I put off telling my coworkers about my dog’s death until this afternoon, three days after the fact. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to put it into Slack, which is our main mode of social activity. Had we been in an office, people would have asked about the weekend in passing —conversations that are the result of mere physical proximity — and the news would have spread organically, with people coming to offer condolences, memories, hugs, and shoulders to cry on. All this activity would dissipate along with my own mourning: If I seemed sad, comfort would be offered in ways suited to each relationship. One would ask me to lunch, another would let me be quiet but pat my shoulder, yet another would hug me in a phone room… Need is gauged and solace given quite easily out in the world.
Something seemed wrong, however, about putting this announcement of grief in a channel for work discussions. Still, that ̶s̶e̶l̶f̶i̶s̶h̶ human need to share our woes and be supported won out, and I posted some pictures of Helen in the #companypets channel, along with a simple statement that I was sad, having lost the “goodest girl.” People were, of course, very kind and sympathetic; they consoled me with words and emoji, and the responses were filled with genuine fellow feeling. I am truly grateful to work with such caring people.
I am honestly thankful, but at the same time, I can’t help feeling that this type of community construct is very… transactional? Part of this is my problem. It is no one’s fault if I have not yet become open enough to asking for what I need. Perhaps this type of text-based communal tool will make emotional labor a thing of the past, as the nuance of facial expression and gesture gone missing are replaced with honest and straightforward requests for what is desired. Should I still be feeling her absence keenly tomorrow, I would have to go back into that channel and ask for more words of consolation; the current version of me lacks this ability, however. Furthermore, in a WFH situation, kind words are all that can really be had. I made my announcement and got a glorious gush of support, but unless I say something more, that’s it. This is what I mean by transactional. (There is probably a better term.)
There is also the weird permanence of these interactions. My photos and grief will be there in that channel, for every search and perusal, until we move to the next big communication tool, and even then, there is the chance it would be imported… I guess that visibly it scrolls up and away, but like a favorite ball of Helen’s that I will no doubt find next time I work in the yard, it will pop up in searches unless I delete it, which seems nihilistic in the other extreme. Online, these life events, these sadnesses and joys are not allowed to slowly seep our lives, slightly staining them but no longer calling attention to themselves after they become part of the larger pattern of speckled and mottled fabric. Rather, they are snapshots of big emotions that remain big, and clear, seemingly forever.
All of this is not to discredit the people involved in online relationships, their genuine caring, or their status as true friends. If anything, it points to a social evolution that I have not yet achieved. I am not good at asking explicitly for what I need, especially not in writing. The unpacking of this whole issue is still not finished, nor is it fodder for Medium. :) Also, I take a serotonin hit every time I find an old letter or photo. I cannot get rid of them, but I cannot look at them, either. The internet and its subsidiaries offer this kind of permanence of emotional output on a grand scale.
When quarantine started, I loved to tell people that, unlike a lot of people in my old office, I felt as though I’d been training for this my whole life. I used to read books in my closet as a little kid, or under my bed. I loved being in the basement, or finding new hiding places, and as a teen, my room was my sanctum. I’ve never been a party-goer, and I do not recharge by socializing. I do miss unplanned interactions without start or end times, or long, unscripted hours on a friend’s couch, saying little while binge-watching something stupid. I don’t want to go back to the office, because I still don’t miss the endless chatter, the constant visitations, the un-ignorable coffee klatches that kept me from focusing or having a moment to my own mind’s self. I do miss being a support to people, by offering laughs or help when needed, and being able to better sense when that need is there.
Perhaps I am simply addicted to emotional labor… Another question for the shrink.
Loss Thought #1 was originally published in eustonmouse on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.