When someone tells you a personal, tragic thing:

Disclaimer: IF YOU HAVE DONE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING THINGS THAT YOU MAYBE SHOULDN'T DO, DON'T FEEL BAD. I'VE PROBABLY DONE THEM, TOO (pre-earth-shattering-event). But just for next time. (also if you've done any of these, I PROMISE I'm not holding it against you. I know what it's like to not get it. This is just a PSA)

• Don't say nothing. It's hella awkward.
• Don't immediately ask "How did he die?" or whatever question applies that's probably a little too much too soon. You're asking us to relive our worst day on this planet, process that before your own curiosity. We will open up when we're ready. If we're ready. I'm probably on the more open side, but this question still sometimes throws me.
• "I'm so sorry" is an appropriate response, and not cliche. It doesn't feel forced or fake or whatever you're worried about.
• Staring is uncomfortable, try to avoid that.
• Don't feel like you have to hide your shock and horror. We feel the same. Samesies.
• Follow up questions are good to fill the inevitable awkward space. Read the room. In some cases, if you're friends, "how are you adjusting?" is a good question but also, maybe expect tears at this. Again, this is only a good question if you really are friends and you actually care about how they are adjusting. A safe question would be, "how can I help you?" they will probably say that there's nothing you can do, but it's a nice gesture and a nice gesture is nice.
• Don't say "Let me know if you need anything" -- I've said this one a hundred times to a hundred different people, I totally feel this one. Cause you're like howwhenwherewhat can I do to help -- so I'll just maybe say something vague and general and hope they will reach out. They won't.
• Do tell a story that relates, if you want. You know a widow, sweet. I wanna know. Your brother passed away last year? That connection is definitely important and if you feel okay mentioning it, do. If you don't, we get it more than most people. But maybe avoid "I know just how you feel because my dog died" or "my grandma who was 95". Grief is grief, for sure -- but read the room, yo. That's not what a person needs to hear who is clinging onto life by their fingernails.
• Generally, stay away from "Thank goodness families are forever!" unless you've lost someone close to you -- it can come off shallow. Rule of thumb, unless you have relied on this piece of doctrine like your life literally depended on it, don't mention it. Not right away.
• Do what you can to acknowledge their pain, whatever that means for you. The most hurtful comments I've received have been ones that minimize what I'm going through. The ol' "You're young and beautiful and you'll find someone else" is well intentioned but can also read a little insensitive. Like Mitch is replaceable and all I really need is someone to step into the now-empty husband shoes, and thank goodness I'm still pretty enough to snag another. Forming new relationships is not the catalyst of healing, it is the result of healing.

Okay rant over. Happy dealing with personal and adjacent tragedies. You got this.

All the love for all of you who honestly carried me through this,

Brittany Parker

Owning It

This chapter is called Being Okay with Having a Really Heavy Story. It's taken me over a year to even start to write this chapter, one I knew was coming but dreaded. I obviously couldn't avoid the discomfort my story brought on others in the weeks and months following Mitch's passing. Everyone around me knew what had happened (and until you've had your very own bone chilling story passed around to everyone you've ever known -- including and certainly not limited to, that random person you went to high school with and never spoke to, the girl that was in your ward four years ago & your mom's high school friend's hairdresser whose client spiced up the conversation with -- wanna hear something really awful and true that happened to this young couple? -- you can't really begin to understand what this is like). I'm not mad my story made the rounds, I know very well I've been on the other end of such sharing. I'm okay with it because I believe Mitch and my story is meaningful, and I like to think that people don't brush it off. But even though I am okay with it -- it was still a bit unsettling, in ways I can't describe or change.

In those first few months, being around people and having my story so public was challenging. People would give me that look that said I-wish-there-was-something-I-could-say-or-do-to-make-it-even-a-little-better-but-I-can't-and-we-both-know-that. Honestly, I hated that just my existence in a room brought on this turmoil in people who had little to do with Mitch or me. But I couldn't help it! So months went by, and as the aching grief consumed my entire being, I stayed away from people for the most part. I had to protect myself. I had to avoid all the negative byproducts of being a grieving person in situations where people could say (unintentional) stupid things to fill that awful silence of you're-living-my-worst-nightmare. I stayed away, and then I moved. I moved to a place where almost no one knew. And that was great for a time. I loved being anonymous, not getting those looks that were equally sad & helpless.

But slowly, things have shifted. I've slowly begun to accept that this awful, heavy, tragic thing that happened to me is a story that will always be my story. It will be a part of everything I'll ever do, everything I'll ever become. The fear has subsided and I've started to feel proud of what I've survived and done in spite of the awful-tragic-terrible thing. I don't have to be afraid of my own story and I don't have have to worry how other people will handle it either. Huge break through, guys. I get to feel all sorts of ways about this AND SO DO YOU and it has nothing to do with me.

I could have quit. I could still be curled up in a dark room in my parent's house -- but I'm not. I've done nothing remarkable, I've simply done what it took each day since February 25, 2016 to keep air in my lungs. To keep hope alive. I have put one foot in front of the other for 418 days and it has been enough.

And now, I'm owning my story. Finally. I don't hide it. I don't feel the same vulnerability over the story, my photos, this blog. I feel less embarrassed when I cry in public (I definitely still try to avoid it, but some things are inevitable). I'm human. I feel. I was hurt deeply and I'm still recovering. I'm okay that you know that. I'm okay if you share that. I'm okay if you want to look at my wedding pictures and feel sad. Even if we don't really know each other. Because I believe this story is bigger than Mitch or me. It's not just about us. It's about doing it scared. Whatever it is. It's about relying on spiritual power to raise you out of the deepest, darkest pit. Because it can & it will -- but only if you don't give up.

I hope my story gives you courage. I hope you know you are filled with so much magic and can do things that you think are impossible. I hope you know that we are all so much more than this life. We are so much more than those things we endure that are so heartbreaking and difficult. I hope you will think of Mitch and me when you do that scary thing that you know you should do. Because, I know you'd like to help me. I know you wish you could ease this pain. You can't bring Mitch back home to me but you can do the scary and brave thing. And you can tell Mitch. Tell him you did it for me.

Hands

Have you ever thought about how weird hands are? I have wrapped my fingers around my mother's finger, learned to write and play the ukulele with the same hands. I've used my hands to cut hair and bake and drive. I've done cartwheels and back hand springs with my hands. I've eaten, signed, climbed and danced with my hands. The same hand that reached out nervously in a dark theater for his as teenagers, also held his face countless times and touched his perfect curls. The same hand he'd put a ring on, held his hand in that hospital room and felt warmth drain from it.

The same hands held either side of his casket, tears falling that wouldn't stop. Couldn't. Touching that casket felt like the last thing I'd ever do with those hands, but then it wasn't. I used those hands to wipe the tears from my face. I shook those hands at God, wondering why he'd let this happen -- pleading with Him to take it back. I've used those hands to pray. I've used them to catch myself from collapsing from the sheer weight of it all. I've used them to paint, and write and wipe more tears. I've used them to hold others in their pain. All of these things, with the same two hands.

There are a lot more things I will do with these two hands, the same two that held onto my favorite person. I wish these hands could have held onto him a little longer, but I know with certainty I will again. Until then, I'll use them to write and paint and wipe tears and hold others. I'll use them because I can and because I should. I'll use them because as long as I can create, there is still hope. I'll always remember where these hands have been, but I have to focus on what they still can do.

I love you, Mitch.

Resources

I just want to start this post by saying, if you are grieving (or depressed) or know someone who is and would like someone to talk to about it -- please do not hesitate to contact me. You can leave a comment or shoot me an email at brittlynnparker@gmail.com

Here are some resources I have found extremely helpful. I'll be adding more to this post in the future.

If you're LDS

• The Message
• The Healing Power of Grief
• Insights into the Spirit World
• Because I Live, Ye Shall Live Also
• He Will Place You On His Shoulders and Carry You Home

If you're Christian

• The Truth About Grief
• Brittany Price
• Proof of Heaven

If you're somewhat spiritual but don't like labels

• Christina Rasmussen
• Man's Search for Meaning
• Terrible, Thanks for Asking

If your friend is grieving

• What to do when you find out your friend has cancer (or I would add, is grieving in general)