Grief Exists On A Spectrum

Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash

I’ve started watching “Go to Bed With Me” videos when I’m feeling especially frazzled. If you’re unfamiliar with the genre, imagine your favorite famous person in front of a well lit mirror in a spotless bathroom, talking to a camera as they perform their nighttime skincare routine.

I’ve watched videos with as many as 17 skincare steps and others with as few as four. Regardless of the video’s length, the featured famous person, or even the skincare routine itself, I can feel myself emotionally regulating as the minutes pass. 

A while back, I watched Brenda Song’s “Go to Bed With Me” video. There’s a moment when she mentions applying skincare products in an upward motion, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t transport me to a childhood memory of a friend telling me the same thing. 

“You’re always supposed to go up with it, and anything you put on your face you should put on your neck too,” my friend tells me. We’re standing in her bathroom. She’s showing me the limited amount of beauty products she’s permitted: mascara, whitening toothpaste, a couple of other items I can’t recall. She wants an eyelash comb and an eyelash curler — she’s not allowed to use those for some reason — and now I want them too. I’ll buy both items later with some of the money I’ve earned from cleaning houses, and for the rest of my life, I’ll use an eyelash curler every time I apply mascara. 

My friend and I both grew up with strict parents, but occasionally her parents were strict about things my parents weren’t strict about. This probably went both ways, but I can’t think of an example — high school was a long time ago for this millennial. I can say I’ve spent a chunk of my adulthood filling in multiple knowledge gaps as a result of what I wasn’t allowed to do — date, study evolutionary biology, listen to secular music, etc. — but my interest in beauty and skincare was rarely suppressed. I just had to pay for my products. 

My friend died of cervical cancer in 2023, and it seems her premature death was — at least partly — the result of two knowledge gaps I’m fortunate not to have had. As homeschooled kids from the rural Bible Belt, I’m confident our respective sexual health educations were far from comprehensive; but in my case, having an older sister who chose to study nursing was a protective factor. 

“You’re getting it.” 

It’s the late 2000s. I’m with my sister at our college’s health fair. The HPV vaccine is relatively new, and she’s leading me by the hand to a vaccination booth.

“But I’m not even having sex!” 

“I don’t care. You’re getting it,” she insists.

I’ll get the first of three shots that day. Before I leave the health fair, my sister will stuff a handful of condoms in my bag. 

By the time my friend knew she was sick, we hadn’t been close for years. Not because of a falling out, just from growing up and growing apart. Even so, I can’t stop thinking about how two knowledge gaps — the importance of cervical cancer screenings and the health benefits of vaccinating against HPV — are essentially what killed her. I’m angry about it. I’m sad. It scares me a little too — what you don’t know absolutely can hurt you, it turns out. It might even kill you. Yet, while I hate that my friend died young — and I hate why she died young — I haven’t cried for her. I don’t know if I ever will, and I’ve decided that’s alright.

If there’s one thing living with grief has taught me over the years, it’s that grief — like so many other lived experiences — exists on a spectrum, and it’s OK to grieve different losses in different ways. I still cry for my beloved Maine Coon who died last December. He was my companion for nearly 15 years, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing him. My grandparents died years ago, and I still cry for them sometimes as well. My grandpa was one of the few men I always felt safe with; my grandma was always there for me when I needed her.

Conversely, I’m finding that grieving someone I used to know is not unlike grieving someone I used to be — a version of myself I’ve long since lost touch with and don’t particularly miss. It’s a very different kind of loss.

I’ve been considering hosting some kind of memorial for my friend who died, but our mutual childhood buddies are spread out all over the United States. If I managed to organize a virtual memorial, I’m not sure what I would say about my friend’s adult life. I know she had children and I know what caused her death, but that’s about it. I could take a road trip to leave flowers on her grave; but I’m not sure if she was buried or cremated, and I’m not close with her parents or siblings. I guess that’s why I wanted to write this essay. I don’t know how else to honor her. 

Since I watched Brenda Song’s “Go to Bed With Me” video, I’ve been thinking of my friend every time I apply face cream and mascara. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do my skincare routine or my eye makeup without remembering her. For now, maybe that’s enough.