Nusye McComish – SouthSeaEyes

The screaming came first.

Not hers—the engine’s.
 Engine screaming—metal and rage and a high-pitched whine somewhere in the brutal machine roaring, reaching its pitch right in front of her—

Whoosh. Whompf. Thud. Swish.

The world spun.

What the—shit, what the hell—

The engine rage lessening now, dropping in pitch—still screaming, but further away.

Her mind registering: yes, further away. And her mind trying to right itself. Her legs still moving. Keep walking. Come on, keep walking. You need to cross the road. Keep walking. The drivers are waiting. You need to get out of the way—

Left. Right. Left. Right.

She reached the pavement.

Stopped.
The ground wouldn’t steady. Everything inside her was spinning—had been spinning. When did that start? Back there on the crossing? She must have spun. The juggernaut was already streets away, unseen, gone. She was standing still, but everything inside was still rotating—searching for up, for solid, for anything—

Her hands reached out, but she found she was already on the ground. Face down.

Somewhere there was a thudding—thud thud—and it became urgent that she know where it came from. She followed her senses; the thudding grew louder, became a roar, moving through her foot, calves, knees, hips, belly, chest, throat—and behind her eyes, lights so bright they exploded without sound. She noticed she was still spinning, and with an ugh, she lowered her head.

People came. Some of them helped. They dusted her down, held her up, kept her close, trying to keep her safe. Their hands were steady even when hers were not.

Others—friends, close friends, colleagues, acquaintances—looked. Talked amongst themselves. Watched.

Five, maybe six, walked her home. Walked her to safety. Stayed until she was inside, until the door closed, until they were sure she wouldn’t fall again.

But in the days after, in the weeks that followed, something else became clear. Some people in the community didn’t come near. They avoided her. Looked away when they saw her coming. Crossed to the other side of the street. Took another route entirely to avoid her path.

It was as if she’d been ghosted. As if what had happened to her—something entirely outside her control—had become a weakness. As if her injuries, her trauma, were somehow her fault. And so she was dropped. From the community. From friendships. From the casual acquaintance of ordinary life. Just dropped.

There were storms inside her. Serious storms—squalls that only she could quell. She knew this. And because she was a deeply private individual, she kept herself to herself at home, trying to maintain some semblance of order from the chaos. Because it wasn’t just the juggernaut she’d faced on the crossing. When she arrived home, it was as if a highly localised hurricane had hit her house.

The pain continued—days later, weeks later. Her body ached in ways she couldn’t explain to doctors. Was it psychosomatic? She asked herself this. But the pain was real. Genuinely felt. Throughout her entire system. The trauma had imprinted itself not just in her mind but in her muscles, her nerves, her bones. The body remembers what the mind tries to process.

She was thankful, later, that the realization about the community came only after she’d found her feet again—after days and weeks of learning to stand upright while managing the wreckage inside and out, while the pain moved through her in waves she couldn’t predict or control.

She came to understand there were multiple reasons. That life continues at speed, without mercy, for others too. Everyone has their own juggernauts to dodge.

But mostly she was thankful for the handful—the five or six—who stayed by her side. Who checked in. Who made sure she was alright, fed and watered, on some form of road to recovery. Who didn’t flinch from the reality that recovery would be long, that the pain was real, that she was changed.

Weeks became months. The pattern became clear.
On the street, a friend—a good friend, someone she’d shared countless conversations with—saw her. Made eye contact. Then visibly changed direction. Crossed to the other side. Busy, perhaps. Late for something. Except she wasn’t moving quickly. She was just… away.

At the shops, an acquaintance approached. Touched her arm. “You’re so strong,” she said, as if strength were a choice, as if standing upright were admirable rather than simply necessary. “He’s in a better place.” The woman smiled, squeezed her arm, walked away pleased with herself for having said something.

And then there were the friends—close friends, the ones she thought would be there—who sent nothing. No text. No call. No “I’m thinking of you” or “I don’t know what to say but I’m here.” Just silence.

When she finally saw one of them months later, the explanation came: “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do.”

She understood what the friend was experiencing is discomfort.

The discomfort is real. It’s genuine. When you see someone who’s been hit by something catastrophic, you feel your own vulnerability reflected back. You don’t know what to say because there’s nothing that fixes it. You’re afraid of saying the wrong thing, of making it worse, of bringing up pain they might have forgotten for five minutes. You feel helpless. So you avoid. Or you reach for platitudes. Or you say nothing at all.

This is understandable. Human.

But here’s what matters: your discomfort is temporary. Hers is not.

The juggernaut was death. Sudden death. Unexpected death. The screaming engine was the phone call, the knock at the door, the words that made no sense. The spinning, the disorientation, the ground that wouldn’t steady—that’s grief. The highly localised hurricane at home—that’s a life rearranged without consent, without warning. The pain that travels through the body at impossible speeds—that’s trauma embedding itself in every system, every cell.

The story is metaphorical. But the situation is, unfortunately, real.

I am that person. Suddenly widowed.

This story contains both the good things people did and the unexpected things. I’m not here to criticise—people genuinely don’t know what to do, and that’s fair. But perhaps I can help you understand what might actually help.

The world outside needs to feel safe. Because the world inside is not.

After sudden loss, everything becomes a trigger. The fight-or-flight response doesn’t switch off—it stays heightened, vigilant, waiting for the next catastrophe. A text notification. A phone call. A daughter crying on the call.  The world has become strange, unknown, deeply unsafe. Vulnerability isn’t just high—it’s screaming.

So when you cross the street to avoid her, what you’re signalling—unintentionally—is that even the familiar is now unsafe. That even you, a friend, have become unsteady ground. What was known is now unknown.

Here’s what actually helps:

• A simple text. “Thinking of you.” That’s enough. You don’t need eloquence. You don’t need to fix anything. Just let her know she hasn’t disappeared from your world.

• An invitation for a walk. Trauma lives in the body, and movement helps process it. A walk, a coffee, fresh air—these things bring her back into her body gently. You don’t need to talk about the loss unless she brings it up. Sometimes what she needs is to remember there’s still a world out here, and she’s still part of it.

• Show up with food. Grief makes eating difficult, decision-making harder. A meal she doesn’t have to think about is practical kindness.

• Don’t expect responses. She might not reply to your text for days or weeks. That’s not rejection. That’s survival mode. Keep sending the occasional “thinking of you” anyway.

• Say his name. Use it. Don’t tiptoe around it as if speaking it aloud will remind her he’s dead—she knows. She hasn’t forgotten for a single second. Hearing his name reminds her that he existed, that he mattered, that he’s not erased.

• Be consistent beyond the immediate aftermath. Most people show up in the first week or two. But grief doesn’t end when the funeral does. The months that follow are often harder, lonelier. Check in then too.

• Sometimes, have a normal conversation. Ask about something unrelated to loss. She’s still a whole person with thoughts beyond grief. Give her moments where she’s not just “the widow.”

And look—if we’re being honest—if you didn’t actually enjoy my company before all this happened, this is probably a perfectly good time for you to quietly fall away from my world. No hard feelings. Genuinely. I won’t take it personally. I have enough to process without maintaining relationships that were always a bit forced anyway. Consider this your graceful exit. Go with my blessing. Consider it one of grief’s few gifts—the sudden permission to admit what was always true anyway.

If you’re reading this and you’ve also been hit by your own juggernaut, perhaps you’ll recognise something here. I’ve become expert in my own grief by living through it, day by day. These are my experiences, my observations. All grief is yours alone, but sometimes seeing someone else’s words helps you find your own.

The widow is still your friend. I’m still your friend. We haven’t carried a plague, become contagious. We’ve become vulnerable. And what we need most is for you to show us that the world outside hasn’t turned hostile too.

Your friendship was supposed to be solid ground. Sometimes it still is. You can choose to be that person.