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So, why don't we talk about grief?

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Sheryl Sandberg, COO of Facebook, author, and activist, lost her husband, Dave Goldberg, a month ago. It was sudden and accidental. According to the BBC, they were on holiday together in Mexico, when Dave, the CEO of SurveyMonkey, fell off the treadmill he was on and suffered a severe head trauma.

Now, a month later, Sheryl has posted a moving tribute to her husband on her Facebook page after a month of religious mourning. And it’s heartbreaking.

I was moved to tears by the end of the second paragraph. It’s not just because I have experienced loss and I understand her pain, or that I know how deeply sad she must be. But it’s because it’s something we don’t talk about enough.

We all experience loss at some point or other, but, strangely, it’s something we shove under the rug because grief has no place out here in the open. It must be shooed away and dealt with privately. Which is probably why it’s always so damn difficult to talk to the recently bereaved about their loss.

Which is something Sheryl addresses in her tribute. She says (and I agree) that while “...grief is profoundly personal”, hearing stories and sharing the experiences and wisdom of friends and even complete strangers who spoke about their troubles publicly helped her a lot. So her writing about the way she feels now that her husband is gone is her way of paying that forward “in the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.”

It’s funny how tragedy makes you feel so much older, wiser, and yet, somehow, lesser. A part of you gets taken away, but you’re left with something more. You get baggage. You get a sort of macabre wisdom about love, loss and everything else. And it feels like nothing will ever be okay again, even if everyone keeps telling you it will be. Sheryl makes a great point when she talks about a friend of hers who taught her that “real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not.”

Because it’s not okay. It will never be okay. It’s a terrible, horrible, awful, shitty thing that has happened and it’s not fair and you want to cry, and scream, and shout, and throw things because you’re so sad and angry and... and... And all you want is for everything to be okay again like it was before this all happened. You just want this person to come back and talk to you like they always did, or laugh at your jokes, or even just sit on the couch. But they can’t because they’re gone now. They’re not coming back. They’ve left and now you need to find somehow to wade through the sea of I’m Really Not Fucking Okay and get back to the shore of I Can Get Up In The Morning Without Wanting To Bawl My Eyes Out.

It’s hard, though. It’s one of the hardest things you will ever do in life; dealing with the loss of a loved one. And it will be different every time.

I was 16 when my father died. He drowned after saving my life. I was in the water when the tide changed very quickly, and my father, without hesitation, jumped into the ocean to save me. He was pulled in by the tide and, even though he clung onto a rock literally for dear life and there were two men trying to help him, he eventually let go and was swept into the waves. I will never forget my mother’s cries as the paramedic on the beach announced time of death.

Even writing this now is bringing me to tears. I have a frog in my throat and my stomach is in knots. Even though I have accepted that my father is gone, and that it wasn’t my fault, it still hurts very much. So much that I thought I would never feel this kind of pain again, or that, if I did, I would know how to deal with it. I was wrong.

Last year, hardly a year after my mother had remarried, my stepfather committed suicide. We found his body in our backyard. It was the most awful experience of my life, and I still have (and probably always will have) PTSD from the experience.

Having to go through another death, another father figure gone, another tragedy for my mother to deal with felt like it nearly broke me. More counselling. More tears. More sadness and grief. Plus, the added trauma of the nightmares and a sudden fear of the dark that was so overwhelming, I almost always started to cry when the lights went out.

No one knew how to help me. No one knew how to deal with me dealing with it. My friends and colleagues tried to be as nice as possible; catching my eye as we were both making tea in the kitchen and trying to find words to put together. “Hi Carmen!” They were always either overly excited or spoke in an awkwardly high tone of voice. It was very funny a lot of the time. “Uh, I’m sorry about your loss. Uh, how’s your mom?” and then would nod solemnly as I repeated the same story I had to the five other people who asked me that day. Which obviously isn’t their fault. I mean, how do you deal with someone else’s loss?

But the thing that really did help, and seems to have helped Sheryl too, is when people make the effort to let you know that they’re thinking of you, and acknowledge your pain, but don’t feel the need to push you to talk.

Support isn’t just talking to someone when they’re sad. It’s also knowing when not to. It’s knowing when to leave them alone for days or weeks at a time, and when to break out the wine, chocolate, and tissues. And it’s knowing to ask. Ask what they need help with, or if they want you to go away, or if they just want to sit quietly, or if they want you to make the decisions because they just can’t anymore. Sometimes it’s also sitting this person down somewhere and handing them a plate of food and a cup of tea – and if they start to cry, it’s okay. The food wasn’t that terrible. It’s just that everything is so overwhelming that they don’t know what else to do, which is completely normal.

The most important thing I have learned from my loss is appreciation, because even when you acknowledge what you have, you never think you’re going to lose it. So, in my own small little way, I say thank you for who I have in my life. I may not do it every day, or even often enough, but I do sometimes stop and smile to myself and feel really glad that I have some really amazing people who are still willing to be in my life even when I’m a complete mess.

Remember, if you’re going through a really dark time, even if it’s not because you’re mourning a loved one, it’s okay not to be okay. Just remember to talk to someone so you don’t feel so alone.

Read Sheryl's entire tribute:

Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense...

Posted by Sheryl Sandberg on Wednesday, 3 June 2015

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