Grief Changes Friendships

*Some of the names have been changed. 

When Rob died, my best friend, Jennifer – whom I called at least every day and saw at least weekly – was there for me in all ways. She was on bed rest for her pregnancy but still showed up at the house with her husband the morning of Rob’s death. The parlor and the basement with the red countertops were full of family and friends that already missed him and wanted to hold our hands and hug us.

When Jennifer showed up I said, “What are you doing here?!,” knowing she should be in bed. I burst into tears. The compassion of her being there. The wretched pain in her husband's eyes. He was one of Rob’s greatest and oldest friends, and we'd attended his sister’s memorial service only months before with some of these very same people.

I leaned on most of them, and a few leaned back on me and we mourned together. It wasn’t quite so lonely that way. Jennifer was one of those that cried with me. We held onto one another and told stories of Rob, and then stared blankly at each other when we just couldn’t believe that he wasn’t coming back to us.

And then a few months later, I felt a definite alteration in our closeness. It happened in her living room one winter afternoon. I was telling her about Sandy.

Sandy had lost her infant daughter to death at only twelve days old. As a result, Sandy had shifted her worldview enough that she started helping others with their own grief using hypnosis – among other things. She called herself a soul coach and I was seeing her as my grief counselor.

I wanted to explore the reasons why this tragedy had happened and what I was supposed to do about it and how I was going to make myself feel better. That was it in a nutshell. I felt so unbelievably pained, like all my bones had razor blade spurs on them and each time I took a breath or moved in any way, I would bleed anew with excruciating devastation.

I just wanted it to stop. I would do anything for the pain to go away – even something as drastic as having a past life regression done. Even something as drastic as seeing a spirit medium.

I was late getting to Sandy’s that first time. I’d remembered the time wrong. She offered me tea and I used the bathroom with the brightly colored fish shower curtain. My session was held in her sun room. Pastel cushions on white wicker, a small fountain splashing and serene music washed over me. I settled into a chair across from her and put my feet up. The tea mug was in my hands but still too hot to drink.

She closed her eyes and rested her hands, palms up, in her lap. Her legs were uncrossed.

In the silence I waited for messages from Rob. She began by describing him and who he was with, and the first thing he said through Sandy was:

            
            “Don’t be fearful. I don’t look like that anymore. Don’t remember me like that.”

I took this to be a message for his mother and sister. They were the only ones to see his body in the coffin – it was closed for the funeral service and wake. But I accepted this message for myself, too. I had my own slideshow of possibilities scrolling through. Those possibilities were much worse than what my mother-in-law and sister-in-law saw in the coffin that day, I’m sure.

For the next two hours I listened to Rob’s messages and asked a few clarifying questions. It was a strange three-way conversation that I never forgot.

“Make your decisions out of love for the children.”

“When no one is around, I am still there with you. I’ll be with you until the end.”

“Don’t worry about finances. There are some (plenty) coming your way – you just don’t see it yet.”

I only came with one question for Rob.

“Did you choose to die?”

He answered with Sandy’s help:

            
            “Not like you think. Soften the word death, more like a doorway. My awareness had 


an agreement.”

I wiped the tears away and nodded my head. Of course. It would be that way. The way that he said.

“Rob’s telling me that you are not to blame yourself for him dying,” Sandy said. “It was part of the contract. ’We’d decided it before we were even born,’ he’s saying.”

“But if I believe he died for a reason and that that reason was for my spiritual growth and maturity, wouldn’t that ultimately make me the cause of his death?” Tears dripped off my chin.

“No,” Sandy reassured. “Remember it doesn’t have to do with you like that. You made him feel good!”

She paused again and closed her eyes.

“He says he has instructions for you,” Sandy said.

“Ok.” I sat up straighter and wondered if I should write this down.

“One was coming to see me.” She paused, listening, then laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“He’s saying: She’s stubborn, isn’t she?”

I  smiled through my tears. It did take me a long time to mount the courage to make this appointment.

“He says the stubborn part was for ‘ … letting go. Not letting me go. In fact, I’m not asking that – just letting go of your belief system.”

Then she said for him: “Once you allow the fullness of my presence into your heart, your spirit will find peace – you’ll be at peace. 

“Remember the promise we made three years ago. Ignore the ‘until death do us part’ part. We do not part with death. You didn’t marry me for my physical body, you married my spirit. The part that defined me. Who I was. That part will never die or leave,” Rob said.

“What are you doing there, Rob?” I asked.

“Getting my feet wet. I’m still getting used to not having a body. I can get really small and then really big. It’s cool,” Rob said.

“He’s kissing your belly.” Sandy smiled. “He says the baby will look like you.”

“Can he hear my thoughts?” I asked Sandy. She answered for him.

“I don’t invade your thoughts but if you direct them to me I’ll “hear” them.” Rob said. “Do you hear me?”

“No. I wish I did,” I said.

“Don’t worry. You will,” Sandy promised.

“Did you do what you needed to in this life? Or at least some of it?” I asked.

“I met you. And the kids.”

I swallowed and looked down at my lap. I shook my head. Was that enough? Were we enough? How could I be enough?

           
             After a few sessions with Sandy, I started feeling more hopeful and became 


interested in my surroundings again – venturing out a bit. It was on one of those ‘ventures 


out’ that found me in Jennifer’s living room that winter afternoon. Our little ones played 


and I told Jennifer about the peace I was getting from seeing Sandy.

           She wiped her hands on a towel at the kitchen sink and walked to her mantle.  She lit 

three candles.

“One for Baby, one for Beth and one for Bob,” she explained. She meant the twin inside of her she knew she’d already lost; Beth was her husband's sister that had died only months before, and Bob – that was their name for Rob.

“Have you ever thought about contacting Rob or Beth?” I asked. Her eyes were round as she shook her head.

“It’s helped me so much – I can understand the why a bit more and that’s made all the difference for me.” I waited for acknowledgment or a request for more information. This was so fascinating to me that I assumed she would feel the same way.

I offered to pay for a session so she or her husband could go to a Sandy session in the hopes that they could find some comfort as I did.

She said, “No, thanks,” and that was pretty much it. Our friendship started slipping then.

But let me explain: There was no explosion of wrath, I didn’t take her response personally, or as a rejection from her. And I didn’t end the relationship because she wouldn’t accept my gift. I simply started putting my energy toward another friend I had at the time.

Here’s the thing -- grieving a big loss turns things around for you. You try on new values (“No, I don’t mind if you only brush your hair every other day …”, said to my son at eight years old) and belief structures. In my case, reincarnation and duality of the soul.

These concepts brought me peace at a time I sorely needed it – obviously you’ll have to find your own system to ease your pain; mine may not fit you.

I tried to be real careful about who I told my new beliefs to so I didn’t create any discomfort. And truthfully, because it was less than mainstream, I was worried that I would be rejected or ostrocized. So I only shared it with one other friend of mine. Her name was  Andrea.

I would take Aubrey to Andrea’s house and our children would play together while I went to counseling at my soul coach’s place. After I was done, I’d come back and share my experiences with Andrea. She was fascinated, and a very sympathetic listener.

I’d known Andrea for just under two years. We’d met in our childbirth preparation class and our kids were born on the same day, in the same hospital. And she cared for Aubrey while I worked part-time.

So, I could say that Andrea was a willing listener when I most needed one, and Jennifer didn’t want to hear about it because it made her uncomfortable. But mostly what I think what was happening was the speed at which I was moving through my grief was different from her speed.
No blame. No right or wrong. Just was.
And that changed our friendship.