Why don’t you say you can’t think of someone else’s weight

“Oh, I can’t imagine.” They were the ones who emailed, emailed, and spoke after my parents died. They cannot imagine the loss of a mother in a car accident or a father, four years later, to a heart attack in the middle of the night while traveling abroad. I was 34 years old and I felt lonely, and when I talked to someone about my pain, it was very helpful, “I can’t think” it was like a kind of invitation. Instruction – it’s like a piece of advice. Don’t try to share, I don’t get it. But if my stress is too hard for me, and it’s too hard for someone, what do I do?

“I can’t imagine.” Families and those who have lost children, siblings, relatives, and friends will hear all the time, this story of not being able to think is the worst. , the unspeakable, horrible event. I understand why people give the word – either as a comfort or as a complement to other things – but it can’t be comforting. Often, victims are left feeling more isolated when the stress pushes them into a cold and dark place.

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The truth is, we can’t imagine the knowledge. We don’t want to. Saying that one’s deepest loss is impossible, what we are really doing is drawing a line: not mine, nor ours, but thine alone. We may want to prevent this pain, this turmoil, this fear and uncertainty from coming to our own lives. But if this global disease had taught us anything, it wouldn’t have worked. Sorrow is for all people, if not today or someday.


In 2013, I also founded an advocacy and global community called Modern Loss, which is dedicated to helping people move through the long arc of stress. The other day, I liked our Instagram story and broke the chill in a post from Feb. 22, 2021, 500,000 deaths were reported from COVID-19 in the U.S. I rolled back, until Sept. 23, 2020, and found another post that represents a horrible signal: 200,000. The number was then described as “unknown.”

Now we are about 1 million. A number similar to the population of Austin, or, perhaps more appropriate for the present, Odessa, Ukraine, to this day. A number that is supposed to be both believable and hard. The actual number could be as high as 200,000 more, given the number of deaths far more than the average number of deaths known to be directly or indirectly from the disease.

“Can you imagine?” For a while, we had a bad reason: We started this terrible journey under an Administration that tried to convince us that we didn’t have to be afraid of this new disease, nor that we would allow it to happen. “protect” our lives. The government has tried to separate us from the truth when the truth separates us from the people we use in our days: co -workers, family, neighbors, the shopkeeper. the corner. For a long time, we were separated from each other, trying to create our “new routine,” which was about combining multiple roles and translating others. Aside from the scenes on the curtains, we didn’t see anything in other people’s houses. And so we don’t see people living in those houses going about their daily lives after the death of a loved one.

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Now that we’re trying to re -start personal relationships (at least between different genres), we need to empower ourselves to observe, listen, and see what is and isn’t. lost. We need to research and study human history. We have to look at what we see, but also ask a stranger, “How are you?” and really listen to the answer. And if someone throws in about the temperature of the milk in their latte, we have to remember that we don’t know what kind of weight they’re putting on, either COVID-19 or not. Not all eyes are visible.

We have to get into these records, but it’s hard, for a number of reasons: Public health is declining on us (last week I paid $ 200 for a required rapid PCR test, which unpaid until March). Congressional Democrats introduced employment protection policies to stop employment on the Build Back Better Act proposal and then could not decide. We soon found the stress in the Department of Education and Reading of Mental Illness under time long -term weight problems. And we were lonely.

This disease does not go anywhere; milestones will still be available before the million-death milestone. And a “serious illness” will last much longer than a serious health problem. Researchers found that last year for every COVID -19 death, nine people were directly affected – the “bereavement multiplier,” they call it.


It’s hard to know What can you say in the face of all this misfortune, but it could be worse than not saying it. What I know, what I know to be true, is to tell the story of how we can take each other through our lost knowledge and provide strong and powerful support. It’s like telling stories about our lost loved ones – that little smile they often tell makes the rest of the family start to roll their eyes when they hear that the first word, which is what they cook in order to make everything better, at that point they are confused. in large part and taught us an important lesson about it, it was the special way they kept us in their spotlight. But that’s the way we talk about our pain after that person’s death – the desire we feel for the phone call the night we hope to end immediately. Breaking up in public places, times when we take a closer look at something else. then remember.

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Talking about how we feel, how we act, what we forget about our character (or, people) can reduce the burden of depression. Giving memories to keep what is lost in our hearts and minds, and to remind us is a sign of great love in the midst of our grief. Storytelling is how we work in a community, pull each other out in the dark, see what other people are going through – financially, mentally, physically, socially, logistically. It encourages us to speak out for the support and safety of the government, and to despise something that shouldn’t have been a nuisance in the first place. Storytelling, not numbers, is what people think. And it is important to improve the healing process. This should be in our minds, not to harm ourselves, but to make the perception of grief public and, most importantly, life -threatening.

In Hamilton, there’s a song about grief called “It’s Quiet Uptown,” in which the singer sings about Alexander and his wife Eliza enduring the “unthinkable” – the death of their child.

There are times when words are impossible

There is a very powerful grace in the name

We drive away what we cannot comprehend

We let go of the unthinkable

Every time a song comes up on my list, I think I jump somewhere else. Of course, I could use something happier, more hopeful, more appealing, something that could be a non -aural language. Every now and then, I feel like pushing. Still, I listened. Then, I think.

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