From a Friend's Perspective

A note from Nathan’s Mom

Some of my friendships have deepened and become even more precious to me through this difficult time of grieving Nathan. I am so grateful that one of those friends chose to share her thoughtful perspective with Calm-hearted. The words that follow are hers.

My friends lost their son only days after they had welcomed his arrival. Nathan was small, but he was mighty, and he wanted to be here, earth-side, with his mother and father, Jess and Jordan. It is an unimaginable thing to know that they had so very little time together.

I’ve never been great at comforting people in times of grief. I’m sure that many can relate to this, but it always feels like I am saying the wrong things, or making the wrong gestures, or letting a silence stretch into all the wrong places. I do think, however, that in moments of extreme grief, when someone’s pain truly feels like your own, there is nothing you can do but fully feel it with them.

In the days after Nathan’s death, my partner (whose friendship with Jordan goes back decades) and I knew that we needed to see them. I must admit that, somewhat shamefully, there were odd feelings that surrounded me. I knew wholeheartedly that I wanted to see them, hug them, and be there for them, but I’d never known a loss like this, and I didn’t know how I could even begin to ease this pain for them. It felt as though the logical and emotional sides of my brain were in a battle between wanting to show up and be a part of my village, while simultaneously wanting to curl up and hide away from a pain that I knew I couldn’t make go away.

Still, we went, and at the suggestion of some other friends, we decided to bring them some ingredients for a dish. The intent behind this was that they needed to eat, but keeping up with the routine of cooking might help to create some small moments in the day when they could focus on something other than the loss of their special Nathan, if that is even possible.

I opted for a salad that was currently my favourite. My sister had shared it with me a few months prior, and with its crunchy celery and red onion, fresh mint, sweet dates, and chunky parmesan, it quickly became a go-to in my household. We showed up to their place with our ingredients in hand, took a deep breath, and walked in to see them. The hugs were immediate, with tears quickly following. My brain fogs when I think back to what else we did in those moments, and I can only imagine how much thicker that fog was for them. I do remember that we sat on the patio, shared some snacks, rearranged some flowers, and talked about sweet, baby Nathan.

Since then, I’ve continued to make this salad. It never had a name before Nathan’s arrival, and I often simply told my partner, “I’m making the celery and onion salad tonight.” But since Nathan’s loss, I can’t help but think about him every time I make it. Out loud, I probably still call it the “celery and onion salad,” but in my mind, it feels like Nathan’s salad.

It’s a very unique feeling when you find yourself grieving someone you never met, and who you never got to share any moments with, but who was here just the same. You feel a weird need to fill in blank spaces and invent things that never happened. I know that Jess and Jordan will probably continue to make memories with Nathan in mind, beyond those few days they shared with him. I guess this salad is my own way of doing just that. It also feels like such a Schwartz-ian connection to make with him because of all my friends, Jess and Jordan are some of the biggest foodies I know. It is only logical to think that Nathan inherited that trait from them both, and I feel honoured to now share this salad with him.

I think the biggest thing I’ve learned about grief from the loss of Nathan is this: I will sometimes say the wrong things, I will sometimes make the wrong gestures, I will sometimes let a silence stretch into all the wrong places, and that is because a situation like this is inherently wrong. But that doesn’t mean you should hide away from the grief, or the people at the forefront of the grief itself.

I am constantly in awe of Jordan and Jess and how they have moved through these last few months. Their world was turned upside down through the loss of their son, but still, they press on, even on days where I am sure it feels impossible. They have relied on their village in a way that has solidified its strength and validated its importance. I am not ignorant of the fact that it comes with the sadness of knowing the pain it took to realize this, but I truly believe that in reaching out to their village and sharing this loss amongst many hearts, they have made it much easier for us all to carry.

If you find yourself lucky enough to be part of a village that invites you in during moments of pain, consider it a blessing. And when the time comes, do your very best to show up.