Peripheral Grief

Today two of my camp friends will fly to attend another friend's funeral. The irony that they are flying on 9/11 is not lost on any of us. Tomorrow I will attend the same funeral virtually. The irony that COVID is the reason that is even an available option is not lost on me either. 

On 9/11 I was a New Yorker in the Midwest. Completely freaked out and so far from "home." It took hours to confirm that those closest to me were alright, though no one was really alright. I was here and yet my pain was real and raw. In reality though, it was peripheral. Do I have college friends who lost spouses and parents, yes. Did a mom from my hometown never come home, yes. Did that day change me more as a lifelong New Yorker, also yes.

Your peripheral vision is your side vision, the ability to see things outside of your direct line of sight. And so often, such is our grief. My friend lost her sister, a boy lost his mother, and a father, his daughter. They are the mourners. They are the ones with the right to cry and scream and curse the sky. They are the ones who must put aside their grief to plan and organize and respond to questions. So why is my heart so heavy when I had not seen this friend in 30 years? Why did I have to be physically restrained from driving to my mother in New York 22 years ago today?

I used to think that everyone felt as deeply as I do. That they felt the pain of others and their own grief was not based on how recent or frequently they connected with someone who was now gone. I have come to understand that is not the case for everyone, that I am both blessed and cursed with peripheral grief.

If you have never attended sleep-away camp, it is a difficult concept to explain. It is hard for someone to wrap their minds around the bonds built in such a short but intense time together. It is hard to imagine that neither time nor distance can diminish how it feels when someone you grew up with in that environment is struggling. It is peripheral grief, and it is heavy.

If you have never felt your city in your bones, then it is equally hard to imagine why anyone who was a New Yorker, considers themselves one for life. That when something or someone destroys the fabric of what makes it the greatest city on earth, New Yorkers around the globe mourn. It is peripheral grief, and it is hard.

I still cannot wrap my brain around the idea that Randi is gone, or that Amy has lost her sister. I was just texting with Randi on July 20^th as she shared the astonishing news that the pharma company was going to cover her immunotherapy. I had reached out to her as soon as I knew she was sick and then again when she was fighting the insurance company with ideas with the little expertise I have in the area. I cannot wrap my heart around it either. It is peripheral grief, and there are times when I feel guilty for it. Who am I to have the right when those so close to her are the true mourners. But then a text dings or a call comes through, and it is another camp friend, and they share the same hurt and I know that we can find comfort in each other. In the past. In the knowing.

Earlier today I responded to one of the women flying today – “I know you are flying to the funeral today of all days, and luckily you have a newly anointed angel watching over you.” And while I do not really believe in g-d, or angels in any literal sense - I do believe in camp friends. I believe in cities that are part of our fabric. I believe in our collective peripheral grief, and it makes us all a little less alone.