The title of this post is a little misleading- itâs not so different to mourn as a developer than a person with any other kind of job. But speaking as a developer, Iâll talk about my experiences through that lens, as I know no other.
A friend of mine died last week. We werenât best friends, but he was a great person whose company I loved, and, looking back at our digital history, realized we were there for each other through a lot of challenging times: heartbreak, harassment, job loss, and medical problems, to name a few. He was a wonderful person who was raunchy and hilarious and if you felt bad, would make you feel better by making fun of you and then giving you a sincere hug. In short, he was the best.
Itâs also the two-year anniversary of the death of one of my best friends in the world. He and I dated and lived together for 4 years, and when we broke up, we remained great friends. I still remember this spooky (it gives me chills down my spine to think about it) feeling as he walked away the last time we hung out. Something felt wrong but I couldnât put my finger on it. Not too long after, he was out for a morning hike. He was wearing sandals and tripped on a rock. He hit his head and he was gone.
During these times of processing death, people often urge you to stop working. Iâve done that. It can help, sometimes. With Cameron, because we were so close, the pain was so deep I felt like it was swallowing me. I couldnât do anything. Until I could. And the work helped, honestly. I couldnât process what was going on in any real way when I wasnât working. I oscillated between fits of despair and numbness. Everything felt blank, like I was out of my body. I couldnât observe myself. It just pooled around me, and I dissolved.
But then in work, I found solace. In work, some part of me was occupied. When I was coding, I could detach enough to see myself, to see him, to see our history together, and the loss of what could have been our future friendship. One part of me was focused, and breathing, and occupied. I found that especially when I was doing tasks that I had already mastered, thatâs when I could actually process Cameronâs passing.
When I sat with the pain, for a little while it was too sharp- there was no room for me there. However, when I was involved in a programming task, my breathing steadied. I could step into it with a bit of cover, and embrace it in a way that didnât feel so harmful.
The only caveat to this was QA. Though I usually appreciate QAâs comprehensive study of software and respect that itâs extremely grueling work, while I was mourning, my empathy levels were low. I found it hard to take tickets for edge cases. I felt exhausted if I wasnât connected to the value of the task.
Socializing when I was mourning was also especially taxing. I found I couldnât relate to people who werenât also mourning or hadnât mourned for a little while. Everything seemed artificial or unimportant. When I was coding, however, I lost my sense of self or even others beyond the normal âwhat did they mean by thisâ as I read someone elseâs code. I found that I had a bit more patience for refactoring. In a way, it helped- I didnât have to invent something new, but to improve on what was there, and I could dive really far into that task without my usual hurry and hustle. If nothing was important anymore on the surface, I might as well make it great. Life is short, after all.
I suppose the point of this post is- when youâre in mourning, do what is right for you. I had a lot of people urging me to stop working to process what was happening, in part because I was incredibly productive at this time, and that looks very unnatural from the outside. Hollywood teaches you that mourning is sitting on a bench looking at a tree. I tried that and it wasnât my path.
Looking back, I think coding really helped me. I donât believe any two people will share the same process. What works for me might not work for you. But if youâre anything like me, and thereâs guilt associated with doing what you need while youâre mourning, I suggest giving yourself a break. Love yourself and honor them in the way that feels healthy for you.