Here’s what I’ve learned about grief: There’s no measurement.
The loss of a mother, father, sister, brother (or all of the above), the loss of a husband, wife, lover, boyfriend, girlfriend or life partner, the loss of a best friend, dear friend or close friend, the loss of a mentor, teacher, Mentors, inspirers…who should be measured? Who can say how deeply these losses may or may not break our hearts?
There are no rules.
Losing a happy, loving relationship may be easier to survive than losing a troubled relationship.
Years after the husband has remarried and started a family, the lover may be overwhelmed with grief.
Close friends may feel the same sense of loss and grief as their best friends.
When a person dies, they may have had 10, 100, 1,000 friends, or even more friends. When Judy Garland died, many in the gay community mourned her death, which was one of the reasons the Stonewall riots and the gay rights movement began.
First of all, when you lose someone, friend, distant or otherwise, you get a flood of messages and cards saying “this too shall pass” and “you are strong; you will be strong”. You will get through this. Judaism gives you a week to “sit Shiva.” You cover the mirror. (Who wants to see such a sad face?!) You wear slippers. People bring you casseroles. You expect to spend a whole week crying.
Two, maybe three weeks later, no one asked, “How are you feeling?” No more cards came in the mail. There are no more “May her memory be a blessing” messages on Facebook. Some friends avoid you for months, saying they “want to give you time to grieve.”
The overwhelming message feels like: “It’s time! Move on! Be happy!”
No one is comfortable with grief.
Two weeks after I lost my mother, my then-girlfriend decided to break up with me. She said she loved me (is that love?), but she preferred the happy, funny, cheerful Rosie she met to this sad, brooding, blond mess.
I love not being with her anymore.
Although people like to set limits, grief has no time limit.
Thirty-three years ago, I lost my mother, Harriet. The love of a Jewish mother is suffocating, yes, but it is also like a vast ocean, full of endless warmth. I wish I could swim in that ocean one more time.
“Get over it; she’s just a friend.
I still mourn the loss of my mentor and friend Catherine Hopper, who died fifty years ago. I was only eight years old when Catherine died. I can still smell the foundation she slapped onto her face with abandon.
Some people feel they are in a sad competition. They trivialize your sadness by talking about their own (far above) sadness. What is this, the Sad Olympics? What is a medal, a lifetime supply of tissues?
2022 is the year of my death. I may always think so. I lost my dear friend Catherine, my best friend growing up Suzy, my friend and co-worker BB, and my sister Yaya. I thought I was done with death after 2022, but the following Halloween I lost my brother Mendel.
I would like to say that I took the time to mourn each loss and move on before the next one came, but it felt more like standing in the ocean being pushed over by a wave. Every time I surfaced for air, I was pushed down by another person.
Most would agree that the loss of my sister and brother was my most painful moment. Losing Susie bothered me even more. She’s the one I’m most likely to talk to about losing my sister and brother. She has known them since we were kids.
At the age of fifty-nine, I found myself the last surviving member of my family. My mother once called herself “the last of the Mohicans.” The 46-year-old was the last surviving member of her family. My mother and I have one more thing in common. This is not a baton I want to carry.
For eighteen years, BB was someone I could rely on professionally. If I wanted to call in sick (which I rarely did), that was okay because BB would be there. I think of us riding in the van to events together, like growth rings on a tree. I can trace my life and our friendship through the depth of our van chats. The first time we rode together we talked about lemon, lime and rosemary focaccia. Our last ride together, we talked about heartbreak and love.
My relationship with my brother Mendel was fraught with problems, troubles, and the hypocrisy that often accompanies extreme religion. In some ways, his passing was the most painful. I mourn the brother I never had as much as the brother I once had.
I watched a movie on a JetBlue flight and the main character was crying. When his son asked him why he was crying, he said, “Because I was a brother.” Not only did he lose his sibling, he also lost his identity as a brother.
I also started crying, which made the exhausted woman sitting next to me uncomfortable. I was a sister. I was a daughter once.
Of all the words intended to support and comfort me over the past few years, the one that made me feel the most loved was when my partner Lyla decided to start each morning over the weeks and months after Say: “Good morning, my dear. I love you. How is your heart?
All was quiet, but not my morning message: How is your heart?
Today, when friends suffer a traumatic loss, I offer love, but more importantly, a month or months later, when society no longer allows them to continue to grieve, I ask them, “What’s going on with your heart?” Sample?
Life is hard. We like to say the opposite because only Debbie Downers is walking around saying things like “life is hard.” But let’s face it: life is hard.
We want our lives to be filled with love. Isn’t the most beautiful thing in life love? But the price of love is loss.
I love the inside pockets, always have them. Secret little place to store keys, tissues, lipstick and $20 bill.
My heart has inner pockets. I took my mother there. She wants to take over my whole heart, but I ask her to make room for Yaya, Mendel, Suzy, Kathryn, BB and Catherine Hopper and her foundation.
People often talk about the five stages of grief. I told these five stages to screw it up! No two people are the same. No two losses are the same. My grief is different from other griefs.
My sister Yaya has maintained her childlike innocence throughout her life. She likes to add an “S” in front of words that begin with an “N”. This is one of those cute yaya-isms I miss the most.
In the face of deep loss, I heard her voice. “not too good.”
In some ways, Yaya is the smartest person I know.
That’s right, Yaya. not too good.
About Rossi
The author of Rosie is The Jewish Queen of Punk Rock: A Memoir (SheWriting Press, April 23, 2024), and Angry Frying Pan: The Real Life Story of Chef Rosie (Feminist Press). She has published articles in the following media: “Daily News”, “New York Post”, “Time Out New York”and McSweeney’s. She served as a food writer for the “Eat Me” column broken to pieces The magazine has been published since 1998. www.theragingkillet.com.
