The duality of grief

My heart was pounding before I opened my eyes. I’d been in the middle of a bad dream, but once I was awake, the slapping of water against fiberglass shifted my attention as our boat rocked side to side. This anchorage at Great Guana Cay was rolly because of its proximity to the Atlantic, its shallow sandbanks, and currents pushing through narrow cuts. The turbulence combined with anxiety from the dream put me on alert that someone was trying to board our boat. I listened for footsteps and thought of hatches we may have left unlocked.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone boarded our boat in the middle of the night, though it would be the first time while at anchor. But that’s not what was happening. It was just the motion combined with residual fear from the bad dream. And the dreaded day with its steel-toed boots waiting to kick me in the stomach. I reached for my phone: it was 4:43 a.m. I turned off my 5 a.m. alarm and forced eyelids to open wider, alerting the brain that it was time to sit up.

With 350-square-feet and four people, there isn’t much personal space on this boat. Or alone time. Our seven year old wants to play beginning at 7 a.m. and our 23 year old is ready to socialize as soon as the seven year old goes to bed. A few weeks back, I woke early thinking about a proposal I’d written and then got out of bed to make a few changes before hitting send. Being at the computer in solitude for a couple of hours before others woke felt like discovering a secret. No one talked to me or asked for a snack. I’ve been getting up in the dark intentionally ever since. I’ve been using the time to write and think.

On that particular day I was thinking about the calendar. It was Mother’s Day. I am estranged from my mother; the boy who made me a mom in 2003 is dead. The day also marked the crossing of an invisible chasm. It marked the day that Riley – my 11 ½ year old son – had been dead longer than he was alive. With the help of a pod of compassionate humans, I had thus far endured 4,219 days without him. 

In the same way that I have known that his younger brothers would pass him in age and I know that his seven-year-old sister will one day pass him in age, I knew this day would come. In reality, it was just another day without him. He was dead yesterday and five years ago, and he will still be dead tomorrow and five years from now.

Nonetheless, my body’s grief calculator had felt the day coming. My buttons have been more easily pressed, making me erratic and distant. In my endless calculation of life and death, I have been visualizing things that can be made and unmade: a pencil sketch; a kitchen mess; a bed. I cut my hair with kitchen scissors shortly after Riley died; it grew back. Addition, subtraction. Subtraction, addition. But none of those are like the birthing of a child and then bearing witness to their death.

A child’s death is not the quiet undoing of a life. It is an explosion that leaves an invisible, weighted menace that must be heaved with you wherever you go. It is shouty and bossy and distracting and demanding and unruly. It carries a stick and whacks your knuckles if you fail to follow its ever-changing rules. It uses mind tricks to make it hard to concentrate before it trips you on the stairs. Then it kicks you, and then tells you it loves you. And when the menace has done its job and it’s gotten you to push your loved ones away, you find your child. And sitting with your dead child without distractions feels like air and love and peace.

I loathe the menace and its abusive ways; I appreciate the menace for guiding me back to Riley. For clearing the path, for creating space where I can sit with my boy uninterrupted and roll in the sadness, frustration, envy, disappointment, longing, rage, and blame. Once I punch through those, I find closeness, connection, tenderness, and love. So much love. I can almost feel Riley's hand in mine and the weight of his body in my lap. I can hear him talking about the SF Giants' lineup or humming while doing his homework. I can see snuggling his stuffed penguins and dripping hot sauce onto almost everything. And when I soak up moment, I can almost hear his voice saying, mom I love you, and I imagine pressing my nose into his hair and inhaling before and a smile spreads across my wet face.

This is the duality of grief. On the surface is the visible you that other people see and interact with. The you that people see can smile and talk and who enjoys making bagels and can be upbeat and look forward to running, hiking, or line dancing with friends or family. That you looks like a whole, nearly functioning person who has hard days once in a while, typically around anniversaries and birthdays.

The other you has the ever-present sidekick. It is always needling you, being demanding, rubbing interactions with guilt and longing, making sure that you are fully aware of your child's absence. That your child isn't at and never will be at the dinner table, in college, working at some job, have a significant other, or have children of their own. That they will never call or text or visit. And with its continual reminders of the absences, the menace is trying to stop you from enjoying your other children, your partner, the people who have loved you through all of it. So much energy is expended trying to keep the menace out of sight.

In both versions, you are missing something and feel incomplete and conflicted and guilty and sad. At least that’s what’s happening over here – grief is unique. And on this day, for me, on the other side of this invisible chasm, I’m trying to ignore the menace. I'm trying calculate how to balance how lucky I am with the grief. I have a great life, a great love, a great family. And yet... 

Both are true. The grief makes me feel ungrateful for what I do have. Enjoying what I have or being joyful in the moment makes me feel guilty.

I don’t know how to hold both yet. There isn’t one without the other. They are woven into an elaborate knot. Perhaps the problem is that I have an expectation that I should be able to untangle it. Maybe that’s not how this works. Maybe I need to make peace with the menace. To be okay that there is pain in the joy and love in the pain. To be okay with the menace making space for me to be with Riley (although it would be great if the menace could have less of a negative impact on my family).

After getting texts from my son and a call from my bonus son and breakfast in bed from my daughters (along with a homemade card), my heart felt full and empty, empty and full. Happy, sad. Guilty, angry. Alone, loved. Whole, broken. Broken, whole.

Grief and the ADAA

I just had a piece published on the Anxiety and Depression Association of America's website. They have a great library of personal stories that you can filter via disorder (anxiety, panic attacks, bipolar, grief, substance abuse, etc.), and I'm a huge believer in the power of connecting with others through stories. 

Over the years, I have been in individual therapy, and I've spent years in couples therapy. I spent a year in a support group for families who have children with congenital heart defects and three years in a support group for bereaved parents. (Just need to acknowledge how fortunate I am to have health insurance to cover chunks of the costs... access to this stuff should be a right, not a privilege.) And through all of it, I've learned a lot about self-care and supporting others who are struggling. 

It feels good to be reading. It feels good to be running. It feels good to be writing. It feels great to get published. Go forth and read!

Grief and your 21st birthday

Walking hand-in-hand with your little sister to school, the school you went to, was surreal on your birthday. I could hear the sounds before we even rounded the corner at the bottom of our hill. Laughter came at us before we could see any smiles. We could hear car doors slamming before we saw any cars. The bell rang at the neighboring school. 

As we got closer, so much came into view. There were hundreds of students with messy hair and dusty backpacks. There were water bottles and lunch boxes. There were light-up sneakers and jackets tied around waists. Some children were helping to raise the Californian flag on the flagpole. Some children were opening car doors in the drop-off line. Some were huddled with friends, giggling. Some were walking alone towards their classrooms. I looked for you. I always look for you. 

Just before heading up the ramp toward her classroom, I just stopped and took it all in. A school full of students, hundreds of students from hundreds of families. 

Then it occurred to me. I felt my head shaking back and forth in disbelief. None of them, not a single one of those kids was alive when you were alive. None of them were even growing in their mama’s bellies. Not a single one. So much life since you died. An impossible amount of life has happened in the last 10 years. 

After your sister tucked her backpack into her cubby and found her name card, I kissed her head and breathed the scent of her hair. Then, with green nail polish in honor of you and your favorite color, I began to run. And run and run and run.

Love leaked from my eyes and it was even harder to breathe than normal because crying and running are not very compatible. And while I was running, I was sad and mad and jealous and angry and sad some more. Even when thinking of your smile. Even when thinking of your laugh. Even when thinking of your jokes.

Do you know what baseball and waffles have in common? The batter.

Even when thinking of your love for school and books and reading and math. Even when thinking of you with your best friend (who is now in college, who is now old enough to buy alcohol). Even when thinking of you sitting on my lap. Even when thinking of you making garlic toast for breakfast. I love you.

Grief and the slow erasing

Just like I’d done dozens of times, I’d clicked “Add to cart.” No big deal. Only this time it felt profound. And after fretting about it for ages and wondering what slippery slope I was stepping onto, I clicked the button. What purchase could cause such internal turmoil? A twin-sized duvet cover patterned with whimsical pink and blue and gray unicorns with rainbow-colored manes. It’s for the little one’s fifth birthday.

Delighted in the downpour

She will love it. She loves unicorns and rainbows and flowers and fairies and mermaids and princesses and dresses and tiaras and beaded necklaces and pretty much anything that is pink or red or purple or sparkly or glittery, even though I’ve provided her with trains and Matchbox cars and trucks and shovels and so many things that are green.

Green was Riley’s favorite color. And I have lots of green things. I was even given green blankets when she was born because she was born in grief’s wake for my boy who loved the rain and green and Matchbox cars and trains and Tabasco and garlic and olives. And, although she loves olives and garlic, and garlic-stuffed olives, and she liked Matchbox cars and trains for a while, she’s her own person with her own interests. That, and through preschool and transitional kindergarten, she’s been exposed to kids with Frozen backpacks and twirly dresses and sparkly blankets that look like mermaid tails. And so when she’s in the bath, she asks me to comb her mermaid hair and she pretends that the washcloth is her tail.

The hard part isn’t that she likes different things from Riley, although I really, really did enjoy putting elaborate train tracks together for the months that she was into that. We’d roll our wooden trains over the bridges and through the tunnels just like I did when Riley was small. The hard part is that I wanted to breathe life into Riley’s things for longer. I wanted her to pick up where he’d left off and in using his idle things, give me another chance to be with Riley in my thoughts as I remember the hours we did those things together when he was alive. In fairness, at 11, there weren’t many train tracks or cities drawn on cardboard for Matchbox cars to roll along.

For the 18 months he lived in this house, he had a green duvet with different colored green dots all over it. He picked it out at IKEA when he got his very own bed. For a long time, my boys shared a queen bed and a single queen blanket. But when we moved into this house, I took them to the store and that’s what he chose. His brother chose something gray with bright orange and red swirls. And Riley’s green duvet has been on his bed in his room since he died. It’s been mostly idle.

Before the youngest came along, I would lie on his bed and smooth my face into his green pillowcase and hug his Freddies. And after she was born when she was nursing several times a night, I would sometimes sleep near her in his bed with the green sheets. It’s been her bedroom her entire life, more than three times longer than it was Riley’s room, even though I still call it Riley’s room. And once she switched to a big bed, it was Riley’s bed she began sleeping in and Riley’s duvet she’s been sleeping under.

It's her room; it’s Riley’s room. Riley’s treasures and belongings are still there, but there are so many other things there too. Sometimes it’s hard to remember which is which and what belongs to whom. And, of course, she says things like, “Mom, Riley says I can play with his marbles” which makes his things her things too.

She didn’t ask for a different duvet. She never said she didn’t like the green one. I just want her to be seen as a separate person and to acknowledge her preferences. So, because her fifth birthday is today and she loves all those pink things, I decided to get her that new duvet cover – the one that matches her interests. I suppose I’ll fold up the green duvet and the green pillow case and the green sheet and put them in the closet near Riley’s medicine that is in a ziplock bag, with Riley’s clothes that are still hung, and next to his socks and pajamas – things I’d hoped she’d wear when she was big enough. Though she probably won’t. She’ll have shirts and pajamas covered in rainbows and fairies and mermaids. 

This shrinking or contraction after someone dies happens all the time. Out with the old, in with the new. Making space for whatever is next. She didn’t ask to fill Riley’s shoes, not that she could. You cannot replace a person with a different person. It’s just another shift, another goodbye. Another folding of time.

Riley's green things will be mine to visit when I need to time travel and be with my boy and his beloved things. I cannot help but wonder what will be put away next and what shift will happen that will make his life less visible. It all feels like a slow erasing. 

Grief and The Question

The question was already rumbling in my stomach when my thoughts rose into consciousness this morning. I rolled from one side of the bed to the other as the uneasy feeling lingered. My husband had already gone to a meeting. I inched to his side of the bed, rested my head on his warm pillow and waited. Waited for the right answer to appear.

The sun had yet to color the sky, but I could sense movement from the other room. The preschooler was awake, needing the bathroom. “I had a thought that turned into a dream,” she said, as I tucked her back into bed. “What was that?” I asked. “Me getting into the car to take dad to the airport with you.” I smiled at her as I pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “That’s a nice dream,” I said, "but dad isn’t going to the airport for a long time and so you need to go back to sleep." As soon as I got back into my room, she was sitting up, waiting for it to be time to get up for real.

Even as I showered, as I dressed, as I pressed my foot into the gas pedal, I was still wondering about the question. And the answer. You see, I was going to talk to a woman I went to graduate school with that night. She had read all about Riley’s hospitalizations and surgeries when I wrote about him more than a decade ago. I cannot even recall the last time I saw her, probably at graduation. Or shortly after at a party at her house in San Jose. I can’t remember if she was at his memorial. If she was, I certainly haven’t seen her since then.

But when we talk on the phone, I will say hello. She will say hello. Then she will say, “How are you?” And I have no idea how to answer that question, especially when asked by someone I haven’t talked with in so long. Someone who hasn’t witnessed the howling, the blood-shot eyes, the twitchy version of myself that exists when I leave my safe bubble at home, when I venture into the world. The half-eaten version of me, even though I look normal on the outside. Or normal enough. The mom of a 3-year-old.

This woman didn’t witness all the months when I didn’t leave my bed. And after that, when I didn’t shower or comb my hair and wore the same thing for six or seven days in a row because I didn’t know how to get dressed. The woman who cut off all of her hair to look ugly, hoping to match how I felt on the inside. When we talk, this woman will hear the fast-forwarded version of me. The one that can talk on the phone, the woman who has taught creative writing and who founded a literary magazine in grief’s wake. The one that lights up talking about narrative arcs and creating three-dimensional worlds.

And all this thinking about the different versions of me since Riley died in 2014 makes me wonder how I got here. How did the accumulation of time and space from Riley’s death allow me to do those things, to get to the place where I can wonder how I should answer that question. Early on, that innocent question felt so offensive. It doesn’t anymore, and when I’m at the checkout counter, I can say, “Fine, thanks. How are you?” But wondering about it in the context of this pending phone call feels splintered. And strange because I am different from before Riley died. And I am different from the time just after Riley died. And I’m different from before the baby was born. I’m still broken, like a bone fracture that wasn’t set and the malunion impairs function longterm. I’ll always be broken, impaired. But I’m also other things. And I won’t necessarily cry when I talk about Riley.

As I downed a hot cup of tea in the moments between scratching things off the to-do list, I figured it out. When she asks the inevitable question, I will say, “I’ve been wondering how to answer that question all day.” Because it’s the truth.

Grief and After Life

I've watched the first season of After Life on Netflix, and it is probably the most accurate depiction of grief I have seen. My fear for the second season is that things get better and he finds happiness, blah, blah, blah... But hopefully it will be more like real life, that if he does fall in love, he will carry on grieving his dead wife. You can't replace a person with a different person. Because grief would be part of that new love or new marriage or new baby. Things are complicated because grief and love and life are complicated. It's all messy and I'm a mess and my shattered self will always be a mess, even if it doesn't look that way when you see me walking through the grocery store or hiking in the hills with my big, jovial family. Life after a significant loss is like a bone that has healed incorrectly. There will always be pain. Even as I love my other children and love my husband, I will ache for my missing son until I turn to ash. If you decide to watch this, have tissues nearby. And I don't think the trailer does it justice.