vicarious loss

Last week, I received a mass-BCC email.  When I opened it, I didn't even understand what I was reading at first.  I must have read it at least four times before it sunk in.  I am not prepared for this, the death of my friend's mother.  I'm just getting used to grandparents dying with alarming frequency; my uncle Len's passing earlier this year broached that invisible generational line.  Upon the fifth reading, it finally sunk in that the funeral was the next day and that, yes, she was only 55.

Honestly, I didn't know what to do.
I was at work, it was 1800hrs and I still had three hours left on my shift.  I'm reading this email for the sixth time and answering questions about monthly reports and break coverages.  It felt surreal.  Do these things even matter any more?  And then there was the fact I was reading an email.  An email.  A blind-copied email, so I didn't know who else was reading it and the one person I knew for sure was sharing my shock was thousand of miles away, on an island in the Indian ocean.

That's when I did something that I'm not proud of.  I hesitated.  I used to think I was good in a crisis, but apparently not.  I hesitated picking up the phone to condole with my friend, to offer my support with whatever he or his family may need, to ask how he was and did he need anything.  The words stuck in my throat and I panicked.  After the eighth reading, all I could discern in the roiling mass of emotions churning about in my stomach were guilt and seflishness.  Guilt because I had opened the email at least fourteen  minutes prior and I wasn't already on the phone with him; selfish because all I could think about was my own mother and just what a mess I'd be if she passed away.

I actually held the receiver in my hand for a solid two minutes before I dialed his number.  And the words still stuck in my throat, still sounded trite and empty, no matter that I meant every single one.  I am sorry for his loss, if there is anything I could do, I'd do it (please give me something to do), I'd see him the next day, how is he holding up?  I didn't really expect more than the mono-syllabic responses I received.

I called my mother afterwards, greedy to hear her voice, and ask what I was supposed to say when I went the next day.  I typically avoid funerals, as they make me feel utterly helpless.  Most times I get to make my peace with the deceased beforehand.  This time, it wasn't about his mother - it was about him.  Mom said there's nothing I can say, that whatever words there are have to come from the heart and that, sometimes, there are no words.  I remember hugging my Aunt Karen after Uncle Len passed and we didn't say anything, just stood, locked together for five minutes, passing our grief back and forth.

In a testament of deep friendship, I went to the funeral.  Despite knowing him for seventeen years, I'd never met his father and had only had one exchange with his sister.  I felt awkward, still fighting the remnants of shame from my reaction the night before.  I met his girlfriend (suddenly, I understood why he didn't feel the need to tell any of us anything - he had a confidante), I talked to boys I hadn't seen in over a decade, I sat in the back row and fell apart during the eulogy. I felt a little better laughing at fond memories during the reception.

Now, days later, I'm still feeling like I should have done something else.  I didn't get to talk to him in private, hug him in that cathartic way, offer assistance.  Truthfully, I feel like I'm intruding.  I know that it's cowardly to say "well, if he can call me when he's ready" because I should be the one calling him.  And yet...

I am at a loss.