The Observer, February 18, 2005
Volume XXXVII, Issue 18
Sex & Dating
This past December, tragedy struck Southeast Asia in the form of a tsunami. An unprecedented outpouring of money and worldwide support ensued, leaving the world marveling at its own generosity. But slowly, the world moved on. New matters occupied the mind of the public, and outward signs of sympathy slowly faded.
Recently, the person I care for more than anything in the world was faced with the equivalent of an emotional tsunami. With the untimely passing of his mother, a piece of his own life vanished, and he experienced pain and loss that I cannot begin to imagine.
In any relationship, times of tragedy often prove to be the ultimate test. Relationships are two people working together to find common goals and compromise. Above all, relationships are give and take.
When someone is faced with a loss of this magnitude, however, there is very little left to give to a relationship. It is up to the other person to hold together both the relationship and, at times, the other person. To put it mildly, this can be difficult.
Like the time just after the tsunami hit, it is a simple matter of course to be giving and sympathetic after tragedy first strikes. It is after this first rush of sympathy that the test begins.
There were times when I wanted to shake him until he forgot, just for a moment. While I sat by myself on Valentine's Day evening, sometimes resentment got the best of me. Even though we had agreed it would be best to skip the holiday, I wanted to ask him why he hadn't at least gotten me a card – I had bought one for him, just in case. There were times when he asked me to stay home so he wasn't alone and, when I did, my professors callously reminded me that it wasn't my mother, "just" my boyfriend's.
At the same time, I'm sure there were times when he wondered how I could be happy when his world had just fallen apart. I'm sure there were times when I was singing along to the radio and he was fighting back tears. Times when I would talk on the phone to my mom in front of him, and he would be reminded that he would never again have that chance and wonder why I was so inconsiderate.
Those were the hard times. And we got through them. Not because I'm a saint, or because he wasn't that upset about his mother, but because, above all else, we care about each other. There were times when I said things that came out wrong, and he let me explain what I had meant to say. There were times when he lashed out, and I let him be angry, knowing he would apologize later.
Throughout it all, we talked. He told me that I didn't act like I was sad that his mother had died. I explained that I was too sad to show it; that if I let myself think about it, I would fall apart. He complained that no one wanted to talk about his mom; I put away my make-up work and listened to his stories, I let him talk about her.
I'm not an expert; this is my first experience with this type of situation. So this is my advice: just be there. You won't say all the right things. There will be times when you'll be frustrated. There will be times when you want to walk away.
I know I didn't do everything right. And yet, at the funeral, as we walked away from the flower-covered casket with tears on our cheeks, he was the one telling me that everything was OK.
