Loss
Reflections on grief in all its unexpected forms
Not exactly a title designed to pull you in—but bear with me. Over the past few days, several friends have shared stories of loss with me. The loss of people they loved deeply, the loss of treasured pets they loved deeply. And since I’ve rather grandly bestowed upon myself the title of The Rambling Raconteur, allow me a brief detour before arriving at the point.
I’ve come to believe that loss wears many disguises. My original intention was to revisit one of my own, and I’ll begin by saying—without any disrespect to the dead—that some losses catch us completely off guard. They arrive quietly, almost uninvited, and then settle into us far more deeply than we ever imagined they could. Scott was one of those losses. You can read more about that chapter in Ballad of a Troubled Young Man in my memoir (which I will hopefully have available before winter turns to spring)
As I write this he has been gone for over three years but his memory still lingers. To be clear, we were never friends. In fact, we were closer to adversaries….okay down right enemies - lets not indulge in word play. He was my friend’s boyfriend—a deeply troubled young man who never had the chance to realize his potential. His death at just 27 years old shocked us both. While he was incarcerated at the time, which one might assume offers a degree of safety, life—even in controlled environments—can be brutally unforgiving.
He struggled with substance use disorder, heroin foremost among his demons, with others close behind. It was my first true encounter with addiction of that magnitude. Despite years spent in the music industry, I had somehow remained untouched by that particular darkness. I reacted badly to his relapses—anger was my default response. I’m not proud of that, but I own it. From where I stood, he had everything ahead of him. What I failed to grasp then was how tightly drugs had wrapped themselves around him, never loosening their grip.
What might his life have become if he had lived? What truly happened in his final hours? These questions still circle endlessly. Retracing those final moments leaves only unanswered questions. In my heart, I don’t believe his intention was to die. There had been patterns before—destructive, manipulative even—and as difficult as it is to admit, it’s a truth he himself would likely acknowledge. Many factors converged that night, and while theories exist, certainty does not. Some questions are destined to remain unanswered.
Beyond Scott, I’ve watched friends lose parents, siblings, pets and people taken far too soon—sometimes by illness that sets a grim timeline, sometimes by sudden surprise. My own mother died of multiple sclerosis at 49. We knew the disease would likely shorten her life, but knowing doesn’t soften the blow when it comes decades too early. Even anticipated loss has a way of blindsiding us, pushing us into a strange limbo of denial that buys us just enough time to learn how to survive what’s happened.
No matter how it arrives, loss is never simple. And it isn’t always a person we mourn. This may sound trivial after everything I’ve shared, but have you ever grieved the loss of something inanimate—an object, a possession, something that quietly became part of your life? Last year I had to part with an old sofa bed I’d owned for years. To my own surprise, it genuinely hurt. I even considered keeping it alongside the new one—and would have, had space allowed. Confession: I took a photo of it in the garbage room. Tell me I’m not alone in this.
And yet, some losses sit in a space all their own. Recently, I lost my bird, Rico. He was small in size but immense in presence, a constant companion for 14 years whose life was woven into my daily rhythms. His absence has left a silence that feels disproportionate, yet deeply real. Rico wasn’t “just a bird”—he was comfort, routine, and quiet joy. Losing him has reminded me that grief doesn’t measure worth by size or species; it measures connection. His loss has affected me more than I ever expected, and in that unexpected depth, I’ve learned once again that love—wherever it finds us—always leaves an imprint.
So how about you? How do you cope with loss when it enters your life, in whatever form it chooses to take?
I will leave you with the ring in which I placed Rico’s ashes…love you little angel bird:)
Well done Lee.
Death is such a personal subject, how we handle it, how we understand it and how we deal with the aftermath.
My job as a three year old was to go into my great grandmother’s room to see if she answered my questions about a range of things. Then I would report back to my grandmother or mother (yes 4 generations in one house) I think perhaps the elders thought that I was too young to understand what would have possibly happened if I hadn’t been given an answer.
All the adults in my family were gone by the time I was 31. So at that ripe old age I was the Matriarch of our family. Times were tough and I had to figure it all out on my own. I say on my own but that’s not really true.
They were there, telling me what to do just like always. I knew them so well that in my imagination I could hear what they would have said had they physically been with me.
My job involved the elderly. Every day I went to work I was never sure who would still be there.
The only advice I can give to anyone is this, if someone matters to you then watch them, listen to them, ask them questions. If you really get to know someone, when they are gone you will have that knowledge deep inside you like a treasure chest and you can dig deep when you need to. It has served me well as I have never felt that anyone has truely left me. Look around, watch, listen, sometimes they are so loud it’s embarrassing.
This is moving and beautiful, Lee. The “strange limbo of denial that buys us just enough time to learn how to survive what’s happened” is perfectly expressed. Sending comfort and strength.