This is so beautiful and moving. Thank you for writing it. One of my biggest struggles when it comes to grief math is that the farther away I get from the moment I lost someone (one of my best friends, when we were both 24), the more the loss itself tends to have a presence in my life and memory, rather than the person themselves. I'm not sure if that makes sense, but I worry sometimes that my experience with losing my friend (and how it has changed my life) takes away from the fact that they were here. They had a whole world and a whole life and now I am just left with the memory, and the wake of the loss, and how it has colored everything. It's unavoidable, I know, but it sometimes feels so selfish to me. It slowly becomes easier to remember the specificity and details of the loss more than the details of who they were and what they loved and how they looked and our friendship itself, and that scares me. Of course, there is the love, too. That always sticks around. Maybe all the math is really just love, too.
But, anyway, all this to say that I do these types of calculations too. Thanks for sharing and for letting us all know that we're not alone.
My Grief Math is calculated in years I had with my loved ones sober, eg... My mother passed 7 years after I had gotten sober. I was then at the age of 49 and knew how precious those few short years were--in sobriety, with an un-altered mind. Prior to that, from age 13 up to 42, I didn’t feel much of anything as I numbed myself with alcohol and sometime drugs. When I was 19, my middle brother committed suicide. He was 16. It didn’t affect me much other than I felt at that time he was “just doing his thing.” (Sometime I see him in my dream state.)
In almost 29 years of sobriety, I have processed in sobriety, grief from my youngest brother passing in 2012. Dad’s passing in 2019, and numerous friends over the last handful of years. As I live in each day as it comes, I celebrate the times I did have with each of my loved ones whenever I think of them. It never occurred to me to think of where we or they could have been. Hmmm...maybe I’m missing something?
Grief math. Wow. Katie, as usual you are incredibly insightful. Thank you for sharing. I usually fall into grief math when I’m encouraging myself that it makes sense that it’s hard to process that my mom is gone ( or when I’m feeling cheated, “she should still be here!”) I start crunching numbers about how old my mom was when she lost her mom (my grandmother) vs how old I was when I lost my mom. Mom was 56 losing her mother who had lived a long full life at 93 while I was only 36 and lost my mom when she was 69. 20 years is a big difference. I wanted those years so badly. I also occasionally fall into calculating how long I have left if I were to go at my mom’s age vs my grandmother’s age but I really try to avoid that line of thinking!
This was so moving and well written. My grief math started when my mother passed away the day after my 23rd birthday (January 11th, 2003). In two years, I will have spent more time on this earth without my mother than the (too short) time we had together. She was my best friend, and I've never truly gotten over the loss (though it has receded further than I ever thought possible). On December 16th, 2021, I got a phone call from the hospital telling me my Dad had passed away, beginning the next grief math. I wish I could tie this up into some meaningful conclusion...I guess the numbers still have to work themselves out. Thank you for giving me this space to start making these calculations. Much love and healing to you all!
Grief math has become a part of me, in a way. I have five siblings. All of us are older now than our mother was when she died (55). Five of us are older than our father was when he died (57). This year would have been their 70th wedding anniversary. My aunt has been dead for half the time I knew her (she died 20 years ago when I was 40). My boyfriend has been dead for 15 years...
As Olivia said, grief colors your world. My family tells stories about our loved ones and that kind of keeps them with us. The grandchildren my parents never knew have kids now and their kids hear stories about their great grandparents. It keeps their memory alive and passes down the love.
Oof. Grief math. I've got lots of it. The most relevant for me currently is that on my 42nd birthday last January I hit the mark of having lived longer without my dad than I had with him (he died by suicide just before my 21st birthday). And on my birthday next January, I will turn how old he was when he died, 44. He was so young. I could never have understood just how young at the time.
I've been lucky to not have too much loss to calculate, though I know this won't be true forever. But my daughter would have been five in August, and despite the grief fading into a presence that doesn't always need to show its face, that was a really hard milestone. My son, who was born two years later, has always been older than his sister, but occasionally he mentions her, and I know she's not forgotten even by people who never met her.
Katie, as always, this is so good. My grief math is this:
On March 17th, it will be 25 years since my high school boyfriend was killed in a car accident. This is a big one. How can it be 25 years? I'm not old enough to have giant life events happen 25 years ago (but, at 42 years old, apparently I am).
My son, Tyler, is now three years older than my boyfriend was when died. That's a mindfuck too.
Tyler is also a year older than I was when I got pregnant with him. That's not grief math, but it's crazy to think about.
Thank you so much for sharing this. It's good to know I'm not the only one who does this kind of math.
This past year, I had an incredible experience of reconciliation that is also tied up in grief math. My college boyfriend, who before that was a very good friend, broke up with me in the fall of 2010. A few days later, my beloved grandfather (who also was like a best friend to me) died. A couple weeks later, I learned my ex was now suddenly with a new woman, the woman who would eventually become his wife -- the woman who, when I met her at his college graduation, thought, "Damn, they'd be so good together! Better than we are!" I was completely heartbroken and alone, full of so much love that no longer had anywhere to go. Fast forward 13 years. We're both married with one toddler each and living 15 minutes away from each other. He eventually got up the courage to reconnect with me on social media and we began catching up every once in a while. Then, suddenly, his truly wonderful father died. My ex invited me to come to the shiva. As I approached the front door of his parents' home, a place I once knew so well that felt like a second home to me, I felt so scared. What would it be like to be in each others' presence again after so long, after this sudden and tragic death? Did I have any right to even be here? Then suddenly, I saw him standing there in the doorway, holding his son. We hugged and cried for a long time, the baby squirming between us and having no idea what this embrace represented. Then we looked at each other and I said, "Goddamn. 13 years." Now, it's approaching 1 year since his father died and 1 year since we're back in each others' lives, full of the joy of our newfound friendship and all that we now share as parents to the children we had with the people who loved us afterwards. It's a strange and beautiful thing, and it's been such a balm to my heart after 13 years of grieving.
My next one about my brother is when he will have been dead longer than alive. I’ve already out-aged him. And this year is when he has been gone for the same amount of time that I knew him.
I loved this piece, Katie. My mom passed away when I was 10 years old, and I remember in college coming to the shocking realization that I had lived as much life without her as I had with her. I love the term "grief math" to describe these calculations.
Thank you for this post—comforting to see this is something we all do, and now I do wish it could be something to share regularly. I will share one of mine here: last year, I realized that on Oct 4th I would be the exact age my late aunt was when I was born. She died over 25 years ago, and was an important mother figure to me. On that day, I went out to dinner at a nostalgic place, wore her favorite color, and toasted to her life.
Thanks so much for this! It prompted me to calculate and realize that I have been friends with my best friend since 5th grade (52 years) for twice as long as I had my mother in my life (26 years)! And what a blessing she is and always has been!!
I love numbers, but there are certain numbers I try to block out as they hurt too much (how many days was my dad in the hospital before deciding to go in to hospice (5 days - also the number of days before I realized he was not going to recover), once in hospice, how many days till he was gone (one day), the hours we had him at home before he went silent (I don't want to think about it, but it was less than 12), the day he died (I don't want to remember this either - May 21 ...).) Now the numbers I don't want to think about, but can't help thinking about, are for my living loved-ones - how long did my mom's mom live - and what does that mean for my mom ? How long did my dad / grandfather / uncles live - and what does that mean for my brothers ... my husband is 10 years older than me - but in great shape ... can he outlive me as I have requested?? Whether it losing a family member, friend or fur-baby, my emotional chart goes off scale when I think of those final days, and weeks and months right after ... its always bitter sweet, but I try to remember the good times with those who are gone, and savor every opportunity to enjoy those who are still here.
gosh -- grief math! Thank you for this beautiful piece of writing and humanity. This is exactly what I have been fighting the past couple of years.
Despite my best efforts, I have kept counting... since the 3 June 2021 when I first saw on the monitor that the baby no longer had a heart beat, to the 15 June 2021 when I had to undergo an emergency operation to remove this lost life, to 6 months of hospital visits, 13 needles and 26 blood samples later to the 8 November 2021 when I was told my body had finally released all the HCG and I could think of resuming 'life as normal', to when I thought a new life would be seeing the day of light, to all the years that have since passed and thinking how old that child would be today, to being a bystander celebrating friends' children's' birthdays, as I count the years that go by and feel in limbo... I could go on but that's not the point. Thank you for giving me a language I needed to know and a community that made me feel momentarily less crazy and less alone.
This is so beautiful and moving. Thank you for writing it. One of my biggest struggles when it comes to grief math is that the farther away I get from the moment I lost someone (one of my best friends, when we were both 24), the more the loss itself tends to have a presence in my life and memory, rather than the person themselves. I'm not sure if that makes sense, but I worry sometimes that my experience with losing my friend (and how it has changed my life) takes away from the fact that they were here. They had a whole world and a whole life and now I am just left with the memory, and the wake of the loss, and how it has colored everything. It's unavoidable, I know, but it sometimes feels so selfish to me. It slowly becomes easier to remember the specificity and details of the loss more than the details of who they were and what they loved and how they looked and our friendship itself, and that scares me. Of course, there is the love, too. That always sticks around. Maybe all the math is really just love, too.
But, anyway, all this to say that I do these types of calculations too. Thanks for sharing and for letting us all know that we're not alone.
My Grief Math is calculated in years I had with my loved ones sober, eg... My mother passed 7 years after I had gotten sober. I was then at the age of 49 and knew how precious those few short years were--in sobriety, with an un-altered mind. Prior to that, from age 13 up to 42, I didn’t feel much of anything as I numbed myself with alcohol and sometime drugs. When I was 19, my middle brother committed suicide. He was 16. It didn’t affect me much other than I felt at that time he was “just doing his thing.” (Sometime I see him in my dream state.)
In almost 29 years of sobriety, I have processed in sobriety, grief from my youngest brother passing in 2012. Dad’s passing in 2019, and numerous friends over the last handful of years. As I live in each day as it comes, I celebrate the times I did have with each of my loved ones whenever I think of them. It never occurred to me to think of where we or they could have been. Hmmm...maybe I’m missing something?
Grief math. Wow. Katie, as usual you are incredibly insightful. Thank you for sharing. I usually fall into grief math when I’m encouraging myself that it makes sense that it’s hard to process that my mom is gone ( or when I’m feeling cheated, “she should still be here!”) I start crunching numbers about how old my mom was when she lost her mom (my grandmother) vs how old I was when I lost my mom. Mom was 56 losing her mother who had lived a long full life at 93 while I was only 36 and lost my mom when she was 69. 20 years is a big difference. I wanted those years so badly. I also occasionally fall into calculating how long I have left if I were to go at my mom’s age vs my grandmother’s age but I really try to avoid that line of thinking!
This was so moving and well written. My grief math started when my mother passed away the day after my 23rd birthday (January 11th, 2003). In two years, I will have spent more time on this earth without my mother than the (too short) time we had together. She was my best friend, and I've never truly gotten over the loss (though it has receded further than I ever thought possible). On December 16th, 2021, I got a phone call from the hospital telling me my Dad had passed away, beginning the next grief math. I wish I could tie this up into some meaningful conclusion...I guess the numbers still have to work themselves out. Thank you for giving me this space to start making these calculations. Much love and healing to you all!
Grief math has become a part of me, in a way. I have five siblings. All of us are older now than our mother was when she died (55). Five of us are older than our father was when he died (57). This year would have been their 70th wedding anniversary. My aunt has been dead for half the time I knew her (she died 20 years ago when I was 40). My boyfriend has been dead for 15 years...
As Olivia said, grief colors your world. My family tells stories about our loved ones and that kind of keeps them with us. The grandchildren my parents never knew have kids now and their kids hear stories about their great grandparents. It keeps their memory alive and passes down the love.
Oof. Grief math. I've got lots of it. The most relevant for me currently is that on my 42nd birthday last January I hit the mark of having lived longer without my dad than I had with him (he died by suicide just before my 21st birthday). And on my birthday next January, I will turn how old he was when he died, 44. He was so young. I could never have understood just how young at the time.
I've been lucky to not have too much loss to calculate, though I know this won't be true forever. But my daughter would have been five in August, and despite the grief fading into a presence that doesn't always need to show its face, that was a really hard milestone. My son, who was born two years later, has always been older than his sister, but occasionally he mentions her, and I know she's not forgotten even by people who never met her.
Katie, as always, this is so good. My grief math is this:
On March 17th, it will be 25 years since my high school boyfriend was killed in a car accident. This is a big one. How can it be 25 years? I'm not old enough to have giant life events happen 25 years ago (but, at 42 years old, apparently I am).
My son, Tyler, is now three years older than my boyfriend was when died. That's a mindfuck too.
Tyler is also a year older than I was when I got pregnant with him. That's not grief math, but it's crazy to think about.
Thank you so much for sharing this. It's good to know I'm not the only one who does this kind of math.
This past year, I had an incredible experience of reconciliation that is also tied up in grief math. My college boyfriend, who before that was a very good friend, broke up with me in the fall of 2010. A few days later, my beloved grandfather (who also was like a best friend to me) died. A couple weeks later, I learned my ex was now suddenly with a new woman, the woman who would eventually become his wife -- the woman who, when I met her at his college graduation, thought, "Damn, they'd be so good together! Better than we are!" I was completely heartbroken and alone, full of so much love that no longer had anywhere to go. Fast forward 13 years. We're both married with one toddler each and living 15 minutes away from each other. He eventually got up the courage to reconnect with me on social media and we began catching up every once in a while. Then, suddenly, his truly wonderful father died. My ex invited me to come to the shiva. As I approached the front door of his parents' home, a place I once knew so well that felt like a second home to me, I felt so scared. What would it be like to be in each others' presence again after so long, after this sudden and tragic death? Did I have any right to even be here? Then suddenly, I saw him standing there in the doorway, holding his son. We hugged and cried for a long time, the baby squirming between us and having no idea what this embrace represented. Then we looked at each other and I said, "Goddamn. 13 years." Now, it's approaching 1 year since his father died and 1 year since we're back in each others' lives, full of the joy of our newfound friendship and all that we now share as parents to the children we had with the people who loved us afterwards. It's a strange and beautiful thing, and it's been such a balm to my heart after 13 years of grieving.
My next one about my brother is when he will have been dead longer than alive. I’ve already out-aged him. And this year is when he has been gone for the same amount of time that I knew him.
I loved this piece, Katie. My mom passed away when I was 10 years old, and I remember in college coming to the shocking realization that I had lived as much life without her as I had with her. I love the term "grief math" to describe these calculations.
Thank you for this post—comforting to see this is something we all do, and now I do wish it could be something to share regularly. I will share one of mine here: last year, I realized that on Oct 4th I would be the exact age my late aunt was when I was born. She died over 25 years ago, and was an important mother figure to me. On that day, I went out to dinner at a nostalgic place, wore her favorite color, and toasted to her life.
Thanks so much for this! It prompted me to calculate and realize that I have been friends with my best friend since 5th grade (52 years) for twice as long as I had my mother in my life (26 years)! And what a blessing she is and always has been!!
I love numbers, but there are certain numbers I try to block out as they hurt too much (how many days was my dad in the hospital before deciding to go in to hospice (5 days - also the number of days before I realized he was not going to recover), once in hospice, how many days till he was gone (one day), the hours we had him at home before he went silent (I don't want to think about it, but it was less than 12), the day he died (I don't want to remember this either - May 21 ...).) Now the numbers I don't want to think about, but can't help thinking about, are for my living loved-ones - how long did my mom's mom live - and what does that mean for my mom ? How long did my dad / grandfather / uncles live - and what does that mean for my brothers ... my husband is 10 years older than me - but in great shape ... can he outlive me as I have requested?? Whether it losing a family member, friend or fur-baby, my emotional chart goes off scale when I think of those final days, and weeks and months right after ... its always bitter sweet, but I try to remember the good times with those who are gone, and savor every opportunity to enjoy those who are still here.
This is insightful and beautiful. I like the term grief math, it's bittersweet.
gosh -- grief math! Thank you for this beautiful piece of writing and humanity. This is exactly what I have been fighting the past couple of years.
Despite my best efforts, I have kept counting... since the 3 June 2021 when I first saw on the monitor that the baby no longer had a heart beat, to the 15 June 2021 when I had to undergo an emergency operation to remove this lost life, to 6 months of hospital visits, 13 needles and 26 blood samples later to the 8 November 2021 when I was told my body had finally released all the HCG and I could think of resuming 'life as normal', to when I thought a new life would be seeing the day of light, to all the years that have since passed and thinking how old that child would be today, to being a bystander celebrating friends' children's' birthdays, as I count the years that go by and feel in limbo... I could go on but that's not the point. Thank you for giving me a language I needed to know and a community that made me feel momentarily less crazy and less alone.