Grieving a friend is hard.
Grieving a friend during a pandemic is a lot harder.
What Our Friends Left Behind: Grief and Laughter in a Pandemic is a powerful and compassionate exploration of friend grief during the COVID-19 epidemic. This book sensitively addresses the unique challenges and emotions faced by people who have experienced the loss of a friend during these uncertain times.
Through personal anecdotes, interviews, and expert insights, Victoria Noe delves into the profound impact of losing a friend and the specific grief journey that ensues. The book acknowledges the significance of friendships and explores the complexities of grieving for a friend in a world upended by isolation, physical distancing, and limited opportunities for traditional mourning rituals.
Noeâs book also highlights the power of honoring the lives of those friends, offering examples of meaningful tributes and finding solace in shared memories. It encourages readers to embrace the healing power of community, finding comfort in the stories of others who have experienced friend grief during the pandemic.
What Our Friends Left Behind serves as a source of comfort, validation, and hope, reminding readers that they were not alone in the intricate journey of friend grief during these challenging times.
Grieving a friend is hard.
Grieving a friend during a pandemic is a lot harder.
What Our Friends Left Behind: Grief and Laughter in a Pandemic is a powerful and compassionate exploration of friend grief during the COVID-19 epidemic. This book sensitively addresses the unique challenges and emotions faced by people who have experienced the loss of a friend during these uncertain times.
Through personal anecdotes, interviews, and expert insights, Victoria Noe delves into the profound impact of losing a friend and the specific grief journey that ensues. The book acknowledges the significance of friendships and explores the complexities of grieving for a friend in a world upended by isolation, physical distancing, and limited opportunities for traditional mourning rituals.
Noeâs book also highlights the power of honoring the lives of those friends, offering examples of meaningful tributes and finding solace in shared memories. It encourages readers to embrace the healing power of community, finding comfort in the stories of others who have experienced friend grief during the pandemic.
What Our Friends Left Behind serves as a source of comfort, validation, and hope, reminding readers that they were not alone in the intricate journey of friend grief during these challenging times.
âNever forget Nerinx or me either.â
When I first got the idea for this book, I assumed I would lose a friend during COVID; maybe more than one. I hoped it would not approach the number of friends lost during the dark early days of AIDS, but in March of 2020, that was not assured. It was surprising that almost a full year passed before any friends died. But I guess my luck ran out because by the end of 2022, there were a dozen more on the list. In February of 2022, I gave my first eulogy for one of my oldest and dearest friends. It was a miserably cold, icy day in St. Louis when we said goodbye to Christy Adams.Â
Christy and I met freshman year at Nerinx Hall, a Catholic girls high school in Webster Groves, a suburb of St. Louis. Run by the Sisters of Loretto, it was and is described as âdangerously liberalâ. Our high school years coincided with the height of the civil rights movement and the Vietnam War. We marked the first Earth Day senior year, and graduated a few weeks after the Kent State killings. Christy had an ingrained fashion sense, no doubt passed on by her elegant mother, and a passion for theatre that rivaled my own.Â
She was loyal and dependable and genuine, and she never missed sending a birthday, anniversary or Christmas card. Until the year COVID struck. Thatâs how I realized something was going on that she wasnât telling me. She was diagnosed with cancer.Â
Of all the friends Iâve ever known, Christy was among the most private. She had a very clear sense of what personal information she was willing to share, even as she expected you to be much more forthcoming. When she and our friend Lynn and I had lunch in July of 2021, everything seemed fine. She looked great, perfectly put together as always, but mentioned an unusual pain that sheâd have to tell her doctor about. When things began to go downhill a couple months later, the conversations grew more serious during our periodic phone calls. She told me more about what she was going through than I ever imagined she would. In fact, she volunteered information that I would never have asked for, knowing her penchant for privacy. And though I was surprised and a little shocked, I knew that her trust in me was something to cherish.Â
Christy did not die from COVID, though she and her mother both had it in 2020. But the restrictions on visiting patients in hospitals and rehabilitation centers were in place because of COVID. I sent her cards and called; she didnât seem to have the interest or strength to email. More than once my husband asked if I wanted to drive down to St. Louis to visit her. But my answer was always the same: âI canât. Only her sister and one of her brothers can visit her.â Near the end, I offered to come down if she wanted to see me, but I knew that was unlikely. Christy was very particular about her appearance, and even though weâd been friends for well over 50 years, I knew she would not have wanted me to see her âlike thatâ.Â
Though I understood, and agreed that it was her right to restrict visitors, it added to the helplessness I felt. I wanted to do something, anything, that might lift her mood.
Thatâs when I remembered my friend Delle Chatman. Sheâd fought ovarian cancer for four years, going into remission for a while and then experiencing a return. When the cancer reappeared for what turned out to be the last time, she decided after a month to discontinue treatment, announcing her decision in an email to her friends.
The reaction was swift, with most vocalizing their dismay. Sheâd beaten back the cancer before - more than once. She could do it again, right? But Delle recognized that her body was simply too weak to keep fighting. Her decision was not up for debate: she was at peace, even if her friends were not. So we responded again, this time expressing the love and admiration we had for her. Delle was not amused: âIâm not dead yet! Save it for the funeral - Iâll be there.âÂ
I never asked if she was embarrassed by the show of affection or whether it really did feel like she was reading her eulogies. I imagine it was a little of both. But one thing was true: she died knowing just how loved she was by so many. And I wanted the same for Christy.
So Lynn and I decided to campaign Christy and her sister for the right to share her health news - she was now receiving hospice care - with our class. Not a public announcement on Facebook, but an email only to our classmates. We didnât want to be pushy, but I was beginning to feel the weight of keeping that news a secret from our friends. It was a weight that was not just emotional, but felt physical, as well. She did agree, and we sent out an email to the class, asking them to send cards if they were so inclined.
What happened next was similar to what happened with Delle. But where Delle had been able to have visitors in her condo up to the end, our class could only send cards. And boy, did they. During our reunion weekend in June of 2022, Christyâs sister Mary Ellen joined us at one event to thank us for the show of love. âIt was like Christmas!â she marveled, recounting how every day multiple cards arrived in the mail. It meant a lot to Christy and her family. And it lifted a little of that burden I felt.
COVID - but not only COVID - limited access to Christyâs funeral. On that dreary winter day, waves of ice storms passed through the St. Louis area, one that is not known for stellar snow removal. The roads were dangerous, and that as much as COVID kept most of her friends home. Only three of us from our class made it to the church; none made it to the funeral parlor or cemetery. There were maybe fifteen people in the pews who were not family.
The tiny crowd made me sad and angry: Christy deserved a church full of the friends who loved her. But at least the service was live streamed, thanks to a request from one of our classmates, Carol Greco. The church agreed because of the extreme weather, so our classmates from as far away as Quebec and her other friends could watch.Â
The day I was packing to drive down to St. Louis for the funeral, I got a text from Christyâs sister: âThe family would be honored if you would give the eulogyâ. My first thought was, âoh, hell, noâ. I was going to have a hard enough time getting through the funeral, much less speaking in front of everyone. But after a little while, I changed my mind and agreed. I had about 48 hours to prepare.
Iâd never given a eulogy before, so my only experience was from hearing eulogies for family and friends. Should I be serious and respectful? Is there room for humor? How could I possibly do justice to honoring a woman who was so loved?
I reached out to the class, asking for help. Did anyone have a story about Christy they wanted to share? I wanted it to be a group project, I guess, because the grief was not only mine. I got enough stories to get started, and spent most of those two days in my hotel room: writing and rewriting, rehearsing in front of a mirror to make sure I didnât talk too fast but stayed within the time limit.
I was already stressed when I reached the church, after driving through the first ice storm. But I was reasonably under control until the procession began and the casket was wheeled up the aisle next to me. When I was rehearsing the eulogy, I knew I could get through almost the whole thing before my voice cracked at one particular line near the end. But here I was, before mass even started, struggling. So I took a deep breath and wiped the tears that seeped under my KN94 mask.Â
Weâve all been to too many funerals where the minister didnât know the person who died. So the best part of Christyâs funeral was that the priest was a friend of hers. Theyâd met at Spring Hill College and Iâd heard her talk about Billy Huette many times over the years. We chatted briefly before mass, but did not discuss what we were going to say. I was pleasantly surprised by his beautiful sermon about their friendship. I knew that it was the perfect lead-in to my eulogy.Â
I have two degrees in theatre, so I have no fear of getting up in front of an audience. I also know how to use a microphone, which would be important for the live streaming. I was not intimidated walking up to the lectern. But all my rehearsal time turned out to be wasted. I looked out at the family, took a deep breath to center myself, and began to speak:
Thank you to Father Huette and to the entire Adams family for granting me the honor of speaking today representing the Nerinx Hall class of 1970. I hesitated to do it, but I was pretty sure Christy would be annoyed if I didnât.
My voice cracked on the first sentence.Â
That was not a good sign: my eulogy was going to run five minutes. So I took another deep breath and kept talking, careful as always not to talk too fast. I was sure to include humor, because being friends with Christy always meant a lot of laughter. One of her cousins, who sat right in my line of vision, laughed more than anyone, I think, which gave me the confidence to go on:Â
When the news went out to our class, several girls reached out to me. Judie Hennies, Kathy Cunningham, Ann Finney, Kathy Mosher, all expressing their grief over the loss of this wonderful friend.Â
I remember a day in the fall of 1966 in Speech class when Mrs. Des Parois - for some reason - decided we should demonstrate how we answer the phone at home. So, using a prop telephone, we each took a turn saying âHelloâ. Then Christyâs turn came: âAdams residence, Christy speaking.â Even Mrs. Des Parois was impressed.
Christy and I passed notes in school - yes, we did - and wrote many letters to each other. Before she left for Spring Hill College, she wrote that she had heard that people stay closer to their college friends than their high school friends. And she hoped that didnât happen to us. When I visited her there over spring break freshman year, I was glad she had new friends, but didnât let go of old ones.
Christy was a human Google. She knew everybody, maybe not personally, but she knew about them. At first, I assumed she knew so much because of meeting people at her motherâs shop. But it wasnât just that. She soaked up information and stored it away. Anytime I asked âI wonder what so and so is doing?â she would have a detailed answer at the ready.Â
In the fall of 1972, she wrote to me from Spring Hill with the following St. Louis news:
âI had a letter from Lynn yesterday. Kaneâs getting married May 19. Patty Van Wie will be matron of honor. Sheâs supposed to get married March 17. Donât you go and get married, too, or Iâll murder you.â
A few years later, she wrote from grad school in Quebec City, full of news about people in St. Louis. I remember staring at the letter and thinking, âIâm here and I donât know any of this. How did you find out?â I shouldâve known by then not to question.
It wasnât gossip. That has a negative connotation, suggesting things that are made up or malicious. And while the stories she told could be a little snarky, they were never malicious. There was the occasional raised eyebrow, but otherwise she simply reported the facts. Her sources were impeccable. I always got excited - as I did not too long ago - whenever I could tell her âI have some really good gossipâ.Â
Earlier this month I was in New York City. I bought a card at the Cooper Hewitt Museum to send her because I had a lot to share: mostly my reviews of Hadestown and Company, but also a couple of great backstage stories from a Broadway actor I interviewed for my next book. The day after that interview, Lynn called to tell me that Christy had taken a turn for the worst.
So I sent her some chocolate and a different card with a different sentiment: telling her that she has always been my kindest and most loyal friend, and for that Iâll always be grateful.
Our 50th high school reunion is coming up at the beginning of June, delayed twice because of COVID. Carol Greco reminded me that Christy worked on every one of our reunions. I always enjoyed the follow-up almost as much as the reunions themselves because Christy and I would compare notes: who did you talk to? What did you find out?Â
The last time I talked to Christy was the middle of January. She was, as she had been on our calls for several months, really down. I listened to her frustrations but I couldnât think of much to say that would ease them. Instead I blurted out, âListen, I donât want to go to the reunion without you.â And she said, âWell, I donât want you to go without me.â
I still donât want to.Â
Christy was simply the best of us. She was a Nerinx girl who gave of herself every day: in her work, in the way she treated those around her, in her faith.Â
Of course I know she would not want us to be sad. She would want us to pull together, which we are doing here today. And to tell the people we love that we love them. Not just family, but friends, too.
I hope that I was half as good a friend to Christy as she was to me. Because she always was and always will be an inspiration to me. We were all lucky to know her.
In our senior yearbook, she wrote: âNever forget Nerinx or me either.â
I promise I wonât.â
When I got to the part where my voice had always cracked near the end while rehearsing, my voice did not crack. It was more than that, a lot more. I struggled to stay in control, not sure if I could avoid breaking down completely. But I was determined to get through it, and I did. I walked back to my pew, pausing to touch her casket on the way. And then I let myself cry.
Our 50th class reunion was delayed twice because of COVID. The first year we knew it was impossible to get together. We channeled our disappointment into fulfilling a request made by Carol Greco: for our class to write letters of support to the graduating seniors, whose prom and graduation were canceled. The second year was more of a disappointment, because things had started to open up. But Nerinx was not hosting big events yet, and given the health of a couple of classmates, we delayed again to 2022. So it finally happened less than four months after Christyâs funeral. She had told her oncologist that all she wanted was to make it to the reunion. The COVID delays stole that dream from her.
For a while I was on the fence about going, because I kept remembering my last conversation with Christy, when I told her I didnât want to go to the reunion without her. I still didnât want to, but I did. I told my therapist that I wanted to laugh more than cry, and I did. The tears werenât as constant as Iâd feared because I was surrounded by other friends of Christyâs. In fact, I got through almost the whole weekend of reunion events without crying. It was the last event, a prayer service before brunch on Sunday, that finally broke my resolve.
We graduated 113 girls in 1970; there are 95 left. Our reunion tradition is to remember those who have died by reciting their names and presenting a rose at the front of the altar/podium during the service. The roses were brought up in order, beginning with one for the classmate who died while we were still in high school. That meant Christy was last. I was not surprised to be asked to bring up her rose, and I didnât feel particularly sad about it. But when I sat back down, my friend Judie grabbed my hand and held on tight. And that did it. I wasnât sobbing, but I was crying more than I had since the funeral, and it took me a few minutes to regain control. I was not embarrassed and did not apologize. It felt okay because I was not alone.Â
Iâve grieved in groups before, with friends and family. Thatâs the normal that we lost during COVID: the ability to share our grief and love in person. For the first time since before the pandemic, I felt a palpable relief to be able to grieve with others, even more so than Christyâs funeral. And I thanked God yet again that she didnât die a year earlier, like her mother did, when gathering like that was still impossible. I spent the weekend laughing more than crying, which was my goal. I was surrounded by classmates who looked the same and different, who acted the same and different. That familiarity was a comfort I didnât know I needed, even if I still wasnât friends with all of them. Thatâs okay. Weâre long past the need to impress each other.Â
Christy is not my only friend who died during COVID, not even the most recent one. As I write this, fifteen friends have died during COVID, just one of them from the virus. As always, some were expected, some were not. I was only able to attend one other service besides Christyâs, also in 2022, because of attendance restrictions or lack of live streaming. Some were delayed until gathering in person was safer. Once I didnât find out about the death until weeks after the funeral
because his husband isnât on social media. I know I was lucky to be able to grieve Christy and Sharon in person. But that leaves a lot of solitary grieving, and my experience is far from unique. COVID has upended the way we grieve. And at a time when draconian limits were placed on family members, the friends left behind found themselves even more restricted from comforting and grieving as they normally would. In Alone Together, Laura Stanfill shared the story of losing her dear friend of thirty years, Priya. Her experience was typical:
The news comes from her sister like all the other updates these past two weeks: by text. A friend reports itâs appropriate to wear white to Priyaâs funeral, so Justin, Melissa, and I hunt in our closets. I find a gauzy scarf with bronze embroidered flowers, pair it with a white and gray paisley dress with hints of gold. I go to my parentsâ house to attend the funeral. Our cameras are off; we are all on mute. The priest sings prayers. The family sprinkles Priyaâs white casket with petals and spices. The funeral home workers wheel her away. One isnât wearing a mask. The family follows the body, singing prayers and wailing. We keep watch over the empty room until someone thinks to turn us off. (p 65)
There was a brief moment, as I prepared to write Christyâs eulogy, when I toyed with the idea of quoting the minister in The Big Chill: âIâm angry, and I donât know what to do with my anger.â Anger may be the last taboo when it comes to grief, and there has been plenty of it during COVID. For many people, it was a shock to feel an emotion thatâs not considered âacceptableâ. But looking back on all of this, why wouldnât we be angry?
This is not a self-help book or a substitute for therapy. Itâs not a political statement on the pandemic, though politics are referred to occasionally, because, letâs face it, it canât be helped.Â
This book is not an instructional manual on âhow to do griefâ. Anyone trying to sell one of those is scamming you because grief canât be taught anymore than it can be permanently avoided or fixed. It can only be lived, in all its devastating, enraging, world-altering ways.Â
Instead, this book is for those of us who still struggle with ways to grieve and honor the friends who died these past three years. Itâs an attempt at solidarity, to assure you that you are not alone in your grief.Â
This book is for the friends I lost, the friends the people in this book lost, and all of your friends who died during COVID, gone but never forgotten.Â
What Our Friends Left Behind: Grief and Laughter in a Pandemic by Victoria Noe is a book that might be challenging for some. It takes an honest look of the massive amounts of loss that everyone on planet earth went through during the pandemic years, but it's my belief that a book like this exists to help and heal rather than do more harm.
Noe's book takes aspects of the pandemic (the arts, memorials, the political landscape, social issues) and mixes them with personal stories of close friends and relationships that suffered and died. Her main goal is to impart how truly important friends are in ones life. Yes we all have family and those ties are often the strongest, however, Noe challenges that notion and places the utmost importance on having strong friendships in our lives. Through the multitude of turmoil that took place in the recent past (racial, social, economical, physical) relationships of all types were challenged, and some fared better than others. What Our Friends Left Behind: Grief and Laughter in a Pandemic shines a light on stories and individuals who mattered and whose lives are worth remembering, whether it be a close personal friend of the author herself, or a Broadway actor whose death impacted thousands.
I applaud Noe for taking a challenging topic and diving in headfirst. I will say, however, that her perspective (while utterly personal and moving) leaves out experiences of other people in different phases of life in which the pandemic might have been vastly different (parents, teenagers, children). And while she does acknowledge the challenging aspect of writing an entire book about a portion of history most of us would happily forget, diving back into the pandemic is challenging. I found myself having to put the book down at times to snap myself out of triggering unpleasant memories.
Ultimately, What Our Friends Left Behind: Grief and Laughter in a Pandemic is heartfelt, earnest, often humorous, and at the very least deserves to be read for the light it shines on a very dark time.