I'm Not Good At This.

"I hate to see them like that."
"I'm just not good with this sort of thing."

We've all said it, or felt it.

I'm here to tell you - that's total bullshit.

Before you get offended, or even if you want to stay offended - hear me out.

How you feel, when someone is sick or passing away? It doesn't matter. This isn't about you. It isn't about how you feel, how you want to remember someone, how you want to excuse it.

Before I go any further, let me tell you - you can do whatever you want. You are entitled to your opinion. And I won't actually fault you when you do whatever it is you feel is best for you.

But let me remind you of the childhood lesson I know we have all been taught. The universe doesn't revolve around you. And someone's disease or death? It's not the exception. You don't get to make this about you. It's about that person. It's about their loved ones. It's about their friends and family who have gathered around their bedside.

There is nothing that anyone can say to make me feel differently about this. And I'm not even saying that you're wrong you may not want to see someone like that. But guess what - no one does. I didn't wake up this morning and beg baby Jesus for the chance to stare death in its face. I wasn't wondering if I could be so lucky as to hold my Grandmother's hand while she died. I wasn't hoping to win the lottery and be seated next to my Father when he died. But guess what - I did it.

And no one is good at death. Literally no one. I've seen it, felt it, heard it (and that's the worst sound you'll ever hear in your lifetime, trust me) and experienced it firsthand and secondhand with others I care for and about and love. And it's never easy. I'm not good at death. I'm familiar with it. Practice does make perfect, after all.

But all of this just means I set aside my feelings about death, about staring your own mortality in the face, about how we want to remember someone and I did a human thing: I merely existed in the same space at the same time as them.

This doesn't make me better. This makes me a little more blessed than you. Because I realize that death isn't something to fear. Death isn't always only sad. Death brings people together. Death reminds us of stories to share with those that we care about before we aren't able to any longer. The end of someone's life can be filled with peace and caring. Even when it's terrible. Even when it's the worst thing you've ever done in your entire existence? It's beautiful. To be able to know you were there for someone. That you were able to set aside your feelings for yourself and your own well being and you were able to ease someone's transition. And so that - that makes me feel blessed. Not better.

I'm not even sure what makes me so filled with the need to tell anyone this. Other than I have been there. I've been the person who watched my father not have many visitors he would have loved to see because they didn't want to see a big strong man reduced to being confined to a hospital bed in his family room. What they don't know is that they missed out on words of wisdom, funny stories, late night fridge raids. Simply put: you're the one who has to live with the regret on what you missed out on. You missed the stolen moments of laughter. Because you can't set aside your own feelings of yourself. Those moments are going to happen whether you're there or not.

Breaking it down I feel like saying "I don't want to see someone like that" is as selfish as it gets. Is it because you're afraid you'll realize that you will die too? Is it because you don't know that you're missing out on other parts of life? Is it because you just don't know what else to say?

"I'm not good at this." No one is. I said it before and I'll say it until the day I die. Hopefully, some of you will come visit me. No matter if I still have my full head of hair and it's dyed like a unicorn mane still or not. No one is ever going to be good at death. Some of us are just better at not worrying about how it will affect us. And those people are the ones who will pass peacefully, perhaps. Because we know that death isn't terrifying. We know that it's merely a moment in time. We stop being. And that's it. You're there and then you're not. Not nearly as frightening as you think. But you know what makes all of the time between being there and not worthwhile? It's our friends and our families. And hopefully they're there for you, when able, when your time comes. Because that's what death is about. It's about the end of the life you've lived. And how sad to think people's own fear is what may deny you remembering those moments.

There's more to someone's death than the  moment they stop breathing. You're not there for just that. You're there to be a sense of comfort to those around them. To remind them that their loved one was loved by other people. To let them know that you'll be there when that person's clock stops ticking. And it's lonely when the silence sets in. And you remember all the people who where there in the past, all the people that your loved one helped in their lifetime. And how some of them can't be there because: I don't want to see them like that.

Again, it's your prerogative. And I still love each and every one of you who has used this line. Because we all have. Either out loud or to ourselves when we didn't go somewhere we didn't want to. But next time, boil it down to what it really is. Say this out loud: I don't want to come see them. Take your feelings out of it - because this isn't about you. And if you can say that, out loud, to yourself and to their family - then don't go. If it's just because you're worried that it will be sad? You're right. It will.

It will be sad.
It will rip your heart out.
It will make you not sleep, at times.
Those last moments will invade your dreams.
You'll find yourself unable to breathe, sometimes.
You will wish you never saw some of the things you did.
You'll feel nauseous.
You'll wish it would have gone differently, maybe.

But you'll never regret being there for someone. And all their someones. That I can promise you.

I'll Save You A Seat.

There's a certain responsibility that comes with being an alumni of the "Dead Parent (or person, they aren't always a parent, but we'll use Dead Parent as mine is a Dead Parent)" club. No one tells you about it, in the beginning. They probably don't want to scare you off. Or they're still deciding on a logo for Dead Parent Club. Maybe the Board of Directors is just slow.

But one day, you'll find yourself as the Dead Parent Mentor. It isn't a glamorous position. It isn't something that they write a manual about - but they should. It doesn't even pay well. At least not in cash currency. It's just that. Dead. Parent. Mentor.

Don't worry, there are perks. You can share terrible "My Mom" or "Dead Dad" jokes. Don't make that face at me. Until you've made the "Sorry your Dad calls you too much, mine doesn't get good cell service down there. He's dead." joke? You have no idea how satisfying it can be. And there's that terrible sense of satisfaction that you have in knowing that all the grief you've felt wasn't in vain. You can use your "steps of death" to help another person. (Pro tip: mine is an escalator. Mainly because I am lazy and also because sometimes I run down them and it's hard as hell to escape still going up.)

It's undeniable that sharing your grief with another human being is a bond that is special. It's weird. It's totally indescribable. Sometimes it's beautiful. Sometimes it's exactly what you need. Other times it's like pouring salt in a wound. Only it's a wound you opened yourself. And sometimes it hurts more than the first time. It's not a Bryan Adams song. It cuts like a knife. But it doesn't always feel so good. But then it does. But you can't deny the inevitable heartbreak that follows it. It isn't even for yourself, anymore. It's for that person. Because you know the good days can lull you into a false sense of comfort. And that there's a bad day up ahead. But you don't say that. Because that would make you a dick. And because you care. More than you should. Because you know. There's a dull ache in your heart. One that you can't touch. Because you know that, two years later - where you are now - they'll still have those moments where you're driving in your car. And it suddenly hits you. That they're gone. They're still gone. And you wonder how you could have ever forgotten it. And then you start to question if it's too soon to forget for a whole day and feel happy. Is that okay? Is that allowed? And why isn't there a damn manual? You'll still wonder, two years later - where is that manual? Why didn't someone write it for me?

Grief strips you down. It leaves you bare. And it didn't even attempt to buy you dinner first. So reliving it, even years later, makes you feel cold. It makes goosebumps form on your skin. Just like when you strip down. But it also shows you the true colors of people. Of those you care about. Of those you thought cared for you. Your friends. Your family. But mainly yourself. You think that grief is about how you feel for another person. About how much you loved that person. But grief also teaches you just who you are, as a human. It shows you if you can make it. And you can. And you will. And you'll pick up people along the way - those who understand you, who care, those who can literally feel your pain. And those people are the ones who two years down the road won't forget you. They won't forget that you have grief. They'll check in on you. They'll share a terrible Dead Dad joke with you. And they'll laugh, even if they think: what is wrong with her? Some people forget, after a few weeks. After months. Definitely by the time a year has hit. They'll forget. But you can't blame them. They don't feel the grief. Not the way your fellow members of the Dead Parent club do.

I remember, when my father died, someone reading a long letter from someone welcoming my mother to the widow club. I was appalled. I was almost offended. If I had feelings, that is. But now I get it. It's true. Grief pushes people away. Grief makes some people vanish. But it also makes you a part of a club of those who understand. (And no, they don't all have to be part of the dead parent club, we call those people allies.)

I've broken down the way Dead Parent club works. It's like the movie Mean Girls. There's clearly divided sections, segregated by tables. There are those who sit at the Angry Table. They're angry. They don't understand how people can still be alive when their loved one was the most amazing and clearly the biggest loss to the world. They gravitate towards people who are angry. Because there's power in numbers. That power is loud. It's fierce. And it is mad.

Then there's the sad table. They still tear up, years later, at the mention of Mother's Day. These people are kind and soft and calm. They say things like: it gets easier. While wiping their own tears away. They will be the ones you call when you need a shoulder to literally cry on.

There's the oblivious ones. They act as if nothing has happened. People wonder how and why they're so strong. Where do they find the power to get through the day? Because they are still ignoring it. There are three things that don't go away: a toothache, pregnancy, and a dead loved one. People don't stay at this table forever, it's a transitioning table. They move to either angry, sad, or inappropriate table quickly.

Which leads me to my table: the inappropriate table. I sit at the head of it. We make bad jokes, we often make others feel uncomfortable. But mainly: we don't worry about steps. We don't worry about the normal stages of grief. And we rarely worry about being politically correct. If you know me and you become a part of this table? You know you'll receive terrible pictures of pigs on a spit being cremated. Probably the day before your loved one's funeral. You know I'll send you a picture of my Dad's urn, on my desk at work - right after I pulled him out and told someone "Don't speak to me like that in front of my Dad." We also won't be politically correct when you ask us how things are, or how they will be. We'll tell you: things suck. They will suck. But you'll get through it.

Being a member of the Dead Parent Club isn't going to make you famous. It isn't going to make you look amazing at parties. But it will make you realize that you aren't alone. Even when you feel alone. It will hurt when someone you know goes through the same situation. You'll find yourself driving around the block a few extra times on a night that you've gotten bad news about a friend, knowing his family will experience what you did. And all you know how to do for the moment is turn up the radio, sing loudly, and dance it out while driving around the block for 15 minutes after you should be home.

And then you come inside, and you sit down at the table. You make an inappropriate joke. And you're home. For better or for worse? That's your table. It's a fun table to sit at, if you have to choose a table. And if you do? You can come sit at my table. I'll save you a spot. Because as much as you think that being a mentor is a thankless job? The people who sit at your table may just be mentoring you, too. So don't take their lunch money. They're here to help. Even if you didn't know you needed
it.

And on Wednesdays - we wear black. Like my Dad's soul. Because you know. He's dead. And soot-y, now.