“How are you doing, girlfriend?”

“How are you doing, girlfriend?”

That’s the question posed by my PA at today’s checkup. Coming from her, I know the question stems from genuine care and concern. She didn’t need to ask the “Are you having any pain today” question; she knows precisely the pain I’m having. We visited for a few minutes at the start of the appointment. She asked about this blog, talked about her own reaction to a devastating loss in her family, then said, “Things have changed so much.”

She could’ve meant the makeup of the family has changed or the dynamic of the family has changed. Both are surely true. What she really meant, though, was how we face grief in our culture has changed. Her family’s loss of an infant, our loss to suicide, and in many ways, death in general, were not approved topics in the not-so-distant past. Some losses were considered taboo; the grief–the pain, the sadness, the loneliness, the reality–needed to be dealt with quickly and privately, then packed away. Neat, tidy, and done; now, get on with it.

For all the progress we’ve made, in some circles, nothing has changed. This is, after all, highly unpleasant business. It’s messy and off-putting. It’s not for the wussies of the world. Grief makes people uncomfortable. It makes everyone uncomfortable. Some run from grief, some face it and fight it, and some allow it to fall into step alongside us. We all deal in our own way. I don’t think there’s one right answer; there’s only a situational, personal right answer.

My personal right answer is to share. Many days lately, I surprise myself. I’m fairly private, especially about the big stuff. Except now, when it’s the biggest stuff of all, here I am, putting it out there for everyone to see. Are there things I’ll never share? Absolutely. Cooper deserves that respect. I never want to dishonor or shame him–his life or his memory.

The thing is, Cooper also deserved more than was available in the last months of his life. He deserved stigma-free access to mental health care. He deserved to know what was happening in his mind was just as real, just as valid, just as deadly, as if it ended in -oma. As smart as he was, I don’t think he believed that truth. We as a family and as a culture are accustomed to fixing things ourselves, but what ended up killing Cooper wasn’t something he could power through.

He deserved more. We all deserve more. More openness, more acceptance, more patience, and more understanding. Toward that end, I dance along the fine line–the line that separates sharing and oversharing, awareness and humiliation, privacy and necessity, normalization and invasion. That fine line, in grief and in life, is squiggly. As far as lines go, it fails the linear part of being a line.

So, I share. I share what I can of Cooper’s tortured time, and I share what it’s like living in a world he left. Sharing is tricky for me; I’m not always comfortable having my life laid bare, but I’m also not comfortable floundering in grief. Would I have read or listened if, before August 24th, someone had tried to share with me their grief experience? Honestly, I don’t know.

What I do know now, after August 24th, is I need to share and I need others to share. How else do we navigate these awful times? I have said countless times that, of all the people who have helped keep me going since Cooper’s death, those who have been able to share their own experiences with grief have helped the most. Many others can relate to what I’m living, but not everyone can share. That’s their right–to share or not to share.

There are a few, though, who have taken a risk, opened their hearts, and walked alongside me. Some message me, responding to a post, sharing their own story of loss. Some sit beside me on a bench, both of us looking down, speaking in low tones of family secrets that don’t need to be secrets. Secrets that bond us. Some who have been in or near similar situations share that timelines are myths, tears never run dry, and healing continues every day. Others say, “I remember–she did this same thing at about seven or eight months. Here’s what helped her.” Because of these grief sharers, I don’t always feel I’m overreacting or losing my mind. I also know I’m not alone in my reactions.

Grief is lonely, confusing, alienating. Grief is also common. Sharing links us, weaves us together into a strong fabric that can comfort and warm us but also catch us if we fall. Sharing saves us.

“How are you doing, girlfriend?” Grab that grief quilt and settle in; I’ll tell you how I’m doing.