![]() As I was going mad from grief, the worst of it was that sometimes I believed I was making it all up. They moved me, that is to say, they felt physical, they budged me from the sodden self-disintegrating lump I otherwise was. Some people apologized for sending sympathy through the ether some overnighted notes it made no difference to me. My friend Rob e-mailed me first, a beautiful and straightforward vow to do anything he could to help me. Now they felt like oxygen, and only now do I fully understand why: to know that other people were sad made Pudding more real. Before Pudding died, I’d thought condolence notes were simply small bits of old-fashioned etiquette, important but universally acknowledged as inadequate gestures. What amazed me about all the notes I got – mostly through e-mail, because who knew how to find me? – was how people did know what to say, how words didn’t fail. I don’t know what to say, people wrote, or, Words fail. I wanted to share this piece of Elizabeth’s writing because it so eloquently explains how much the cards, emails, and phone calls mean. I read the following section right after I wrote my open letter to friends and family. There is so much that rings true although our situations, our experiences, our points of view in many cases are different. I’ve been reading Elizabeth McCracken‘s book about her first child, her son, who was stillborn. ![]()
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