The words and tears tumbled out at the same time. Her thoughts clearly jumbled and her
sentences inarticulate and meandering.
Exactly how anyone would be, sitting in a room full of strangers
forty-two days after their sibling died.
Patience, I told myself,
remembering back almost twelve years.
She’s new to the club. I looked around the room at the people
I was spending an hour or so leading through a workshop on sibling loss. Some I knew from eight years of
workshops in hotel conference rooms around the country. Some were new, either because it had
taken them till now to find us, or because at about this time last summer, they
were blissfully ignorant that there was such a thing as The Compassionate
Friends. They had yet to be
initiated into the club nobody wants to join. Their brothers and sisters were still alive.
It was a chilling thing this year, to wake up on a sunny
morning in Costa Mesa to the news of the late night movie massacre. As I heard the news while getting ready
for the first full day of a conference to support bereaved parents and
siblings, my first thought was some of
them will be here next year. It
happened post-Columbine, just before I became a member, and post 9/11, after my
sister died, but before I knew there was such a thing as TCF. And so, a brother or sister of one of
the slain would very likely be sitting in one of my workshops in Boston next
July. A parent who lost a child to
a late night movie could be in the workshop where I sit on a panel along with
other veteran siblings, helping to explain to them why their surviving child,
that remaining brother or sister won’t talk, won’t share, turned to drugs, left
school or just can’t stop being so angry at the world. So much of the world is fascinated with
the villain. Many more are moved
to make sure we remember that he is not important, that we should be focused on
remembering the ones that he killed.
All I could think about, on that day of all days, as I walked through
too-crowded halls of the hotel, was of the families left full of empty
holes. Families who would need
this place.
I was a few years out from Wendy’s death when I found
TCF. Now I’m a veteran. An expert at grief, qualified run
workshops, sit on panels.
Experienced enough to share my story, to help someone else through the
process. Credentials claimed out
of necessity to make some sense of my own loss, make a difference to someone
else and hopefully make both of us feel just a tiny bit better in the process. It’s not all tears and run-on sentences
and harsh reality. In many ways,
the weekend is an escape, like summer camp for the bereaved. Where you don’t have to explain a thing
to your friends. No one wonders
why your eyes are red, you are never the only one doing the ugly cry, and someone’s
always there to hand you a drink and know exactly why you need it.
Don’t think we don’t have any fun. My regular crew is a rebellious bunch. We take over the nearest bar at
night. You can usually find a
handful by the pool on a break, or maybe during a workshop session when it’s
all just too much. We sit in the
back row at opening and closing ceremonies and act like we’re twelve, making
fun of the guest choir who always performs awkward dance/sign language numbers
to cheesy pre-recorded music that they don’t sing along to, while wearing
strange, cult-like white outfits draped in long, colorful robes. This year we joked that we should form
a counter choir. We would call ourselves
Hand Jive International, only perform
to gangsta rap, and sign all the wrong words. Maybe we would wear lots of sequins and sparkly gloves. We’re all adults and we could skip the
performances, but where would be the fun in that? So we’re also kind of joiners, because at the end of the
day, if we have to be a part of the club, we might as well reap the
benefits. We’ve formed friendships
that have lasted long past three days in a Hilton, connections that run deeper
than others we have in our daily lives.
These strangers, from all over the country and all walks of life have
become my brothers and sisters. We
have each other’s backs, have to come to each other’s rescue and are an
integral part of each others lives.
As hard as they are, I’m grateful for these three days. I’m humbled by the gratitude of others
and the strength of everyone in that hotel. I am in awe of my fellow siblings. You’re a family I did not want, but one that I’m glad I now
have. I’m a better person for the
days that I spend in your company.
And to the brothers and sisters of Jessica Ghawi, Veronica Moser-Sullivan, John Larimer, Alexander Boik,
Jesse Childress, Jonathan Blunk, Rebecca Ann Wingo, Alex Sullivan, Gordon Cowden,
Micayla Medek and Alexander C. Teves, I think I can speak for all of my TCF
crew when I say we wish we didn’t have to offer out our hands in solidarity and
support, but there all extended. We’ll
be here if you need us.
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