KAREN JANOWSKY

I'm gonna be a little more serious this month. I've been teaching at my local community college since 1995. In that time, I've met a lot of people. Students who have come and gone. Colleagues who have stayed for a while and moved on. I remember many of them and wonder what they're doing now. In the past three years, I've gone to a few too many memorial services for people I've worked with. These English Department colleagues had been teaching for quite a long time before my husband and I arrived on campus in our mid to-late twenties. We'd just gotten married and I wasn't quite twenty-five yet (you can do the math; I won't be upset). These were people I've liked, some of whom I admired, and all of whom I respected for their service and what they had to teach me about my new role.

So, my husband is friends with a man in the Fine Arts Department. They often grab lunch together and communicate often. That man, whose name is Steve, was married to a younger woman named Gina--until a few days ago. And it wasn't by choice. During the morning, he was visited by a county police officer. That officer broke devastating news to him: there had been a serious car accident. Steven's wife of over twenty years was pronounced dead on the scene. They have a sixteen-year old daughter.

That day, a seemingly endless stream of colleagues stopped by, bringing food, allowing Steven and his daughter to cry on them, helping them with some of the immediate logistics like sending an announcement, setting up services, working with the police investigation, etc. 

Here's what happened, in a nutshell: Gina was driving over a low bridge, through fog, on her way to work. Another car was behind her but kept a decent way back.  Both were driving safely. Then another car skipped the yellow lines, ran head-on into Gina's car and again into the other young woman's car. The latter was only nineteen. Minding their own busniness--just a regular day. And a younger woman was flown out to a major hospital and it isn't clear whether she'll make it. The driver in critical condition with internal bleeding through more than one organ. And my peer, my acquantance, my friend's wife gone. Just like that. If it hardly seems real to me, I can only imagine the shock Steven, his daughter, and Gina's parents must be going through.

Scratch that--I can empathize, but I can't and hope I never have to imagine the depth and sharpness of their pain. Gina's parents are living out every parent's worst nightmare. Steven's daughter is feeling all the feelings, as is he. All Rich and I can do is offer to do whatever they need--just keep them company, sometimes. Like everyone else who've stopped by. It's lovely that so many people at the college dropped what they were doing to go to a friend and colleague in need. It makes me hopeful for humanity, quite frankly. These days leading up to the United States elections had been draining that faith considerably.

The day after my husband and I spent some time, I was on my way home from work and suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to call my grandmother, who I loved so much. I had a special relationship with her--I used to follow her around. Shed' call me her shadow. She's been gone for about seven years. Her pictures are on the wall in my office and I sometimes talk to them. Sometimes I can hear her voice so clearly. Sometimes I know exactly what she'd say to me. But after the first year of her absence, I finally deleted her phone number. It was a little traumatic.

Now, my aunt, mother and I often -wish- we could call her, but I'd never been on the verge of pulling over and scrolling to her now erased phone number and hitting "Call." When I got home, I cried for a while.

Grief shouldn't be a solitary experience even though those closest to the loved one feel alone. In a sense, they are. But when one person grieves, many of us grieve as well, if only vicariously. We all wish we could wish that awful day away for a do-over. We all wish we could lift the dark clouds surrounding Steve and his daughter, and fix the stinging, gaping holes in their hearts where a mother and a wife once lived. Yes, our loved ones still live on in memories and emotions. But it's never the same. It can't be. Their daughter texted me--I was so happy that she reached out--and described how lost she felt. I explained that yes, that level of heartbreak physically hurts. Everywhere. Your bones. Your organs. Your skin. And it's at once untethering and unbearably heavy at the same time. I remember it when Grandma died. And other relatives. And friends. And beloved pets. But my point is, when we love deeply, we grieve deeply. And no one experiences grief in the same ways, and there's no set of parameters about how long to grieve, but we all feel it. And it comes in waves years later. I told this girl that I'd be more worried if she weren't feeling those things.

I also told her, and maybe it was too soon for this, that the only way to get through this awful time is to feel all the things. One moment at a time. Right now, she and her father are still in shock because the enormity is likely larger than even they might imagine right now.

When my husband and I got home, I grabbed my son, who lives with us for various reasons, and hugged him as tightly as I could. And my husband. And I sobbed through the early hours of the morning. Because there but for all the graces, as the saying roughly goes. 

Life is so delicate. We sometimes feel like we'll last a good, long time, but that isn't guaranteed. We all have plans, hopes, and dreams and with our passing, they go too, never to be realized. Everything changes in an instant and we're left with the unthinkable.

So, go give the people you love big 'ol hugs. Call your loved ones who might live far away. Get in touch with your estranged relative or once good friend and tell them you think it's time you burried the hatchet. Because insulted, indifferent, or hateful feelings take up so much of our mental energy for one thing, and because again, life is delicate. Don't let people go thinking there's still bad blood between you. And say, "I love you" to your closest and dearest every day. A few times a day.