There has been a change in the past two weeks, a change for the better. I am emerging from another layer of grief. To those who don't understand grief, and to those who advised me to get on antidepressants, and to those who wanted me to hurry up and get happy, hurry up and get over it, let me say that this is the only way I can possibly emerge. Shortcuts are not an option, neither are antidepressants, because anything that presses the "pause" button on the organic process of grief is simply a postponement. I don't want to jump out of this into a place where I am not feeling my feelings, and then have to go back into this grief sometime in the future. Like it or not, I have to crawl my way over every rock and crevice, dragging my belly and absorbing minerals and rainwater along the way.
An alchemical combination of people and processes have worked like magic together, invisibly, to bring me to this new level of...dare I say acceptance...with Corey's sudden passing. First, my determination to blaze through this with a fully open heart, coupled with the phenomenal help of loving friends and family. You guys! You women! You kids! You know who you are. 

For reasons I cannot explain, I need to go through this most intimate territory in a very public way, with you holding my hand, with you praying for me, with you letting me say how hard it is, with you allowing the tears to fall and not interrupting me or asking me to stop, as my wise and wonderful son did for me when he sat with me this past week. As each stream of tears falls, another nanogram of the pain is released. The tears themselves are a holy medicine that can be found nowhere else.

My cousin Mark, an experienced counselor, gave me the gift of an observation when I saw him several weeks ago.

"Last time we talked, you said the grieving is so lonely because no one knows what you're going through," he said. "No one else carried her in their womb, no one else breastfed her, no one else taught her her first words and first steps the way you did. No one else had the mother-child connection that you had." Then he paused and looked at me so gently, "but I don't think anyone can know what it is really like for you," he said.

At the time, I did not like hearing those words. But within a day or so, they began to sing a song of comfort. Accepting that this is a supremely lonely place, I can stop wishing that anyone else can know what it is like to be inside this kind of grief. 

Knowing that there is no comfort for the grieving mother, knowing that whenever she hears someone randomly say or write in an email: "Make a wish!" she has only one wish in her heart: I wish I had Corey back.

Knowing and accepting these realities, and being familiar with the concept of Internal Family Systems, I have worked like an Olympic athlete-in-training to find within myself the "person" who could comfort the grieving mother inside me.

I do not tell her to stop crying. I do not tell her to get antidepressants. I do not tell her to hurry up with the grieving. I put my arm softly around her shoulders and say, "I will walk with you. Come: we will go together. I will always be right here, holding you and guiding you. I have a torch and will light the way through the darkness. I am with you always."

I've given a lot of thought to this, so for anyone who is interested, I've created rules of engagement for helping a sad person. (All of the examples of “what not to say” are comments that people--who truly care about me--have said to me.)

How to Help A Sad Person: Rules of Engagement

1. Don’t narrate my condition. This includes saying things like:
    a. It’s going to be hard.
    b. It will always hurt like this.
    c. This was given to you because you can handle it.
    d. You’ll get over it.
    e. You’ll never get over it.
    f. You’ll be stronger when you come out of it.
    g. God has a plan for you.

2. Don’t judge my condition. This includes saying things like:
    a. Enough already: isn’t it time you just get over it and move on?
    b. You are depressed: you should get antidepressants.
    c. You don’t want to wind up like (so-and-so) who lay on the sofa depressed for years.

3. How to Help: Helping is easier than you think. Just take baby steps…with me.
    a. Stay in touch in small ways: a one-line email saying, “I am thinking of you.”
    b. When you see me, just give me a hug. There is no need for words. A hug says everything. Absolutely everything.
    c. Send me a hand-written card, yes, even months later, especially months later, to let me know you are thinking of me.
    d. Invite me to go for a walk, or come to tea, or go to lunch.
    e. Bring by a couple of apples, a little nutritious food, if you think of it. Sometimes I forget to eat.
    f.  Include me when there are get-togethers. Invite me to go with you, with several people, somewhere, anywhere. I don’t need anyone to talk about what is happening with me, I simply need to be included. Let me be part of your togetherness so that my sadness can exist out in the world, wordlessly, amidst the fun and fellowship. That might offer temporary relief.
    g. There is only one thing you can say to help me now. Simply tell me, "You are doing an amazing job.” An amazing job with this process. Grief is hard work, harder than you can imagine, and since you don’t know, cannot possibly know, what I am going through, support me in small ways and acknowledge my work.