unique.

 (in loving memory of Alison)

Last week Kevin and I had dinner with some dear friends who have a 2-year old and a 3-month old. Their lives have changed dramatically since they had children, their world turned upside down. We had a pretty dramatic year ourselves. In the span of less than one year, we were engaged, married, transplanted to a new state, and homeowners. Each decision felt like the biggest of our lives. People do this every day, we kept reminding ourselves. But that didn't make it any easier. When we shared this with Brian and April, they laughed.

"Wait till you have kids," they said. "To you, every moment is the biggest deal of your life. But everyone has kids. So you're saying, 'Guess what! My child is potty-trained!' but everyone has already gone through it. It feels like the whole world has changed, but it really only has to you."

We laughed. We don't have kids, but we understood. Lots of people get married and buy houses and move to a new place. We're not unique. But these experiences were unique to us. And that's why they seemed to carry all the weight of the world.

Yesterday I received devastating news. An old friend had been in a coma for over two weeks after being hit by a truck while walking her dog. I've been following the blog updates, smiling at the old pictures, and wishing I'd kept in better touch after high school. I have photo albums at my parents' house filled with pictures of sleepovers, school dances and volleyball games with Alison. It's impossible for me to remember middle or high school without seeing her face. One of those friends. Yesterday, however, the decision was made to take her off life-support, as she had zero brain activity and couldn't breathe on her own. She was here, and now she's gone.

News like this always hits hard. Not hard like a test or a tough decision or even the proverbial ton of bricks. Hard like the world picking you up and throwing you out into space where you watch from above while gasping for air. It doesn't make sense, it's not fair. No good answer works, no matter how strong my faith is, and no matter how strong my belief that everything happens for a reason. In that moment, nothing you've ever known seems to matter.

In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis writes:

"When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of 'No answer.' It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, 'Peace, child; you don't understand.'"

And to anyone who's experienced loss - sudden, unexpected, unplanned loss - that's exactly what it is. I do not understand. This isn't my first time, either. Alison is the fourth friend of mine who's had a sudden accident that led to a coma, and the third of those who have succumbed to the injury (oh the joy when that one friend emerged and began a slow recovery). Beyond that list of four, I can list (I did, actually) ten people I've known or loved or (usually) both who have died. And while according to the other patterns we've learned as humans, according to the principles of learning and familiarity, by the 10th time it should make sense. And yet, it never does. Each time is another expulsion to that outer, airless world of confusion, choked up emotion, a deep, heavy sadness covering everything like the blanket they draped over the shoulders of my sisters and I when we were in a car accident in high school. Here, they said, this will keep you from going into shock.

The problem, though, is that this happens every day. Every single day of every single year, people are suddenly gone, torn from their families, close friends and extended circles of those who have ever known or loved them. And the more they have given, done or engaged the world, the wider those circles are. In the hospital where Alison died, thousands have died before and will die again. Her parents are not the first to grieve, her boyfriend is not the first to go into shock, her sister is not the first abandoned sibling. I am not the first devastated friend from long ago. But to them, and to me, it certainly feels that way. In the grieving, questioning and endless pounding on the door demanding to know Why?, our experience is suddenly unique, individual, and earth-shattering. Instead of taking comfort in others have survived this before me, we wrap ourselves tightly in nobody knows, because nobody else is me.

When you are the one who receives the news, visits the hospital, chokes on tears at the graveside, you might as well be the only person who has ever grieved. No previous illness, accident or death ever prepares you for another. Some like to say that these grieving processes make you stronger, but I'm not sure if I agree (at least, not today). I don't feel stronger after loss. I feel cold, I feel silent, I feel anxious. I feel lost. What place is this? Where can I hide?

People do this every day. They get married, they move, they buy houses, they have children, they lose children. They grieve and rage and try to move on. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they can't. Either way, the experience is unique. Nobody has ever been them, in that moment, grieving the loss of that person. And for that reason, try as they might, nobody else can truly understand.