This is hard for me to write, mostly because I don’t want to believe what I’m writing. It feels like some part of me is still trying to fight it, hoping it’s not true. But here it is.
The concept of death typically brings images of finality — a physical absence, a grief that follows a clear-cut ending. But what happens when the person you love, the person you once knew, is still physically present but fundamentally gone? This disorienting experience, often called ambiguous loss, is a kind of grief that doesn’t follow any clear rules. It’s like grieving someone who’s still alive.
Whether it’s addiction, mental illness, or disease, the fondness you once had for someone can erode until you’re left scrambling for who they used to be — but it’s like trying to hold onto sand slipping through your fingers.
I’ve experienced this with several family and friends, and it’s only now, through the lens of ambiguous loss, that I can finally see what’s really happened. When I think of them, my body feels tight — full of angst, sadness, disappointment. There’s a helplessness that sits in my chest.
In the earlier days, before I fully realized what was happening, I kept trying what I call relational CPR — joking like we used to, trying to pull from old memories, hoping to revive something familiar. But it was like spinning in circles.
The truth I’ve resisted is that I couldn’t save them. And as impossible and painful as it is to say, they no longer exist as I once knew them. In my memory, yes. But the person on the other end of the phone now is more of a shadow than a whole person. And that’s something I’m still learning how to sit with.
Love, Jaclyn
Going On 40 