Her presence feels quiet and still. I don’t know where she lives or how long ago she lost him or even if it was a him. But somehow she makes me feel less alone.
Without overthinking it, I scroll back to the knitting video and leave a comment:
@BooksAndYarn: You make grief look… doable. I don’t know the first thing about yarn, but now I want to learn.
I immediately wince. Regret settles fast and hard.
The moment I hit send, I spiral into panic. Both comments are too much. Too vulnerable. I go searching for the delete button like it’s a life raft. Why is it so hard to find? Nothing is labeled clearly. I adjust the reading glasses that are slipping down my nose while I mash random icons, accidentally following someone named Grief_GuruMama and liking a reel about fermented oat milk.
“Where is customer service?” I mutter, jabbing at my screen like it’s personally offended me. My eyes scan my profile for any little information button, which apparently does not exist. I’m lost in the wilderness of the internet, with no map, no water, and entirely too many hashtags. Someone send help.
Fifteen unsuccessful minutes later, I’m still in a mid-panic spiral when two bright red notification dots light up my screen.
@Birdie71: Who needs that nightstand anyway. Also: welcome. You’re officially part of a club that no one ever wants to be in.
I blink at it.
Read it twice.
There’s something so casually kind about it. No forced optimism, no sugarcoated advice—just solidarity. And a dancing lady emoji, which pushes a smile through my panic.
Without allowing myself time to second guess, I tap the message icon and type:
Hi. I’m Birdie. I don’t know what I’m doing. Can we be friends?
She replies almost instantly:
ThisIsUs: Hi Birdie. I’m Vivian. Friends call me Viv. Call me Viv. u lost your husband? How? (Is that morbid to ask?)
Me: Brain aneurysm. In our butterfly garden. One day he was here and the next he wasn’t. It’s been two years, three months, eighteen days. I still can’t bring myself to weed. But I’m clearly moving forward just fine. You?
ThisIsUs: I told myself I wasn’t allowed to keep track of the days after I hit the one year mark… But one year, six months, eleven days, approximately ten hours.
Cancer.
Terminal.
He had three months after the diagnosis.
What's your grief starter pack? Wine? Chocolate? Rage cleaning?
I want to reach through the screen and hug her, to offer some kind of lifeline. But I’ve been around enough well-intentioned sympathizers to know that grief, real, raw grief, has a way of paralyzing those on the other side. You don’t want to say the wrong thing, but silence feels like abandonment. So you do the only thing you can: keep going, pretend your words might help.
Me: Grief starter pack includes: running in his basketball shorts, waterproof mascara, and one bathrobe that’s seen too much. Do I qualify for VIP status?
ThisIsUs: Only if you’ve ever yelled at a pillow for “not being the same without him.” Bonus points if you wear his hoodie like armor.
Me: I may or may not be wearing his t-shirt right now. Oversized, faded, smells like laundry detergent instead of him. Total grief couture.
ThisIsUs: Ah yes, the widowed woman uniform. Add in limp hair and raccoon eyes and you’re runway ready.
I run my hand over my long, straight, dark locks. The curls fell out hours ago. Check.
Me: Okay but truly, I haven’t been able to go buy our Saturday morning frozen waffles for the last two years. I miss waffles. I bribed my daughter to go pick some up for me while telling her I was fine. Then I sobbed while I ate them. Then I fake smiled with teeth. You know the one.
ThisIsUs: Oof. The “see, I’m totally functioning!” smile. I gave that to a barista once. She gave me a free croissant and a business card for her therapist.
Me: You win. Though I once cried so hard I accidentally sobbed into a stranger’s dog at Target in the deodorant aisle. She didn’t move. The dog, I mean. The owner looked horrified.
