And I'm being incredibly selfish by not acknowledging that others are going through some lousy shit right now too. Please know that I am sending you as much strength and love as you've given me.

I've heard it said that a drowning person isn't selfish. You are drowning; doing what you need to do to draw in the next breath is not only reasonable, but right and good.

What eveyone said, Maria. And adding that admitting it is further proof of strength. If you can, work on letting the feelings flow over you - watch and describe them, but don't fight them.

But what if I actually do run away? It's not outside the realm of possibility. Then I'm not only weak, but a disappointment.

When my mom was so sick and when she was dying, I ran away, mentally, emotionally, a lot. There were days I called in sick to work just so I could stay in bed all day and not answer the phone. My sister ran away into her work; she has to travel a lot and those times, I came down to Virginia to see to mom and she was able to just leave and focus on something else. I don't believe anyone can be totally present all the time when something so bad is happening. If your mind, your soul, needs a break from the onslaught of emotion, there's nothing wrong with that. Taking the break lets you come back and continue to be strong.

I understand that fear, Maria. I'll be honest with you, I broke like a twig and I am not really put back together. It happens. But there's no way to prevent that if it's going to happen. Which I mean to be reassuring - it's not your fault, what's happening or how you feel about it, or how "well" you cope with it all.

I'm so sorry you have to work while dealing with all this. Get through today as best you can and keep breathing. Breathing is good.

I'm scared that if I can't bear this pain now and it's just my uncle, what's going to happen when it's my father, or mother, or sister, or husband? I will break, and I won't be able to put myself together again.

It is my belief that grief is a heavy load to carry. When it first is given to you, you feel as though you cannot bear up under it; taking a single step is so hard, and taking the next, and the next, and the next after that, is overwhelmingly difficult. It's all you can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And sometimes, you can't keep your balance, so you drop to the ground. But you get back up, and keep walking. Gradually, over time, it gets better - not because the burden becomes lighter, but because strength increases, making it easier to bear. Each grief is a separate weight. There is no comparing one to another. But after a new burden is loaded on to you, you feel a little more confident. When a new one is piled onto your back, you know that it is ok to stumble beneath it, that it is ok for it to take time to develop the muscles to carry the new burden. The confidence doesn't make the new burden lighter. The grief is not the less because of earlier griefs. But that confidence can make it a bit less utterly terrifying.

I'm scared that if I can't bear this pain now and it's just my uncle, what's going to happen when it's my father, or mother, or sister, or husband? I will break, and I won't be able to put myself together again.

It's going to be awful, no lie. But you'll get through it, one way or another, even if it's not the way you think you "should" get through it. You have many wonderful people in your life who adore you and want the best for you, and when one of them dies, it is going to be really hard to bear, and you might need to run away for a while, or fall apart for a while, and lean on other people, and strengthen those connections that remain, and make new ones.

When Mark's brother died last summer, after the first few weeks of intense grief and shock, I spent a lot of time thinking and worrying about how I'd handle it when my turn came. Because I hope to God it will be many years from now, but eventually we will both lose more people we love fiercely. It was terrifying to watch Mark grieve, and to try to share what I could of his grief, and to live with the hugeness of it, and to know that someday it would be me feeling that despair.

I don't have any great words of wisdom here to end with, though I wish I did. Everyone deals with grief and loss differently; for Mark, I can see it starting to lift a bit, but it has certainly changed him. Still, he is going on, and learning to live with the loss, and I have to believe that when it's my turn, that is how it will be for me too, and for you. And we will be here to help you however we can.

Each grief is a separate weight. There is no comparing one to another. But after a new burden is loaded on to you, you feel a little more confident. When a new one is piled onto your back, you know that it is ok to stumble beneath it, that it is ok for it to take time to develop the muscles to carry the new burden. The confidence doesn't make the new burden lighter. The grief is not the less because of earlier griefs. But that confidence can make it a bit less utterly terrifying.

This. Oh G-d, this is so, so true.

Also, there is NO SHAME in saying "I can't cope right now". NONE. (Which, I admit, had to be pounded into my head by several people over the past few months.)

edit: And Jilli, my god, how? It hurts, so damn much.

I know, honey. I know. Just remember that there is no "wrong" or "right" reaction or how to handle things, and just do what YOU need to do.

And we will be here to help you however we can.

This. And sometimes you find comfort in unexpected places as well. When Alex died, and I felt like my sisters and parents were grieving so much, I couldn't really get comfort from them, my in-laws were such a great source of love and support, they gave me what I needed to be able to be a comfort to my other family.

Maria, everyone has such wise and true things to say (like Kate just now). I'm so sorry they didn't have better news about your uncle. And I hope you can let yourself just feel what you're feeling for a bit and don't beat yourself up about it. Take care of yourself.

Once again, I'm humbled and awed by the wisdom and love of this little world we've built.

To Maria, I wish I had something more specific to say than I love you and feel your heartbreak and loneliness and fear, and most of all, WHAT THEY SAID. And even without teh big wisdoms, I wanted to add my voice to those who are loving and supporting your family.