I woke up this morning to a message no one ever wants to receive.

It was from dear friend, roommate from college and bridesmaid at my wedding.

Her husband was in a car accident yesterday and died. I cry writing this because it is so close right now.

She wrote looking for help. Looking for advice. Looking for something, anything to make sense out of something that makes no sense. She asked, “How did you do it? How did you get through it?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t do anything. Still haven’t gotten through it. I’m not sure anyone ever does.

I had tears — lots and lots of tears for her, but no clear-cut advice. There is none. 

I’m glad she sought me out. I did the same thing. Unfortunately I have a few friends who have walked this path before me and I turned to them for help, answers, advice, an ear — whatever they could give me. 

They were more than gracious; I think because they knew. 

I was now a member of their club. It’s a club no one ever wants to join. Membership is the opposite of coveted, yet some of us find ourselves here, with the label we never, ever thought possible. Members of this elite, prestigious, inane, stupid club.

Widow. Widower.

Alone. Filled with sorrow. Heart literally aching. Chest pounding. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Afraid to move forward. Terrified to look back.

But we are in this together, whether it’s been five days, five weeks or five years; we all know. 

Quite honestly it’s a horrible reality that no one should ever know. There are countless other horrible realities out there. I get it. But I’m a member of this particular special club. And it sucks.

It’s a club like the Hotel California; You can check out anytime you like; you just can’t never leave.

Those of us in this special club can’t leave. Not ever. But we can move forward, on a new path that we probably never considered before our membership was thrust upon us. 

It’s hard as heck, though. It’s like a never-ending, scary ride that just keeps running around the track over and over and over even though you are screaming to get off.

I’m not sure any of us will make it. But we’ll try. I know I’m going to try. I am trying.

Although some days it doesn’t feel that way. Some days it feels as though I’m stepping backwards instead of forward. Some days it doesn’t feel like anything at all. Some days the feelings are so intense I can hardly breathe. Some days I wake up to a memory that tightens in my chest and takes my breath away and I have to get up and just walk and breath slow and steady. People tell you to think of happy memories, but sometimes (often times) even the happy memories feel sad and you feel your chest tightening.

Some days thoughts of my own mortality creep in and I lose my breath again. Some days I think it’s all too hard, but then I think of my kids and know I have to find a way — some way  — for them and for me. Some days I wake up calm and I roll over and give thanks for comfy pillows and a warm bed.

Some days I feel a small hint of normal again. 

People have lots of kind advice about getting through and over grief. About the healing process. 

I don’t think I’ll ever be healed; there is no healing this grief. At best, I think, there is learning to live in tandem with it. Learning to laugh again, despite the loss. Learning to be okay with laughing again, despite the sadness. Learning to be okay with feeling sort of normal again without collapsing in a pool of anxiety because how can you feel normal when your world has collapsed from within? How do you orchestrate such a feat?

I’m not sure. Not sure I ever will be sure. But I am trying. I am trying to reconcile these two worlds in which I now live, and I hope and pray that the people I come across will understand and allow me the grace I am aching for.

The exact same sentiment goes out to my dear friend who is experiencing her own grief, which is even more recent than mine. This is for you, Paula. Hugs and love.

— Pertler is an award-winning syndicated columnist, published playwright, author and member of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Don’t miss a slice; follow the Slices of Life page on Facebook.