Sometimes the pain is too much to feel—and that’s okay, too.

 

I’m in a quandary.

Jane is weeping hard, her head pressed to my chest.

She sobs.

I hold her, and she holds me. 

Tightly.

Jane’s crying over the death of someone named Anne—but I’m pretty certain she’s not crying about the same Anne to whom I was referring when I texted, “Anne died.”

The quandary is this: I’m not sure if I should interrupt her with, “Um, awkward, but I think you’re crying for a different Anne. It’s Anne Z. who died. I don’t know which Anne you’re thinking about.”

I don’t.

I figure I’ll hold her until she’s done crying, and we’ll laugh about the situation later.

 

 

=*=

 

 

How it happened:

On Saturday, before Jane got out of bed, I woke up, went downstairs, and ran my version of a Saturday Service. (You should come—it’s a powerful, lovely community of people practicing being patient, compassionate, and kind in real time.)

 

Toward the end of this particular gathering/discussion about HOPE, I suggested we each text a note of gratitude to someone random in our phone’s contacts—to test our hypothesis that gratitude can buoy hope. (Spoiler alert: it can—and does.)

 

However, when I looked at my phone, I saw I had an unread message from Anne’s mom:

> Anne died this past week. I don’t have much information. And I’m very sorry to have to tell you. Thank you for being her friend.

In shock, thinking/assuming I’d read something wrong, I continued on with the gratitude assignment.

 

The service closed with my singing the wisdom of Nachman of Breslov:

         > All the world is a very narrow bridge. What’s key is not to add to the fear.

 

 

About twenty minutes later—after the service ended—Jane texts: “Good morning. I’m awake.”

 

As her sleep had been rough all week, I reply, delighted, “Good job!”

Then I text: “Sad news—Anne died.”

 

Jane comes downstairs, eyes wide and wet, and collapses into me, crying:

“Oh, Brian, I’m so sorry,” she says.

I hold her, confused about which Anne she’s thinking of.

 

 

=*=

 

 

I had known the Anne who died—Anne Z.—much more intimately than Jane did.

I performed her wedding, her sister’s wedding, and her father’s funeral.

And, since early 2022, nearly every Tuesday at 10:30 a.m., she and I had a 20–30 minute phone call.

 

We’d been doing spiritual direction together for a long time.

 

 

=*=

 

 

But that I’m not feeling that upset—not like Jane is—alerts me to another possibility.

 

I’m numb.

I’m dissociating.

 

 

=*=

 

 

It turns out Jane was crying for the right person.

Me—just numb.

 

 

=*=

 

 

I teach people the five stages of grief:

> Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

 

I’m so deep in denial, I don’t—can’t—feel anything.

 

I know I will.

Just not yet.

 

And I’m OK with that.

Jane, a therapist who specializes in loss, says, “Grief is idiosyncratic.”

There’s no one correct way to mourn.

 

 

=*=

 

 

I wish you had known her—the Anne beneath the sometimes difficult-to-love choices she made over and over again.

I wish you could have loved her as I did—as is.

I wish you could have had, like I did, long, drawn-out conversations with her about the welfare of her stuffed animals or what type of vape pen she should buy.

I wish you had known her so I wouldn’t feel as alone with the grief that’s been arising as the shock wears off.

I wish you had known her so I wouldn’t feel so alone with my memories.

Grief seeks witnesses.

Jane was one, and I thank you for being one, too.