There is something nobody really prepares you for after someone dies.
Everyone goes home.
I don't mean that in an angry way.
People have lives.
Jobs.
Children.
Responsibilities.
Their own problems waiting for them.
And when Paul was sick, we were surrounded by some of the most incredible people.
People prayed.
People checked in.
People showed up.
Our family, friends, teammates and community wrapped themselves around us.
When you are walking through something as frightening as cancer, you quickly learn just how good people can be.
And when Paul died, they showed up again.
There were messages.
Flowers.
Cards.
Food.
Hugs.
People standing beside us when there really weren't any words that could make what happened okay.
For those first days, you're almost carried.
And then something happens.
Life starts again.
For everyone else.
But Your Life Doesn't Start Again
That's the strange part.
The funeral ends.
People go back to work.
The messages slow down.
The flowers eventually die.
The food disappears from the refrigerator.
The world returns to normal.
Except your normal doesn't exist anymore.
You're standing in the same house.
Looking at the same things.
Following many of the same routines.
But the person who was woven into every part of that life is gone.
And suddenly there is quiet.
So much quiet.
During illness, there is always something to do.
An appointment.
A medication.
A phone call.
A question.
A decision.
A problem to solve.
Someone needs something from you.
You're scared and exhausted, but you're moving.
Then the person dies.
And all of that stops.
The person you spent so much time trying to keep alive is gone.
And you're left standing there thinking:
What am I supposed to do now?
Nobody gives you instructions for that part.
There Are Two Different Journeys
I've come to believe there are two very different journeys for families dealing with a serious illness.
There is the sickness.
And then there is the death.
They aren't the same.
During sickness, everyone has a common goal.
Hope.
Fight.
Pray.
Get through the next appointment.
Get through the next scan.
Get through today.
There is something to rally around.
But after death?
There isn't a treatment plan for grief.
There isn't a scan that tells you whether you're getting better.
There isn't a doctor saying, "Come back in six weeks and we'll see how you're doing."
You just... live.
You wake up.
You make breakfast.
You get the kids where they need to go.
You answer emails.
You pay bills.
You do laundry.
You smile at people.
You say, "I'm okay."
Sometimes you even mean it.
And sometimes you absolutely don't.
"How Are You Doing?"
People ask this because they care.
I know that.
But it's an incredibly difficult question to answer after someone dies.
How am I doing?
Well...
Do you want the polite answer or the forty-five-minute version?
Because those are two very different conversations.
Most of the time, you say:
"I'm doing okay."
What else are you supposed to say in the middle of the grocery store?
"Actually, I cried in the car ten minutes ago because a song came on, I haven't slept properly, I'm worried about my children, and I still occasionally expect my husband to walk through the door. Anyway, how are you?"
Bit much for the produce aisle.
So you become very good at "I'm okay."
That's another thing grief taught me:
Looking okay and being okay are not always the same thing.
The Hard Days Aren't Always the Days You Expect
People remember the big dates.
The anniversary.
The birthday.
The holidays.
And those days can absolutely be hard.
But sometimes the days that knock you over aren't marked on any calendar.
It's a Tuesday.
Nothing special.
You hear a song.
You find something in a drawer.
Your child says something funny and you instinctively think, I have to tell Paul.
Something breaks in the house and for half a second you think you'll ask him what to do.
You see another family together.
You hear someone complain about their husband leaving his socks on the floor.
And you find yourself thinking:
I'd give anything to trip over those stupid socks again.
Grief is sneaky like that.
It doesn't always knock on the door.
Sometimes it just lets itself in.
Please Don't Be Afraid to Mention Them
One thing people sometimes worry about is saying the name of the person who died.
They're afraid they'll upset you.
They're afraid they'll remind you.
I understand the instinct.
But here's the thing.
You aren't reminding me that Paul died.
I haven't forgotten.
What you might remind me of is how much he lived.
Tell me the story.
Tell me something he said.
Tell my boys something funny their dad did.
Send me the photograph you found on your phone.
Tell me you were thinking about him.
Say his name.
You might make me cry.
That's okay.
Tears aren't always something that needs to be prevented.
Sometimes they're simply love showing up.
And sometimes your story will make me laugh.
Those moments are gifts.
This Is Why Showing Up Matters
I don't say any of this to frighten anyone.
I say it because losing your spouse isn't simply having a really bad day.
For many people, it is one of the most profound disruptions they will ever experience.
You haven't only lost someone you love.
You may have lost the person you woke up beside.
The person you called first.
The person you made decisions with.
The person who knew the ordinary details of your life that nobody else knew.
Your emergency contact.
Your sounding board.
Your future plans.
Your person.
And research tells us that this kind of loss can affect far more than someone's emotions.
Studies have documented what researchers call the “widowhood effect”—an increased risk of death following the loss of a spouse, with the risk particularly elevated during the period immediately following bereavement.
One large analysis found overall mortality was approximately 41% higher during the first six months of widowhood compared with people who were still partnered.
Research has also found increased risks of serious mental-health problems, self-harm and suicide following the death of a spouse, particularly during the earliest period of bereavement.
I don't share those numbers because I want anyone to look at a widow or widower and think they are fragile.
I share them because I want people to understand:
This is why you keep showing up.
The funeral may be over.
The flowers may be gone.
The sympathy cards may have stopped arriving.
But the person left behind is only beginning to understand the permanence of what has happened.
And sometimes that person is incredibly lonely.
Sometimes they're lying in a bed that suddenly feels enormous.
Sometimes they're trying to parent children who are grieving while barely knowing how to carry their own grief.
Sometimes everyone keeps telling them how strong they are when what they really want is for someone to sit beside them and say:
“You don't have to be strong with me.”
And for some people, grief and isolation can become so overwhelming that thoughts of not wanting to continue living can enter the picture.
That's something we need to be able to talk about.
Not dramatically.
Not fearfully.
Compassionately.
Because perhaps one of the most important things we can do for somebody who has lost their person is remind them, over and over again:
You are still connected to this world.
Check In After Everyone Else Stops Checking In
If you know someone who has lost somebody they love, here's something I've learned from being on this side of grief:
Don't worry about finding the perfect words.
There aren't any.
You don't need a beautiful speech.
You don't need to fix anything.
You can't.
Just show up.
Send the text.
"Thinking about you today."
Ask them for tea.
Invite them even if they've said no the last five times.
Remember the anniversary.
Remember their person's birthday.
Ask about their children.
And please don't assume that because six months have passed, or a year has passed, they're finished grieving.
Grief doesn't work according to a calendar.
Sometimes the hardest part comes later.
At the beginning, you're surrounded.
Later, you're learning how to live with the permanence of what happened.
That's when a simple:
"How are you really doing?"
can mean everything.
And sometimes don't wait for them to ask.
Sometimes don't wait for the invitation.
Just arrive at the door.
Bring tea if you want.
Bring dinner.
Bring absolutely nothing.
Just bring yourself.
Because sometimes the person who needs you most isn't going to say:
"I need you."
They might not even know how.
And to the Person Everyone Went Home From...
Maybe you're reading this because you know exactly what I'm talking about.
Maybe everyone went home from your house too.
Maybe people tell you how strong you are.
Maybe you've become excellent at saying, "I'm fine."
Maybe you're doing everything you're supposed to do while privately wondering how the rest of the world kept moving so quickly.
I want you to know something.
There isn't a correct way to do this.
You aren't behind.
You don't have to "move on."
You don't have to stop talking about the person you love to make other people comfortable.
You are allowed to laugh.
You are allowed to cry.
You are allowed to have a wonderful day and then a terrible one.
You are allowed to miss them while still wanting a future.
You are allowed to be tired of being strong.
And you are allowed to need people.
Maybe We Need to Get Better at Staying
I don't think people deliberately disappear after loss.
I think most of us simply don't know what to do.
We know how to respond to a crisis.
Bring food.
Send flowers.
Attend the service.
Offer condolences.
But maybe we need to become better at what comes afterward.
Staying.
Not physically.
Not every day.
Not forever.
Just staying connected.
Remembering.
Checking in.
Continuing to say their name.
Making space for the person who is grieving to be exactly where they are.
Because the funeral isn't the end of grief.
In many ways, it's the beginning.
Put the Kettle On
I've learned that some of the most important conversations don't happen when hundreds of people are around.
They happen later.
When the house is quiet.
When somebody sits across from you at the kitchen table.
When there's nothing left to organize.
Nothing left to plan.
No perfect thing to say.
Just two people.
A cup of tea.
And maybe:
"I'm still here."
Sometimes that's all someone needs.
So if there's somebody in your life whose world changed while yours eventually returned to normal, check on them.
Send the message.
Make the call.
And sometimes, just arrive at the door.
You don't need the perfect words.
You don't need to know how to make things better.
You don't even need to bring anything.
Just bring yourself.
Sit at the kitchen table.
Say their person's name.
Listen to the stories you've already heard.
Laugh when the memories are funny.
Let the tears come when they're not.
Because support after loss isn't about rescuing someone.
It's about making sure they don't have to walk through one of life's most painful experiences completely alone.
Sometimes love is flowers at a funeral.
And sometimes love is arriving at the door long after everyone else has gone home.
So arrive at the door.
I'll put the kettle on.
— It Starts With a Cuppa