Today marks the one-month anniversary of my beloved mom’s very unexpected death. In the last thirty days, I’ve had more nervous breakdowns than I care to admit, more support than any human deserves and more odd moments than any rational person should have to deal with.

The entire experience from beginning to end has been surreal. I’ve gained a blitzkrieg of insight over the last month from various individuals. Here’s the breakdown: 98% of people have been wonderfully kind and compassionate. 1% of folks have been socially awkward. (Happens.) And there’s another 1% of the population that makes me wonder if this world is truly bereft of humanity.

Grief, I’ve quickly learned, comes in horrendous tidal waves. At the exact moment you’re trying not to get emotional is when you’re hit by an unexpected teary tsunami.  Most people will ride the wave with you. Those are the people you want in your corner. But there’s always that one person who says … “I thought you’d be over this by now!?”

Just to be clear — no, I’m not over it. I will never be over it. We’re thirty days in … and at this exact moment, I need coddled. Yep, I said it. Anyone who’s lost a parent is in an extremely fragile, fractured state. I’m a Fabergé egg of hysterics. I don’t need sympathy or empathy as much as I need you to cater to my every grief-stricken whim.

Here’s what you can do to help a brother out. First, the good stuff:

Hugs. Hugs are the best. Lingering hugs, however, are not good unless one of us is sobbing uncontrollably.  Also, it would be in everyone’s prudent best interest NOT to approach me if you’re sobbing uncontrollably. Save that for later, for instance, when I’m bawling.

The Bevinator may have passed on, but the memory of her isn’t dead. Kudos to those people who write or tell me funny anecdotes about her. In the midst of my utter despair the other day, my friend Sarah randomly sent me a text to say, “Do you remember that time when your mom accidentally grabbed my ass? Now that I look back, I don’t think it was an accident.” Those twenty-four words made me spit my drink out and bust out laughing. I had long forgotten that happened. And it gave me an extreme attitude adjustment.

As contrived as it sounds, yes, bring me a casserole. Something with tater tots. Something comforting. Something my Mom would have made when someone died. And don’t skimp on the cheese either. Hell, while you’re at it … please make one for Dad too.

There’s a beehive of activity in the first few days after a parent dies. If you’re an only child like me … you’re forced to wear many hats. My friend Deirdre said she felt like a wedding planner because of all the insane logistics you have to pull off.  So, instead of asking if I need anything … just be proactive … because the answer is always yes.

And on the other end of the spectrum are the things that have forever left a bad taste in my mouth:

Someone actually tried to set my dad up with another widow less than two weeks after Mom died. It was tacky. It was irresponsible. It was not appreciated. And, frankly, it was f*cked up. I’m going to be fiercely protective of my father for, say, the next hundred years. You’re not helping matters.

Please don’t insinuate that your grief is worse than mine. This is not a contest. Don’t try to out-grieve me.  Someone had the gall to say, “My mother was so much worse off, she was in ICU for nearly a month before she died. Her death was just so — tragic.”  If you’re reading this and are still wondering why I walked away from you in mid-sentence, well, now you know.

Another person asked, “What about the will?” What about it? It’s none of your business.

To all those people who ask me how my Dad is doing … I’m touched. It’s lovely, unless you actually KNOW my father. Then ask him yourself. He’d love to hear from you … and not by osmosis.

Here’s the deal … I miss my mom. I miss her voice, her tenacity, her abrasiveness and her ability to wake up every morning to watch the sun come up and the deer play in our backyard. While I might look fine on the outside, I’m still a blubbering, wet-mop of melancholy. Tread lightly.  This has been one gut-wrenching month. And just know that The Bevinator’s legacy will live on for years to come, simply because I will ensure that happens. I’m just bummed most of you never had the chance to actually meet her — but it’s comforting to know you feel like you knew her.