The Friend Grief Police

You know who they are, because they made you feel like this.

You tell them your friend died, and they probably said one of these things to you:

           

 “I know just how you feel. My dog died.’

 “Aren’t you over that yet?”

“You’re not crying, are you?”

“It’s not like your mother died or something.” 

“Well, they were overweight/smoked/drank/did drugs.”

Don’t you love people like that? Instead of just saying “I’m sorry”, they feel free to pass judgment – not just on how you grieve but that you grieve at all for your friend.

They are usually self-appointed, though at times will hide behind religious vestments to justify their opinions. It’s okay to be hurt and angry. They just won’t understand. Ten people in the same place at the same time will react ten different ways to any event. So it is with grief.

The grief we feel when a friend dies may take us by surprise with its intensity. We may feel guilt or regret or anger. We may feel comfort or torment in our memories. It’s when we want to share those feelings that we run into the Grief Police.

When I first started writing about grieving the death of a friend, the working title of the books was “It’s Not Like They’re Family”. That’s the response a lot of people hear when they tell someone a friend died.

What would you like to hear instead?

How about “I’m so sorry”? I mean a sincere “I’m so sorry” followed by “how can I help?”, rather than by a swift change of subject so everyone can feel happy again.

It’s so easy, isn’t it, to say the wrong thing, intentionally or otherwise? On a good day, I like to think that the Grief Police are well-meaning, but clueless. Most days, though, I just want to smack them.

So consider yourselves warned: you’re liable to meet the Grief Police when you share the news of a friend’s death.

I’ll share some thoughts on what to say in response and how to avoid joining the Grief Police in my next post. Feel free to add your own in the comments below.

"Body Counts" by Sean Strub

I’m not a fan of memoirs. I find a lot of them to be self-serving justifications for past behavior, spinning a fictional tale that presents the narrator as either a victim or hero. And while AIDS is an issue I’ve been involved with since the 80s, Sean Strub’s Body Counts was not a book I was excited about reading.

Strub changed my mind on page 2, when he mentioned that a mutual friend, Jamie Leo, dressed as a priest at ACT UP’s controversial 1989 St. Patricks’ Cathedral demonstration. My mind flashed back to a Halloween party Jamie and I had attended in the mid-70s, and I now found myself connected to Strub’s story in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

Body Counts is the not the story of a victim or even a hero. It’s the story of a man at a unique time and place, a man with personal demons and challenges he used to fuel a quite remarkable life.

A native of Iowa City (where I went to college), Strub’s interest in politics takes him to Washington in the late 70s, a good time for liberals. His growing awareness of being gay – and the ways his early, as yet unacknowledged, sexual abuse play out – occurs in a gay community still largely closeted. That immersion in politics led him to a career in direct mail fundraising for gay issues. His move to New York coincided with the discovery of a new, strange, and frightening virus that targeted gay men.

Not all of us involved in fundraising for AIDS organizations in the 80s wound up as activists, but Strub did, bringing those talents and contacts to ACT UP. But it wasn’t until the death of his lover, Michael that Strub’s life took an irrevocable turn. That morning at St. Patrick’s was – at least for me – the moment the Catholic boy from Iowa became an activist. From then on, his commitment to the community took on a much deeper meaning. He was fighting for his friends, for Michael, and for himself.

He’s not shy about naming names (though it doesn’t come off as name-dropping), and his anger is well placed: politicians like Bill Clinton who conned the LGBT and AIDS communities, making promises on the campaign trail that translated to indifference, at best, once elected; gay advertisers, who abandoned Strub’s Poz magazine because it was geared to anyone with HIV, not just privileged, white, gay men; Anthony Fauci of the CDC, who time and again declined the opportunity to support people with HIV/AIDS rather than the status quo of government bureaucracy. Too many times – whether it was politicians, religious leaders, even members of the LGBT community – access did not translate to support. And facts did not always sway those in power.

And that’s the strong suit of his book, which should be required reading for anyone who doesn’t remember the first 20 years of the epidemic (and even those of us who do). By starting out in Washington, then moving to New York, just in time for the outbreak of HIV, Strub’s life connects the dots in a unique way I have not seen anywhere else. If at times it feels like he’s a witness to history, he is.

But more importantly for all of us, he’s a participant. He’s an integral part of the history of the AIDS epidemic, especially in New York. And if he insists his reasons were selfish – to create a legacy larger than himself – so be it. His new cause-within-a-cause (HIV criminalization) puts him once again in the position of advocating for people on the margins, even within the AIDS community.

He does not, thankfully, gloss over his own failings. None of them – denial about his own health, assumptions about people in power – are unique to Strub or gay men or anyone who is HIV positive. They’re human failings. By his own admission, he’s luckier than a lot of people, especially when it comes to health and finances. He lived long enough to benefit from the “cocktail” of anti-retroviral drugs that created the “Lazarus Effect”, bringing back thousands from the brink of death to now-health lives.

I was amazed at how many ways our lives brushed up against each other, unknowingly: mutual friends, identical reactions to moments in history, being in the same place at the same time. And once again, I was touched by the acknowledgement of the role of friends in the history of the AIDS epidemic. That always has been the real heart of every story: how friends stepped up and became caregivers, activists and leaders in the fight against bigotry and fear.

Over the years, I’ve read dozens of books about AIDS (wrote one, too). All have left me sad, frustrated and angry. But no book has left me with such a profound sense of gratitude and peace as Body Counts. And that’s a remarkable thing.

Early in the book, Strub shares a letter from activist Vito Russo that encourages him to do something we should all take to heart:

“This is not a dress rehearsal,” he wrote to me in August 1981. “It’s your one and only life, and you have to make it something right now, you do not have all the time in the world, it only seems that way. End of wise comment.”

 

 

 

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.”

 

 

Friend Grief - Guilt vs. Regret

Guilt: responsibility for a crime or for doing something bad or wrong; a bad feeling caused by knowing or thinking that you have done something bad or wrong.

Regret: to mourn the loss or death of; to miss very much; to be very sorry for.

(Definitions courtesy of Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

 

Often when a friend dies, we feel overwhelmed by what might have been. There are good memories to comfort us, stories we can share with other friends. But often – too often – the negative feelings overshadow everything else. And we feel guilty.

Or do we?

There are certainly times when guilt is an accurate response to the news that a friend has died. If you promised to call/visit, and then blew them off because you were tired or got a better offer, than yes, guilt is appropriate. If you consciously avoided them because you “couldn’t handle” seeing them “like that”, then yes, you should feel guilty. If you spent time with them, but refused to let them confide their hopes and fears about dying, demanding that the conversation stay upbeat, then yes, I hope you do feel guilty.

But what most of us feel is not guilt. While the first definition of guilt is related to committing a crime, isn’t it interesting that the first definition of regret is about mourning?

There have been times when I couldn’t visit someone who was sick because I had a cold, and I knew their compromised immune system might not be able to fight it off.

There have been times when family obligations or my own health took precedence over spending time with a sick friend.

There have been times when I realized too late that I never told them I loved them, even though they’d probably protest that they already knew.

There have been times when I just thought we’d have more time. It wasn’t denial. I just expected they’d live long enough to finish a project we were both working on, one I’ll have to finish on my own.

I guess I’m saying that since we’re all imperfect, we will always have regrets. We will be sad when a friend dies and feel that loss very deeply. We’ll do things and go places, and wish they were there with us. That’s regret, and it’s unavoidable.

Guilt, however, is avoidable. Yes, it’s hard to visit a friend who’s dying, hard to see the physical change in them. So what? You can’t handle feeling uncomfortable, even if your presence brings comfort to your friend? Then you’re not much of a friend.

So, your assignment for today is to make a promise to yourself to avoid guilt when it comes to your friends. Don’t make excuses. Don’t wimp out. Be present. Be supportive. Be a good friend.

You’ll still mourn their loss. You’ll still have regrets. But you'll sleep better not feeling guilty.

Anger, Condemnation and Philip Seymour Hoffman

As I work on the next book in my series, Friend Grief and the Military: Band of Friends, I’m immersed in stories of survivor guilt. Men and women are haunted for years about what they see as their failure to prevent the death of their friend, even if their friend died from suicide. Rarely is there a situation where that guilt is logically justified, but that doesn’t stop it from tearing people apart.

Lately, the news is full of the death of actor Philip Seymour Hoffman from an apparent heroin overdose. I’ve heard very little from his friends in terms of survivor guilt. What I have heard should disturb us all.

“He didn’t love his kids enough to stop using.”

“Celebrities think nothing can happen to them.”

“He was weak.”

“He was stupid.”

“He threw away his career.”

And those are the ones I don’t have to bleep out.

It’s not uncommon for those left behind to feel and express anger at the person who died, blaming them for their own death. And sadly, that blame is all too common when it comes to people who are addicts, because of the destruction they leave behind.

 A doctor once told me you can become addicted to anything: food, Sudoku, cocaine, gin, caffeine, gambling, sex, video games. A remarkable piece in the NY Times by a man addicted to money was a real eye-opener for a lot of people. Science is making great strides in identifying genetic predispositions that can explain addictive behavior.

There are options for those who have the strength (and sometimes, the money) to commit to fighting addiction: therapy, 12-step programs, in-patient treatment centers. But public opinion is slow to catch up.

Those who are not addicts, especially those who are not close to someone who is, have no idea what it’s like to live with those demons. And yet, they feel smugly self-righteous in criticizing them for behavior that is less than perfect. It’s important that they feel superior to the person who died from what they perceive as a weakness, a character flaw they themselves do not possess. As far as I’m concerned, they have bigger character flaws, but I digress.

I’m writing this from New York, where Hoffman lived and died. He had many friends here, who are reeling from the news that 23 years of being clean and sober did not prevent what happened last week. They’ve lost someone they loved, someone who made a difference in their lives. As is often the case with celebrities, their closest friends are keeping their grief to themselves. That doesn’t mean they might not be angry, too, but they’re not shouting it to the world.

Imagine, though, that you are one of those friends. Maybe you worked with him, maybe you lived in his neighborhood or knew his family. Maybe your kids know his kids. Read those comments I listed above – the self-righteous indignation - and tell me how you feel.

Are members of the public – who only knew him from a distance – justified in condemning him on every social media platform?

Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, even if it’s offensive to others. But think about how you’d feel if you were one of Hoffman’s grieving friends, reading the condemnations that fill the internet.

And then, keep your mouth shut.

Because there, but for the grace of God…

Random Thoughts on Friend Grief

Last week, there was a horrific crash on I-94 near Michigan City, Indiana. Four dozen vehicles – including 18 semis – were involved in the accident caused by icy roads and whiteout conditions. Three people died.


A story that came out today was about one of those who died. His family was notified by someone at the coroner’s office who recognized him when the body was delivered.

Now and then we hear stories of first responders who arrive at the scene of a tragedy, only to find that they know a victim. This was someone who wasn’t there, but I imagine the shock of recognition was just as great.

As I research the next book on the military, I hear stories about troops whose friends die in front of them – during battle or on the way to medical help.

I don’t want to designate a hierarchy of grief. Everyone who experiences the death of a friend grieves in their own way, often deeply. But seeing your friend die – or seeing their body soon after – must surely be a special kind of hell.

I thought I was prepared when a friend of mine died this week. He was older – 89 – and had lived an amazing, full life. He was not afraid of death.

When he died on Wednesday, I was much less prepared than I expected. Oh, I knew I’d grieve, probably cry. But the depth of the grief has taken me by surprise. I’ll write more about him here, but not now; maybe not for a long time.

What I’m not going to do is try to ignore it, “get over it” so I can feel better. I’ve learned – as you probably have, too – that ignoring grief just means it will come back and bite you in the butt later.

It’s all right to be sad when your friend dies. Don’t listen to the people who dismiss your grief as unimportant. If you didn’t love your friend, you wouldn’t feel the loss so deeply.

And that’s okay.

 

 

 

Update on Friend Grief and AIDS

One of the benefits of self-publishing is the ability to revise your books at your discretion.

The second book in my series, Friend Grief and AIDS: Thirty Years of Burying Our Friends, has been well-received. It recently earned a 5-star review on Readers Favorites and continues to generate impassioned – and positive – reviews on other sites.

When I wrote it a year ago, the statistics and resources in the back of the book were current. Time for an update.

Around March 1, I will re-release Friend Grief and AIDS with:

• Updated statistics on HIV and AIDS around the world
• Additional books and films for those who are interested
• More links to organizations devoted to education, prevention, treatment and advocacy

If you have already purchased a copy, or plan to purchase one before then, thank you! I will post that updated information as a free pdf on the Resources page here in early March. That way those of you with the original book can see what’s new.

An added note: that new version is a reward for a Kickstarter campaign happening right now. The Last One is a documentary about the AIDS Quilt:

Stigma isn’t silent. Whether it’s spoken at the pulpit or spoken under one’s breath, in political rhetoric or private conversation, it is loud. It is insidious. It is lethal.

In The Last One: The Story of the AIDS Memorial Quilt, we follow the AIDS Memorial Quilt from inception to the present day to uncover how stigma has fueled the growth of the greatest pandemic in human history.

So, that’s what’s going on right now with Friend Grief and AIDS. If you haven’t read it yet, I hope you will – either now or when the updated version is released. Whether you remember the dark, early days of the epidemic or not, I think you’ll find the stories in the book both disturbing and inspiring.