Over the past few weeks, the thing I’ve heard most, after the “I’m so sorry” is “I don’t know how you’re doing it.” Truthfully, I don’t know either. I can only come up with two reasons how. One is obviously the kids. The kids need me to get up every morning, and put one foot in front of the other, and so that’s what I do.

The other reason is friends. Prior to this, I was pretty sure I had good friends. Funny friends. Friends I could trust to have my kids at their houses. Friends who were always up for a picnic or a party or to sit with at the football games. Friends that I knew I could count on to run the concession stand at the swim meet, while I ran the rest of the team. Friends that I enjoyed palming my kids off on for a week of smelly, sweaty Scout camp. Friends who had my back through some pretty intense and challenging situations. Friends who made a miserable job tolerable, and even fun sometimes. But, until Jan. 8, I had no idea what kinds of friends I really had.

When I first got that call, I knew it was bad, but I had no idea how bad. I did not want to drag my kids into anything until I had answers myself. I needed people who I could count on to protect my children, and possibly to have to be the ones to tell them the worst news ever. They were also people whose hearts I would have to break and would have to stand and watch my heart be broken. This isn’t a favor you can ask lightly of someone, and yet there was no doubt in my mind who I had to ask. All of them were already with my two of my kids, and I was able to pass E off to them quickly, as well.

One of these incredible friends volunteered to, or really more like ordered me to let her, drive me home, to face whatever was in store for us. Another left his own coaching responsibilities to drive G safely back from his wrestling tournament. Knowing my kids were surrounded by people who cared about them that much helped as much as anything possibly could have that day, and every day since. It’s about to turn into alphabet soup, but A, K, A, J, B, and D, thank you just isn’t enough, but it’s all I have.

With the kids taken care of, the next priority was the dogs. There was only one person I could think of who stood a chance of handling Duncan, especially in the state that he was in, and the worst part was that he was a friend of Steve’s and I didn’t have his phone number, or Steve’s phone. It’s a heck of a Facebook message to have to send to someone, and an even worse favor to have to ask of someone who just got the news that they lost their good friend.

The help I’ve had to ask C for over the past few weeks has been crazy. My personal favorite is the time I had to ask him to decide what kind of a mount we should get for the dead fisher in the freezer that Steve trapped just the week before and hadn’t had a chance to take to the taxidermist. Oh, the conversations that I have these days. C and his family, S and K, have shown a thousand kindnesses over the past few weeks, from showing up at G’s wrestling match, to taking the kids ice fishing, to baking the best chocolate cookies my kids say they’ve ever had, and sharing thoughtful song choices, to providing some words of comfort. It is impossible to repay this level of kindness, and again, my gratitude is a paltry offering.

The final call for help I made that day went to the one and only P. P has shown up in my stories before, usually as the comic relief, because P can make anyone, anywhere, laugh at any time; but that day, I needed her for something else. I knew there would be people and situations that I simply could not deal with, and I knew that P knew me well enough to know what they were without me even having to explain them, and P could tactfully deflect those situations, without hurting feelings.

P has been through many of her own trials and tribulations, and through it all has managed to maintain an unmatched optimism. P was the one person who, on that day, could tell me that things were going to suck, but eventually they would be OK, and I would believe her, and that’s exactly what she did. Knowing P, I’m now going to be ordered to not thank her, but to pay it forward somehow.

Over the next few days, and weeks, I have heard from so many other friends. Food keeps showing up. I’m still getting thoughtful care packages. Text messages, letters, phone calls happen almost every single day from people who are offering to help or just reminding me they’re there to listen if I need to talk. The people who have taken the time out of their lives to jot down or tell me a story about Steve cannot possibly know how much that kindness means to me.

One final group of people that I have to acknowledge for their support are my new best friends, and they are the ones who have suffered through this themselves. These are the people that you can say the dumbest things to, ask the most insane questions to, cry over the most inconsequential things with, and they will, without question, understand. These are the most terrible, and the most beautiful friends to have.

While a part of me hates myself for not understanding more of their pain before, I realize now that that would have been impossible. N, the times our chats have pulled me back from the abyss you know all too well yourself, and I expect that will continue long into the future. Thank you.

It is a mystery to me how I can be so overwhelmed with grief, and yet at the same time overwhelmed with an even larger amount of gratitude for my family and friends. It is the only thing that makes this bearable, the only thing that makes it possible to go on.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.