Recently, two of my closest friends died. The first friend fell off a windmill; the other killed himself. Both of these deaths left me feeling devastated, yet, a common response I received from friends was: “It happens in threes.”

I am not usually a sympathy-seeker, but I would have benefited from a friend’s visit, flowers, a sympathy card, a meal, any of those traditional gestures that are made when a family member dies. Anything but a warning that there is one more death to come.

When I called a close friend to tell her about the man who had killed himself, her first response was: “Good, now he can’t bother you anymore.” This man and I had been friends for six years and his infatuation was only a recent development. I was already plagued by guilt; this did nothing to ease my conscience. Then she went on to say: “Do me a favor. Don’t call me for at least one day. I’m tired of your grieving.”

The friend across the street said: “The writing was on the wall.” The last time I saw this man, he was working on his will, told me he was considering suicide, and we talked about his depression. He made an appointment with a doctor, but the appointment was a six day wait. The writing was on the wall, and I left him alone. This seems unforgivable, and once again I felt reminded of my oversight.

I had been friends with the man who fell off the windmill for about twenty years and was financially unable to fly in for the funeral. One friend wrote me a letter to say everyone was there but for three of us, whom he listed by name.

When we arranged a memorial for the suicide friend, many people didn’t know who I was and asked if I was the woman he had just broken up with? The impetus for him killing himself? One man even asked if I couldn’t have gone to bed with him a few times just to keep him alive. No one understood the guilt I am now plagued with; they were just trying to understand why a seemingly healthy man would take his life. Even I didn’t know the depths of the depression he had been experiencing for over half of his life until I found his journals. By then, he was dead.

The next thing that happened with these deaths was that people started to think I may be depressed, even suicidal. My father’s wife wrote me a letter encouraging me to not do anything “rational.” Thus far, that has been my best bit of advice.

I called the suicide help line just to talk about my grief. The volunteer interrupted my crying to ask if I was eating. Eating? Wanted to know how many hours a night I was sleeping. Sleeping? Wanted to know if I was alone. Suggested I go to a hospital for the night. I tried to assure her that I was with my young daughter and had no intentions of killing myself. I called hoping she could absolve me of the guilt I was feeling, the same way I imagine Catholics do with their priests.

I have learned to tell people “I’m grieving.” This puts a distance between us, but lets them know I intend to grieve, recognize these losses in my life, and not be expected to carry on as they may hope. My writing class students had to call to remind me they were waiting for class. I apologized for not remembering the day, but didn’t say, “I was grieving.” They are senior citizens and probably understand what I am going through since they are facing many losses in their lives.

For two weeks, I was busy meeting my suicide friend’s family, clearing out his apartment, writing his obituary. Those tasks are finally done. This week I try to have nothing planned every other day so I can be home where I can grieve in peace. Every other day, I need to get out, be with friends, take a swim, see a movie, share a dinner.

Grieving eases my guilt and pain. Grieving allows me time to feel sad, a healthy reminder that I am compassionate. Grieving forces me to accept my losses. Grieving scares away the people who seem to think grieving is peculiar. My grieving may never end, but it will diminish in time. One day my vulnerability will disappear and I will be able to say, “It really doesn’t happen in threes.” One day.