can bring to your event or class.

On April 29, I’ll send out my first weekly email newsletter. I don’t want to fill up your in-box unnecessarily, so each one will be short, sweet and timely. The first 100 people who sign up for it will receive a free pdf of the first chapter of Friend Grief in the Workplace: More Than an Empty Cubicle, coming out in May.

I have the talented and patient folks at 1106 Design to thank for their hard work on my new website. I hope you’ll check it out and find a lot to like.

And have no fear: the Friend Grief blog will continue, with posts of my own, guests, book and film reviews and more. So feel free to keep checking us out right here.

My thanks to you all who have followed me this far. I’m not done yet.

Grieving For and With Your Friends.

It’s considered a classic now, Steel Magnolias. The play by Robert Haring made a wildly successful transfer to the screen with an all-star cast: Julia Roberts, Sally Field, Olympia Dukakis, Shirley MacLaine, Daryl Hannah.

On the surface, it’s a story of the love between a mother and daughter. But as you watch the film, you can’t help but be struck by the emphasis on friendship.

The women in this film are friends, long-time friends who celebrate and tolerate each other’s imperfections. They aren’t shy about expressing their support or criticism, but it’s always, always, done with love. Maybe you have friends like them. I know I do.

So when Julia Roberts’ character dies, the older women rally around their friend, Sally Field. I’ve included the clip from the cemetery, a scene you’ll no doubt remember because of your inability to watch it without crying yourself.

Her grief and rage are familiar to those of us who have lost someone we love, whether friend or family. But what I’m always struck by are her friends.

They watch her standing alone near her daughter’s grave, and approach her. They try, mostly unsuccessfully, to make her feel better, to lessen her loss. But they know they can’t. You can see it on their faces. They can’t make the grief go away. They can’t justify her loss. They can’t change anything, though they’d move heaven and earth to do so.

They are helpless. Watch the scene: they are helpless in the face of so much pain. So they do what friends always do: they wait. They let her scream and cry and pace and curse. And they wait. And then, improbably, they make her laugh.

What did they accomplish, other than – temporarily – relieving the tension? Her daughter was still dead, her grandson growing up now without a mother. Nothing changed. Except for one thing.

She was reminded that she wasn’t alone. For me, the most devastating part of grief is feeling you’re alone, that no one else understands – or cares about – what you’re going through. 

That’s where friends make all the difference, even when they themselves are grieving. They can help their friend by understanding, not judging; by listening, not lecturing; by crying and on occasion, laughing.

“I didn’t know what to say” is a common excuse for doing nothing to help a grieving person. Well, guess what? You don’t have to say a damn thing. Just show up. Just listen. Because like Sally Field’s friends, you’ll make all the difference in the world.


Steel Magnolias

Laurel: A Guest Post by Fred Eberle



Lauren Cronin & Fred Eberle

I’ve known Fred Eberle since 1989, when I was on staff at Chicago House and he was one of my most dedicated volunteers. He is, without a doubt, one of the most talented, generous, thoughtful men I’ve ever known (he's blushing right now, trust me). I’m so pleased that he agreed to share this story of one of the most important friendships of his life.

My friend, Laurel was…a force of nature.  When she entered a room her energy and charisma filled the space. Laurel Cronin was a brilliant actress and director, and when she was onstage it was hard to watch anyone else. It wasn’t that she intentionally pulled focus; she drew it to her. From the first moment we met, it was as though we could finish each other’s sentences. I don’t know if I believe in past lives but, if they exist, I know Laurel played a significant part in mine. 

Laurel directed the first play I did in Chicago after returning from college.  It was a community theatre production, and her creativity and ability to motivate her actors made it a memorable experience.  We both went on to work professionally in Chicago, and our multi-level relationship lasted for nearly 20 years. 

We had one falling out that resulted in a loss of contact for 2 years. I know neither of us thought it would be the end of our friendship, but pride or stubbornness kept either of us from making the first move. One day I heard that she had walked off stage and passed out in the wings.  Without thinking I picked up the phone and asked what she needed.  The ice was broken and we were finally able to reconnect and move forward. 

Immortalized by Al Hirschfeld

Her illness was diagnosed as a kidney issue and, with some time, medication and a change in diet she was able to resume her career.  A casting director invited her to come out to L.A. and within a month she was cast in the supporting role of Liza (Wendy’s housekeeper) in Spielberg’s film, Hook. That opened every door and you couldn’t turn on the television without seeing Laurel in shows such as Murphy Brown, Brooklyn Bridge and a supporting role in Julie Andrew’s short lived sitcom, Julie. She also had roles in films including A League of Their Own, Beethoven and House Sitter (which got her a feature story on Entertainment Tonight as a “scene stealer”). 

In May of 1992, Laurel was in town and we met for lunch just before I left for a season of summer stock at the Peninsula Players in Door County, Wisconsin.  The season would run through early October and, when it was over I was invited to come and stay with her in L.A. She offered to show me around and introduce me to her agent and managers.  I thought my future was set. 

One morning, as I was heading to rehearsal, I got a phone call. It was Laurel telling me that her illness had returned and she was coming back to Chicago to have a kidney removed. Her spirits were good and she was determined to get back to work as soon as possible. Things seemed to be going well until the pathology reports came back and it was discovered that she had been incorrectly diagnosed. The problem was a malignant tumor hidden behind the kidney. 

The day after I got home from Wisconsin I called and her mother told me Laurel had been moved to the hospice at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.  I visited several times but was still in denial about what was coming.  One afternoon, on the way to a theatre fundraiser, I decided to stop in for a quick visit.  When I got on the elevator I heard footsteps and held the door and Laurel’s friend, Bridget got on. She said “I’m so glad you’re here. She’s dying.”

The reality finally hit me. I stood at the foot of her bed with two of her best friends and watched as Laurel’s mother held her hand and tearfully told her it was okay for her to let go.  We were so amazed by her instincts that it took a moment for us to realize that the tortured breathing had stopped. Laurel was gone. 

In the years since, not a day goes by that Laurel is not in my thoughts. I was a product of the era when we were taught that “men don’t cry.”  Even during sense memory exercises in acting class I was never able to produce a tear.  Since that day at Northwestern, I cry at the drop of a hat. I think that's a good thing. I guess that is just one of many things for which I owe Laurel my thanks. 

  
Fred Eberle is a former professional actor and director. He spent nearly 2 years in the original production of  Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up? Fred currently works as a Concierge and Event Planner, and. sits on the Advisory Council for Concierge Preferred Magazine. He also co-hosts the magazine's quarterly web cast, ¨Unlocking Chicago¨.

"You have been - and always shall be - my friend"

Nimoy at Phoenix Comicon

Unless you live under a rock, you know that actor Leonard Nimoy, the Vulcan first officer Mr. Spock on the original Star Trek series, died at the age of 83. And though he was surrounded by his family when he died, they were not the people the media reached out to first. They were not the people his long-time fans wanted to hear from. They wanted to hear from his friends.

Most of those who were interviewed were former cast-mates on Star Trek, along with others who worked with him in his impressive career on stage, television and film. Many found it challenging to express their grief for a man they counted as their friend for decades.

Not everyone – even celebrities – can be eloquent when a friend dies. I’ve written about the backlash against Paul McCartney’s “It’s a drag” comment after John Lennon was murdered. He attributed his words to the shock of hearing the news just hours earlier. There are those now criticizing William Shatner, Nimoy’s co-star on Star Trek, because he honored a previous commitment to appear at a fundraising event rather than attend his friend’s funeral.

I guess I’m less inclined to criticize, because I don’t know what’s in their hearts and minds. But I found it instructive that those who knew him best focused not on his work, but on the man. Bear in mind these are “official” statements. I’m sure more will come later:

“We will miss his humor, his talent and his capacity to love.” – William Shatner

“He was a true force of strength and his character was that of a champion.” – Nichelle Nichols.

“His most enduring quality was his kindness and his desire to make you the most you could be.” – Steve Guttenberg

“My heart is broken. I love you profoundly, my dear friend. And I will miss you every day.” – Zachary Quinto

“Today the world lost a great man and I lost a great friend. You taught us to ‘live long and prosper’ and you indeed did, my friend. I shall miss you in so many ways.” – George Takei

Even the astronauts on the International Space Station – and remember, that many of them were inspired by the ideals of the original Star Trek series – paid tribute to Nimoy and his unique character on the show.

But perhaps the best tribute to Nimoy – the best compliment for any friend – is the line from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Spock is dying. His friends are not only unable to save him, but forced to watch him die. And though Spock was resistant to expressing any emotions, he manages to tell Kirk, his closest friend, “I have been – and always shall be – your friend.”

Why don’t you say those words to someone today?

Friend Grief and…Valentine’s Day?

Good. I got your attention.

Valentine’s Day is certainly not a day we associate with friends. It’s one designed to guilt-trip us into spending lots of money on flowers, candy, dinner, lingerie, etc. to share with a romantic partner. Friends? Not so much.

I remember when I was younger, that I hated the time between Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day. The holidays were all about families, and I was single. The last holiday was the worst, because the expectations were so ridiculously unrealistic.

So let’s ignore all the hype and guilt and consider our friends.

I don’t know about you, but I found 2014 to be an unusually challenging year. So did a lot of my friends. Relationships, finances, health, or a combination of things brought many of them to the brink of despair. I couldn’t begin to count the phone calls, online chats, texts and emails shared about serious crises. Even watching the “In Memoriam” slide shows at the end of the year depressed me, seeing the loss of famous people I admired.

Last year I lost two friends, and I miss them both. Another friend had successful cancer surgery. And yes, I get that some of this is because, as my husband is fond of saying, “we’re at that age”. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

“We can’t keep putting this off any longer.”

I’ve heard that line a lot lately. In fact, in the last couple of weeks I’ve had a surprising number of conversations with friends – on Facebook, Twitter, email, and phone calls – about getting together. These are friends who are spread across the country; the shortest distance apart is about 400 miles. The shortest time I’ve been apart from one of them is almost three years ago; the longest separation is since the early 80s. And though no one has used the words, the motivation is “I don’t want to wait for a funeral”.

Tonight I’m taking out my calendar and penciling in a few dates. One will be the end of March, another sometime in the summer. My high school reunion is already set for June. The remaining one needs to be set soon, too.

I couldn’t have gotten through my challenges in 2014 without my friends, and I suspect you feel the same way.

So, how about this: make a date with your friends for Valentine’s Day.

Call them up, email them, text them. Share a picture of the two of you on Facebook or Tumblr or Instagram to get the conversation going. And make a date to get together.

No, it doesn’t actually have to be on Valentine’s Day. People are busy and sometimes it takes a while to come up with a time you’re both free.

But do it. No excuses. Tell them you miss them. Celebrate your friendship, which is – whether you admit it or not – based in love.

Valentine’s Day is about love. Show a little to your friends.

Celebrating Your Friends

There was supposed to be a party today.

“I want to make it to 90,” Pierre told me when he was 88. His parents had only lived to their 70s, but others in his family had lived longer.

“We should have a party,” I suggested. He liked that idea. I mean, if you’re going to live that long, you deserve a celebration. “You could have dancing girls.”

His eyes lit up. He liked that idea, too.

We never had a chance to discuss details. Pierre died last January, a short time after his 89^th birthday.

We don’t always remember our friends on their birthdays. Sometimes we remember them on the day they died. November 22 is the day we remember President John F. Kennedy, not May 17, his birthday. September 11 is the day we remember those who were killed in the 2001 terrorist attacks. Those deaths were very public, so that’s understandable.

Sometimes we remember them on holidays because those are times we traditionally gather together and reminisce. My friend, Mary Ellen, was born on Christmas Eve, so that’s when I remember her.

But often we remember on their birthdays. Many of our holidays are someone’s birthday: Martin Luther King, Jr., George Washington, Abraham Lincoln.

And why not? Why shouldn’t we remember our friends on the anniversary of the day they came into this world? That’s the day that made our friendship possible.

It’s sad, though, especially the first year after they died. I’ve been thinking about Pierre all week, wondering if I could write about him today. After all, it took me almost a year to write about him at all.

But then I remembered that day at his house. I’d sent him a sinfully rich chocolate cheesecake for his birthday a few weeks earlier, so the topic came up easily (birthdays, not chocolate). He told me he was prepared for death whenever it came. His body had gone through a lot, and he wasn’t interested in staying alive just because medical science said it was possible.

He still saw beauty in little things: sitting in the warm sunshine on his front porch, watching the traffic speed up and down the Glen; a cozy cashmere sweater (or two); a funny story.

When he said he wanted to make it to 90, I knew it was a long-shot. He wasn’t going to have surgery just to get to that milestone, and that was his right. I also knew if he was told he wouldn’t make it, he’d probably just shrug that typically French, incredibly sexy shrug. I imagine he felt that making it to 89 was close enough. And it was, technically, his 90^th year.

So I choose to remember Pierre today, on what would’ve been his 90^th birthday, rather than later in the month, on the first anniversary of his death.

Maybe one of your friends died last year, too. And of course the first anniversary will be hard. But how about getting out your calendar and marking their birthday on it?

Decide to spend part of that day remembering them: do something you two used to do together, go someplace you both loved, dig out your photo album (remember those?) and wallow in good memories; call a mutual friend and swap stories.

It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But soon you won’t focus on how sad you are that they’re gone. Instead you’ll feel how very grateful you are that they were a part of your life.

Because that friendship – like all our friendships – made us who we are today.

"All My Friends Are Dead"

Pierre on "Combat"

Growing up in the 60s, I was, along with my friends, definitely anti-war. I knew guys who served in Vietnam – two who died – but I didn’t agree with the war. 

It seemed odd to many that one of our favorite TV shows was Combat! It ran from 1962-67, and featured a squad of American soldiers in France after the D-Day invasion. We watched the show because we thought the actors were cute. And my favorite was Pierre Jalbert.

Pierre was my “type”: under six feet tall, dark, lean. The French accent didn’t hurt. It was a great, long-distance fantasy…until we met.

The night we met

It’s a long story that I won’t get into, but one night in 1984, I think, my two best friends and I found ourselves partying with Pierre, his wife, and Jack Hogan, who played Kirby on the show. The next day I had the worst hangover of my life, but it was worth it. I only saw him once more, about a year after that. One of my friends kept in close contact, but I didn’t. I’m not sure why.

Pierre’s life was nothing short of amazing: Canadian ski champion, Olympic captain, friend of movie stars, ski instructor, sound editor, actor, writer. He built his house in Beverly Glen and was a talented wood carver. He was obsessed with the life of the Marquis de Lafayette. “He was 19 when he fought in the Revolutionary War!” he’d tell me again and again.

He told me because I visited him a few times in recent years to record the stories of his life. We’d sit in the dining room of his beautiful home, scanning old photos, taping our conversations.

During one of my visits

He was certainly frail those last years, after suffering a stroke. I drove him to some doctor appointments. Though he was frustrated with minor memory lapses, he never lost his sense of humor. Once, when a medical technician assumed I was his wife, he insisted, “No, she’s my girlfriend, not my wife.” I turned bright red, because even at 88, he was still a handsome flirt.

I wrote last week that I learned a lot from him in his last year. I didn’t just learn about Lafayette, or why he was brought in to help with The Godfather (Pierre’s responsible for the iconic baptism/mob hit sequence at the end of the movie).

I learned that he gave full credit to his friends for everything that happened to him in his life. A new one would appear at a crucial moment, offering him an opportunity that would change his life: the actress who invited him to Paris, the businessman who sponsored his immigration to the US. “I wouldn’t be where I am today without my friends.”

I learned that he missed them terribly. “All my friends are dead,” he insisted, when we first sat down to record his stories. “Not all of us,” I countered. His stories about his friends were told without a trace of envy or disapproval. He loved them for who they were, and though he didn’t always understand or condone their behavior, he loved them nonetheless.

I learned that with every setback – rheumatic fever, the shattered leg that left him in constant pain for over 60 years, deportation when he failed to secure a work visa – he bounced back. He had a resilience that was remarkable. “Weren’t you depressed when you couldn’t ski in the Olympics?” “Sure,” he agreed. “For a week.” Then, Norma Shearer invited him to Paris, and he moved on to the next adventure.

I learned that it’s possible to live your life without regrets. When he insisted he had no regrets about his life, I was skeptical. I tried to bait him, frankly. Maybe it was Buddhism that gave him that peace. But just as he saw his friends impact his life, he saw each twist and turn as something ultimately better. Everything happened for a reason.

I feel like I learned a lot from Pierre. I still have my notes and my tapes. Next year I’ll transcribe them and put them into a coherent tale about one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever known.

I can hear his voice sometimes. If I close my eyes I can feel his hand in mine as we walked through the parking lot to lunch. When my car windshield is dirty, I think of him insisting I pull into the gas station in Santa Monica so he could clean it.

Finally, Pierre, I’m writing about you. Don’t give me that typically French shrug, as if you don’t care. I know better. So wherever you are, pour yourself a scotch on the rocks and settle back.

Allons-y.

Friend Grief and the Holidays

Now that we’re past Halloween, the holidays are upon us. You may not be ready, but they’re coming anyway. For the first time in a long time, I will have my Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving. But that was a self-defense decision, as I have an unusual amount of holiday commitments this year.

This may be a year in which you’ve lost a friend – or more than one. We tend to think of grieving during the holidays in the context of losing a family member. That’s often the case. It’s been forty years since my uncle died in a car accident less than two weeks before Christmas. There was not much to celebrate that year. Even when a death occurs much earlier in the year, the holidays become one of those ‘firsts’ we struggle to get through.

But little attention is paid to those who are missing a friend during the holidays. That grief is every bit as important. It’s just too often dismissed.

That’s why this Wednesday, Nov. 5, I’ll be the guest on a Google+ hangout on that very topic.

CHANGES, hosted by Sally Ember, will be live from 10-11am EST. You can be a part of it or check it out afterwards, if the time conflicts with your schedule.

Here are the links:

Wednesday, November 5 - , LIVE:

            Or catch our conversation any time on YouTube:

I hope to see you there with lots of questions for us! If you can’t make it, but would like to have your question answered, email me at victorianoe@friendgrief.com, and I’ll do my best to include it in our discussion.

Grieving Your Friend Onstage

capitalfringe.org

It’s hard for people to express their grief in words. While crying may be acceptable in some settings, it’s not easy to find a setting to discuss your grief. And for young people, who have not experienced a lot of loss, it can be doubly hard.

A University of Maryland theatre major worked through the loss of three of his friends in the only way he knew how: onstage.

Brendan O’Connell lost three of his friends in a drunk-driving accident in the summer of 2011. One had been his best friend for 15 years, next-door neighbors who grew up together.

His grief was compounded by the knowledge that he’d begged off riding with them that night. When he returned to college, he was, in his own words “bottled up” – in more than one way. His guilt prevented him from sharing his grief as did the realization that he, too, had driven drunk at times. He self-medicated with alcohol to deal with it – or not deal with it.

It took time, a long time, to forgive himself and face his grief. Would it have gone more smoothly if he’d talked about it or not turned to alcohol? Possibly. But what came out of his reflection was something more personal, more cathartic.

À Demain (French for See You Tomorrow) is a play about his friends and their joy for life. O’Connell plays himself, and his brother portrays the best friend, who shows him the way out of the darkness.

A local parent, who knew all three young people who died, had this to say:

“It honors a fallen friend, it celebrates life, and it also reminds us how he died and the preventability of it all,” he said. “It is another way to learn the lessons that we, as parents, are all trying to impart.”

O’Connell’s play is part of the Capital Fringe Festival, where it is playing July 18, 20 and 25. For ticket information, www.capitalfringe.org.

Should You Send Flowers to a Dying Friend?

You know what it’s like.

You’ve had friends who were dying and refused visitors. Maybe they were overwhelmed, depressed, scared, determined to face their fate alone. Maybe they’d lost a lot of weight and didn’t want anyone to see them ‘like that’. Maybe they didn’t want to see ‘the look’: the facial expression that they interpret as pity.

You’ve had friends who even refused to talk on the phone. Maybe talking was painful or difficult. Maybe their memories were shaky. Maybe they just weren’t prepared to talk about their illness with anyone.

Those refusals are their right, although being on the other end hurts.

You know your friend is dying – or suspect they are, because information is so sketchy. They’ve set very clear boundaries for interaction.

So, what can you do?

Send flowers or a plant? Send a fruit basket? They probably have plenty already.

Here’s a radical thought:

Write a letter.

If you feel less awkward writing inside a card, by all means buy a card that’s blank on the inside. Enclose a photo of the two of you. Or write on a postcard from a place that means something to both of you.

But write a letter. Take the time to say what your friend won’t let you say to their face or on the phone:

            That you respect their need for privacy.

            That you’re praying for them (but only if it’s sincere and what they’d want).

            That you treasure the times you spent together.

            That you’re available to listen if they want to talk – listen without judgment or comment.

            That you are the person you are today because of your friendship.

Don’t offer medical advice. Don’t write sentences that include the word “should”. Don’t scold them for their decision to keep friends at a distance.

It won’t be easy for most people to do this – not just because as a society we’ve gotten out of the habit of writing letters – but because it’s hard to express difficult emotions, like grief. It doesn’t have to be a long letter, just heartfelt.

Because the time to tell your friends you love them is now, while they’re still here.

Be Careful What You Wish For

I’ve written before about a conversation with some friends, where we discussed our willingness to share news of a serious illness. One of us was already open about her health challenges. Another insisted she would share news with her friends. The other two admitted they were unlikely to tell their friends if they were seriously ill, even the ones sitting at the table.

I have several friends who are very open about their health. I don’t think they share that kind of news with everyone. But ours are friendships that are several decades long. We’ve known each other longer than any of our marriages. There’s trust.

But even people who would be uncomfortable sharing their own health news with their closest friends still expect their friends to be honest with them. Yeah, I know, a little hypocritical. They want to know, they insist, so they can help their friend. I guess they don’t believe the concern and caring go both ways. I know I didn’t.

A few months ago, I asked a friend if he’d tell me if he was sick. “I’m not,” he insisted, but agreed that he would tell me if there was a problem (in fact, he wondered why I felt I had to ask).

Not long ago we were having lunch, when late in the conversation he paused, looked at me and said quietly, “I had chest pains for three days straight.” For a moment, I was afraid I might burst into tears right there in the middle of the restaurant. He went on to explain that all the tests were negative, his heart was fine. It was something unrelated and not serious.

Even as he explained, I scolded myself: “You wanted him to tell you, remember?” Yes, I did. But that didn’t mean I was prepared to hear it. What made sense in theory was something very different in practice.

I had a medical test this week that I was nervous about. He was one of the few friends I emailed about it. He responded that he was saying a prayer. The next morning, when I hadn’t given him an update, he emailed again to ask if I was all right. I had the test results – negative – so I could give him an update and thank him for his concern.

But I was embarrassed. I felt like I should’ve toughed it out myself and not told anyone what was going on. And I understood a little of what my two friends may have been thinking that night at dinner.

I bring this up for two reasons. First, quite a few of the people in my books have expressed the same regret: that they were unable to help a friend before they died. Sometimes it couldn’t be helped: the friend was thousands of miles away or died suddenly. Sometimes the friend kept their failing health a secret or refused help. Often the surviving friends were angry at being shut out, and wondered if maybe the friendship wasn’t as strong as they’d assumed.

Second, unless you’re a hypochondriac who enjoys sharing your health woes with the world, you probably don’t want to tell a lot of people what’s going on. Family aside, your closest friends would want to know: to listen, to support, to help, to let you know they love you.

Because what I’m learning more and more every day is that “in sickness and in health” applies to friendships, too.

Share Your Friend Grief Story

Believe it or not, the final two books in the Friend Grief series will be published this fall. I’m looking for additional stories for both books. Do you have a story that will fit one of them?

Workplace grief

The next book is titled Friend Grief in the Workplace: More Than an Empty Cubicle. The stories in it are about people coping with the death of a co-worker who was also a friend. Don’t let the title throw you off, though: I have a pretty broad definition of workplace. There are already stories of friends who worked together at a coffeehouse, a TV studio, a newspaper, a firehouse. Maybe you’re an actor or dancer, a server or bartender, a medical professional or teacher. You see? Any kind of workplace.

Life Changes

The final book in the series is as yet untitled, and is a wrap-up of sorts. It will focus not on the grief itself, but the ways in which people channeled their grief. Some of the people in it have made dramatic life changes, their friend’s death acting as a wake-up call. Some of the people in it decided to carry on their friend’s work or passions. But all have very different lives because of their friends.

Maybe you have a story that fits one of these books. Maybe you know someone who does. Maybe you saw a story on the news that would be a great addition.

If so, please email me (victorianoe@friendgrief.com) with a brief description. Deadline: July 15. I will contact you and we can figure out how best to discuss your story (email, Skype, in person, etc.).

And by the way, Friend Grief won’t end when this series ends.

Thanks in advance and stay tuned!

Be My Guest on Friend Grief

James Montgomery Flagg

In addition to interviewing people for my books, from time to time, I invite people to share their experience grieving the death of a friend. Now is one of those times.

Oh, you’d like to, but you’re not a professional writer? Don’t let that hold you back!

Would you feel more comfortable simply answering a series of questions? We can do that!

In general, here are the requirements:

1. The experience you describe must be related to the death of a friend. They don’t have to be a close friend, nor does the loss need to be recent. It just has to be about a friend – not a family member or pet.
2. If you choose to write it yourself, I’d like something that’s no more than 600 words.
3. You must be comfortable with your work being edited by me.
4. Include a bio and photo. The photo can be of you, your friend, or the two of you together.
5. Submission is no guarantee that I will use it. But if I don’t, I’ll explain why.
6. Include social media links: your website or blog, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, etc. Those links will be included at the bottom of your article, but only those you wish to share.
7. Themes can include how you and your friend dealt with their illness, promises you made to them before they died, anger about their death, challenges you faced in grieving them, and what you do now to keep their memory alive.

So, that’s it – pretty simple! There is no deadline, though I’ll be posting the first one next month. If you have any questions, just email me at victorianoe@friendgrief.com.

Know someone who’s lost a friend? Share this information with them.

I can’t wait to read what you have to share about the friends who were so important to you. And I know everyone who reads Friend Grief will be excited to read about them, too.

"The Living Memories Project"

I’ve interviewed and learned about a lot of people who grieve the death of a friend. The circumstances vary. The way the grief presents itself varies, too. But one thing is universal: they fear their friend will be forgotten. And they do what they can – in ways that are large and small – to keep that friend’s memory alive.

I’ve included those ways in my books, a way to end each one on an uplifting note. In fact, the final installment in the Friend Grief series will be a little like this beautiful new book.

The Living Memories Project: Legacies That Last, by Meryl Ain, Arthur M. Fischman and Stewart Ain, introduces us to people who have found ways to remember family members.

The people in their book are from all walks of life. Some are famous – Malachy McCourt, Nick Clooney, Jack Klugman, Lynda Johnson Robb. Some are not: parents of a young man killed in Iraq or of one who died on 9/11. But all share that determination that death does not end a life.

Nick Clooney, best known to many as George’s father and Rosemary’s brother, speaks also of his less-famous sister, Betty. He advises people who grieve to take the best, most positive virtues of that person and pay them forward. Establish a scholarship, even a small one that will enable a young person to accomplish the same dreams that person was able to fulfill.

In fact, establishing scholarships was something many people in this book did. There was a very conscious effort that helping someone else – a stranger – was nonnegotiable. They could not honor the person who died without helping someone who was alive. “The great love you have for people who have impacted your life should mean something,” Clooney explained.

In the end, singer Tonya Tecce said it best, when she describes the inspiration of her parents on her career:

“How would they want us to live our lives? By the examples that they set for us.”




Learn more about The Living Memories Project  and ways you can remember the people you love here.

Friend Grief and Medics

Conlan Carter as
Doc on "Combat!"

Imagine you work in an emergency room. You’re an orderly, maybe – no rank in the pecking order. You might be the only one there to help, or you might have help, but not from a doctor or nurse – there aren’t any. It’s all on you.

Every day – in bursts of activity that last for hours – your workplace is filled with patients. They’re screaming and panicky or very, very still. Some are missing legs or eyes; others have horrific head wounds. The floors are covered with blood and bandages and random pieces of flesh.

You’re trying to be in three places at once; responding to whichever patient you think can be stabilized and moved up to surgery. The people you’re working on are barely out of high school. And you know every one of them.

When we think of medics, we generally think of movies and TV shows. They were (usually) guys who were referred to as “Doc”, even though they weren’t doctors. They were often older than the squads they accompanied. Most of their duties consisted of tending to non-life-threatening injuries.

As I researched my next book, Friend Grief and the Military: Band of Friends, I found amazing stories about medics. Men and women on the front lines, their role has evolved, just as the nature of war has evolved.

I was surprised to learn the following:

Medics are allowed to carry and use weapons in self-defense or in the defense of their patients.

US Navy medical corpsmen have earned 22 Medals of Honor, the highest honor for any member of the military.

One of the Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima was a medic.

We tend to not think of medical professionals as our friends in civilian life. But the uniqueness of war makes everyone dependent on one another: living in close quarters, traveling together, eating together, and sometimes dying together.

They are in a vulnerable position, not being combatants. They rely on their unit to protect them. Trust must be absolute.

The grief they feel when a soldier in their unit dies can be complicated by guilt at being unable to save their friend, who may have died protecting them. They must also be able to assess why someone died, and learn something from it to use in the future.

I read one book by a doctor who spoke with great gentleness about the medics who served with him. They’re the same age as the guys they’re taking care of – 18, 19, 20 – or maybe a decade younger. They are working against the clock – and battle conditions – to save limbs and organs and lives of the friends who minutes earlier were protecting them. And every day they see things that would bring a civilian emergency room physician to his or her knees.

And they, too, like the others in their unit, rarely have the luxury to grieve immediately. That must wait for later.

You’ll learn more about them and their incredible bravery in my book. But next time you watch a movie or TV show set on the battlefield, think about those medics. Their job was and is a hell of a lot tougher than it looks.

Another Celebrity “Friend” Dies

suntimes.com

There’s been a lot on the news, on the internet, in the papers the past 48 hours about the death of writer/director/actor Harold Ramis; even more here in Chicago, because he was one of “us”.

Again – as we saw recently in the case of Philip Seymour Hoffman – people are sharing their grief as if he were a close personal friend.

And again, others are asking “Why?”

Why do we mourn the death of someone we’ve never met?

Why do we feel as if we’ve lost someone who was a part of our lives?

Why do we act as if they were our friend?

Certainly, the internet and social media like Twitter and Facebook have enabled millions to share their thoughts and feelings with the world. We’re probably more aware of the impact certain celebrities have on our lives because of the obsessive nature of the 24-hour news cycle.

We admire their talent and maybe their work ethic. We identify their works of art – films, TV shows, songs – and link them to important moments and places in our lives. And that’s what I think is the key.

When I think of Carole King, I remember listening to “Tapestry” in my first dorm room. Many years later, when my daughter was a tiny baby, I remember singing along with the lullaby King contributed to “Til Their Eyes Shine”.

Am I friends with Carole? No, of course not. We’ve never met and I’ve never even seen her perform live. But when I think of the little dorm room at Webster, or sitting on the couch holding my daughter, I think of Carole and her music. And now, when my college-student daughter wants to see Beautiful (the musical based on King’s early career), I think of Carole and those earlier times, too.

That’s doesn’t make us friends, not in the way I define ‘friend’. But it points to the influence people can have in our lives.

With Harold Ramis, that influence often resulted in people – mostly men – who can quote entire scenes from Caddyshack or Stripes; even President Obama can’t resist. But those who worked with him and knew him – his real friends – probably would describe him the way Kelly Leonard, Asst. VP of Second City, did yesterday:

“Harold Ramis was an A-plus creative talent and an A-plus human being, which never happens.”

The oldies radio station I listen to refers to their playlist as “the soundtrack of our lives.” And that’s true. Every one of us can tell the story of the first time we heard a song: where we were, what we were doing, who we were with.  The songs and the artists become a part of our lives.

So when a celebrity dies, it’s as if we’ve lost a part of us. It’s not entirely true, because their work lives on. But now there is a twinge of sadness when we hear that song or watch that movie or TV rerun.

That’s okay. Feel sad that Harold Ramis – or Philip Seymour Hoffman or whoever – won’t be creating any more memorable characters.

But don’t forget to celebrate, too. Hold onto those memories; make new ones, too. And for now, let’s remember Harold Ramis:

 

In the immortal words of Jean-Paul Sartre, “Au revoir, gopher.”