You are never prepared for the death of a loved one. You can trick your brain into thinking nothing is wrong, and you can attempt to wrap your mind around the concept all you want. You can also never see it coming. True sorrow first visited my life with the death of my grandmother. She had been sick for a while, and I knew it wouldn’t be long, but I was ill-prepared for her death nonetheless. Nine months later, my life dissolved into dust when my dad died, and nothing has been or ever will be the same. He just went to sleep, and never woke up. I was a different person before death touched my family. Sometimes I look back at the person I was 2 years ago, and I wonder at how oblivious I could be about how little time I had left to enjoy a happy, carefree existence. The strange thing is that I value who I have become and the lessons I’ve learned through the pain. There is a part of me that rebels against that idea, and my emotions chastise the rational part of my brain. In a heartbeat, I’d give everything to have my old life back, but at the same time, I don’t think that I want to be the “old me.” The “old me” was too naive, too complaining, too blind. I’m still learning this new version of myself, and that brings me to the main point of this article.

Americans do not know how to handle death. The military, policemen, and firemen all have a working experience with it, but as for the rest of us, well, we’re clueless. We work and work and work till we drop. We are too busy with our careers to stop and consider that it’s not going to last forever. Since we are so obsessed with production and efficiency, we don’t have time for anything that could potentially “distract” us. This attitude is fostered by big corporations, small retail stores, and countless people who claim, “I can’t think about that now. I have my own problems I have to take care of.” No one thinks about death because it makes people uncomfortable. We are afraid to face the reality that each one of us will die someday. Therefore, we as a society do not know how to handle it gracefully, and we push the grieving family to “get better fast” so that we don’t have to think about all that “unpleasantness.” Then we can all get back to being productive.

Grieving people are hugely misunderstood, and the chief reason is that they are the only ones going through their own unique experience. Each person handles death differently, and that is part of what makes grief confusing. There is no rulebook. Even if there were, each copy would be different and could only be read by the person it belongs to. You see memories everywhere. Old t-shirts, a coffee mug, and a pillowcase suddenly become a lifeline. I saved a junk piece of paper that my dad wrote a list on. Nothing special was written on it, but it became like a piece of gold to me. He wrote those words. I could touch the writing. I could hold the paper the he once held, with my hands resting on the spot where his hands did. I still keep an empty tube of lip gloss that he gave me for Christmas. It was his last gift to me, and I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to part with it. The grieving see memories everywhere. Grocery shopping without him was agony for my whole family. We will never again have to buy coleslaw, his favorite cereal, or an extra toothbrush. My dog began to search my parents’ room for him. She’d sniff his flannel shirt and wag her tail. I lost it when my mom had to tell her “all gone.”

The grieving don’t know what to expect as far as emotions are concerned. We are merely surviving from one moment to the next. Most people may not know what to say to those in mourning, so they might be awkwardly quiet or start offering well-meant platitudes. The intention is usually good, but after a while, it’s tiring to listen to essentially the same message from everybody. It is stressful to be repeatedly told, “Don’t worry, time heals all wounds,” or “His memory will live in your heart.” If I wanted to hear that, I’d go to a Hallmark store, thank you very much. Time does not heal all wounds. The wound may scar over, but if it’s poked or prodded, the ache is going to return. The missing never goes away. Perhaps one day I’ll feel Dad’s presence in my heart, but right now, I don’t feel anything. My brain and my heart are on auto-pilot.

I’ve learned very quickly that you tend to see people fall into three groups when you’re grieving. The first is the group of the true-blue people, the ones who are supportive in the most genuine of ways. Sometimes, people you never expected will fall into this category. The second group consists of the people who are there on occasion, but who can’t quite help to support you and the full burden of grief that you carry. They sway in and out of being reliable. The third group is made up of the people who could care less about whatever you’re going through, the curious busybodies, the people who you thought would be there for you, but who hurt you even deeper with their lack of empathy. Total strangers can fall into the last category. I’ve had random customers at work tell me to “cheer up.” I’ve had acquaintances announce to other people, “Her father just died, just in case you didn’t know.” People get awkward around me now, as if grief is a catching disease.

My dad was only 54. No one expects to die at 54. What scared everyone we know is that if it could happen to him, it can happen to any one of us. Forgive people. Life is too short to hold a grudge. Don’t let work rule your existence. You’ll miss out on all the worthwhile things in life. Remind your family that you love them often, whether it’s through words or deeds. Don’t hope that they already know it. Have respect for those who grieve, and don’t try to “fix” them. They need time to process it.

Time. It’s the one thing that no man can retrieve once it is lost. Make the most of your time with your family, and your life will be one that is well-spent. Take it from someone who knows.