My dad died on Valentine’s Day from a cancer in his brain that he fought for a year and a half. I’ll talk about that more one day, but what I want to say now comes from the buildup and the fallout. What I want to say is not about the suffering and turmoil that I watched my dad and my family experience for that year and a half, or the milestones we hit every day that I never mentioned, like the last day he had ice cream or went outside. I want to talk about him and I will. But today, I want to talk about the aftermath. People don’t know what to say about death and dying. They tell you they’re sorry and they could never do what you’re doing, they tell you how strong you are and graceful you’re being, admire how you’re “back to work” or “still able to have fun”. Grievers are told time and time again, nobody knows what the right thing to say is. And we have grace. Giggle it off and nod our heads, tell them thank you and it’s okay. Because it is okay. They aren’t doing anything wrong t...
On the day I found out my dad had a year to live, I was standing at work, typing away stupidly about something I can’t remember now. And in an instant, I was catapulted into a terrible grief I knew nothing about. Like a dark room I’d never entered, feeling my way around.
Gemma called my boss, my colleagues, and my best friends. Ordering one to give me time off, to get coffee, and to buy moving boxes.
In the apartment, I couldn’t even remember my own name. Gemma found my passport, called my sister and arranged a pick up, and booked my flight for the next morning. Early but not too early, because she said I needed sleep.
How do I even begin to pack right now? Gemma told everyone what to do. She put on my favourite songs, Taylor Swift, whom she didn’t particularly care for, and made the executive decision to toss my near-empty shampoo bottles.
We walked through a handful of outfits I’d need - certainly comfy ones - as Gemma proposed. And when I’d come back to collect my things. We drank iced coffee, and joked about getting the day off work.
For the next 6 hours, I wept and wept while my friends packed my belongings into boxes, labelling them funny things to make me laugh. Gemma was the last to leave. Everything was sorted. She set my alarms for me and left for the evening.
Until about an hour later, at which time she told me to come to the lobby. Just outside the door, my colleagues were there with a brand new hoodie from a concert I forgot I was supposed to attend that night. I wept again.
I left the city to go home and I didn’t go back for a very long time. Consumed with grief, I couldn’t believe I’d even gotten this far. But more than a year later, it finally became clear.
I never would have asked for help. Or boxes. Or plane tickets. It would’ve been utter chaos, and a suitcase shoved full of mismatched outfits and forgotten underwear. I would’ve never done that on my own.
Once I’d beat the amateur grief, I was a lot more focused. Less scared to see my dad, more in tune with myself and my family, is when I’d begun to think about what I would have done for me a year ago. What I would say to someone in my position now.
And the only thing I knew for sure, is that I would have to do what Gemma did. I would have to take control, do things without being asked. Because if she’d have asked if I needed anything I would’ve said no. But I needed that. And knowing what I needed guided her through something she’s undoubtedly never done before. It was a master class on companionship, friendship, loyalty, and kindness. It was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
I think Gemma gave me what she needed, when she lost a dear friend of hers. And it reminded me of the ways I didn’t show up for my friends in their loss. I didn’t know any better. But I do now.
I think we could all use a Gemma in our darkest days. And Gem, if you’re reading this, I love you dearly!
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