Last weekend we took the kids to a UCSB Women’s basketball game.
Before the game started the announcer came on asking for a moment of silence for a few “long-time friends of UCSB.” Down a few rows and to the right I saw an elderly woman stand up. I thought maybe they were about to sing the National Anthem so I stood up too. Then the announcer slowly read five or six names. I saw this woman’s shoulders start to shake and even though I couldn’t see her face I knew she was crying.
I wanted to put my hand on her back to steady her and let her know it’s ok to cry. Nick and I exchanged glances, both recognizing what was happening.
Her friend was sitting next to her and after the names were read the woman sat down. The friend pat her arm and looked around like she wanted to be somewhere else.
I watched the grieving woman lower her mask so she could put her whole face in her hands. She cried for a few more minutes, wiped her tears, and raised her mask back up over her nose.
I don’t know who this woman was crying for, but know exactly how she felt at that moment.
The last time we saw a UCSB game was in March of 2020 just before lockdown. UCSB played Cal Poly in the most exciting buzzer-beater ending I have ever witnessed. This was also just four months after Aiden died and one of the few times just the four of us did something for fun.
A friend I hadn’t seen in a long time, but that I knew followed along with Aiden’s sickness and death came up to me to say hello. She didn’t get out many words before I could see tears forming in her eyes. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m here if you need anything.”
I felt so grateful she brought attention to the impossible pain I was in.
It’s never about saying the right thing, sometimes it’s just about being a witness.
I didn’t say anything to the grieving elderly woman, but I held space for her while she had her public-private moment of grief.
