Telling People That Your Parents Are Dead
Grief doesn’t end, it just shapeshifts
I’ll start by saying that there is no one, correct, good way to tell people that your parents are dead.
The news (for them) usually tumbles out of my mouth unceremoniously in a jumble of words that attempt to soften the inevitable blow. I’ve lived 10 years as a parentless person. A daughter to no one. This is a fact I come face-to-face with every day.
It is a Wednesday. It is 51 degrees out. I have a dentist appointment. My parents are dead.
Yet, the delivery of this fact, the style of its sharing feels less concrete. The occasion presents itself often enough that one would think I should have a script prepared by now. Take happy hour, for instance. I will be standing in a crowded room, in conversation with someone who is somewhat of a stranger. People at happy hour do not intend to be told about the crushing, untimely deaths of your parents within six years of each other. There is a certain expectation, a silent code: Share the happy, keep it light, don’t be so serious. The conversation will take a turn, but my conversational partner won’t be aware of it. They do not yet know that they are steering us into waters uncharted for them, familiar for me, awkward for us both.
