Dateline Boston — When I hear that someone I know has died, I get paralyzed. I go into a little bit of a shock. I don’t say anything, I don’t do anything. I acknowledge the death, and say how sorry I am. Then my body and mind sort of drift. Other times, I try to justify the death. “Well, he was 85, after all!” It may seem from the outside that I am uncaring. I am not. I care a lot.

My first profound experience with death was when my mother died of alcoholism at age 50. I was 21. That year, for my birthday, she gave me a wine cork with a penny stuck in it. Why did she give me that? Was it foreshadowing? I imagine Mom saying, “Here’s a penny for good luck. It’s the year I died because I drank too much. Don’t let it happen to you.” That year, and almost every year since, I’ve gotten a Coke to celebrate. I don’t drink alcohol.

I was numb for four years. Then my best friend’s mom, FP, committed suicide by walking onto a frozen pond and drowning. She had been drinking. This woman was the mother I didn’t have as a teenager. I’d go to their house on the weekends and feign sickness so that FP would chirp over me like a mother bird. She would get me a bathrobe and say, “Come here and lie down.” And I would take a nap. Their house was so cozy. I would eat regular meals. Once I even got an Easter basket. FP took care of me the way my own mother couldn’t. When FP died, the pain of losing my mom burst out of me like a broken dam. I cried a lot. I lost two moms in four years.

After that, I became hardened to death. I began practicing for it, imagining how the people I loved would die, so that I would be prepared when it happened. I did that with my dad. When he died at the age of 74 due to complications due to alcoholism, I was ready. My brother called me, I went to the apartment, and we did what we had to do.

I’ve imagined the deaths of my brother, my husband, and my favorite singer, Prince. I did not practice the death of Michael Jackson, so his death hit me really hard. I was surprised at how many days I spent sobbing over a performer I didn’t even know. His music was the soundtrack to my childhood, so there was a reason, I know.

A few days ago the wife of my editor died. I am numb again. I’m in shock. I only met this woman once, but I’m so glad I did. I’ll never forget the meal we shared. Some wonderful stories were told that evening, and I felt the love between two people who could have been my parents. I thank you, Ari and Diane, for sharing your life with me. Diane, may you rest in peace, and say hi to my moms and my dad for me. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even take in a Michael Jackson show.

Ms. Vaillancourt may be contacted at snobbyblog@gmail.com