When a loved one passes, the biggest fear is that they will be forgotten.  It is a universal understanding within the grief community of how important it is to say their name, to recognize their special days and to be present for such. I know first-hand the comfort I feel when someone shares with me a picture or a story of Zane. I do this for my grieving friends. Never to stop. And yet…

I have been perplexed by something that was missing, something I should have done that I couldn’t put my finger on. And then it hit me. I did not reach out to a friend to let her know I was thinking about her on her sons ‘angelversary’. So, this note, is my heart reaching out to her, an apology that my actions do not reflect my feelings. And I promise to change that.

Dearest “pen pal”

Where does the time go? I was five months into my grief journey, when your son passed. We didn’t know each other.  I received a phone call from your niece, telling me that you had just lost your son and could she give you, my number.  I said yes. I am so grateful that I did. You became my first friend to travel the unthinkable.

You didn’t live in my town. Ours was a modern-day pen pal relationship. Only deeper. Two mothers, struggling with their new horrific reality. We had a lot in common, learning to live without their daily presence at home, taking care of the dog that they loved, having to be strong for their sister who was inconsolable. Through email we shared our pain, our daily struggles of how to continue breathing, how to take one step and put it in front of the other.

My heart hugged every email, ‘how are you feeling today?’, it was ok for you to ask that. You already knew.  I didn’t have to answer. I’d walk my dog, in my park, you would do the same with your dog, hundreds of miles away. Yet, in those early, dark days, I felt closer to you than many of those who walked beside me. Funny how a bond between two mothers sharing the same fate, become fast friends. Distance was irrelevant.

With you, the mask was off. The support was felt. The ability to be allies, miles apart, sharing the impossible task of keeping it together for everyone else, we gave each other room to say “I can’t do it” knowing we would do it. There was no judgement. Only empathy.

I thought of that late one night, and wondered when the last time was, I emailed you directly to check in. I ‘see’ you on social media, but I haven’t asked, “how is your grief?” And then it hit me. January was your month. The month you lost your son. And I started to cry. For you. For him. 

I had broken the cardinal rule.  When had I stopped communicating with you directly.  My sweet friend, this is a note to apologize for not being present. For remembering you but not reaching out to you. For not calling you on those anniversaries that we should commensurate together. I carry you within my heart and promise I am always nearby in thought and with love.  I will connect. ~J

Friendships are vital. There is a myriad of excuses as to how we can ignore these important relationships including our own pain immobilizing us. I believe that part of healing is found in the connections with those that walk the path with us; fellow grief warriors that understand and give you space to grieve, those are special. Those friends are the accessory to hope and another voice that speaks our loved one’s name.