I found this shortly after losing someone. For me, I was lucky, I'd had the chance to say goodbye, and they knew how I felt. Even so, this spoke to me.

http://www.solipsys.co.uk/images/Grief_FromAnOldGuy.jpg

Someone on reddit wrote the following heartfelt plea
online:

"My friend just died. I don't know what to do. "

A lot of people responded. Then there‘s one old guy’s
incredible comment that stood out from the rest that
might just change the way we approach We and death:

“Alright, here goes. l'm old. What that means is that I‘ve
survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved
did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances,
co—workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers,
mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I
have no children, and i can't imagine the pain it must be
to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

"I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never
did. I don't want to. it tears a hole through me whenever
somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I
don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be
something thatjust passes. My scars are a testament to
the love and the relationship that I had for and with that
person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.
Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I
can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even
gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and
continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the
original ﬂesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life.
Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

“As for grief, you'll ﬁnd it comes in waves. When the ship
is ﬁrst wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all
around you. Everything floating around you reminds you
of the beauty and the magniﬁcence of the ship that was,
and is no more. And all you can do is ﬂoat. You ﬁnd some
piece of the wreckage and you hang on fora while.
Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy
memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also
ﬂoating. For a while, all you can do is ﬂoat. Stay alive.

"In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash
over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart
and don‘t even give you time to catch your breath. All you
can do is hang on and ﬂoat. After a while, maybe weeks,
maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall,
but they come further apart. When they come, they still
crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you
can breathe, you can function. You never know what's
going to trigger the grief. it might be a song, a picture, a
street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be
just about anything. and the wave comes crashing. But
in between waves, there is life.

“Somewhere down the line, and it's different for
everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall.
Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come
further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary,
a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can
see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself.
And when it washes over you, you know that somehow
you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet,
sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the
wreckage, but you‘ll come out.

"Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming,
and somehow you don't really want them to. But you
learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come.
And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have
lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks."