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 horizons

As we cross the Gulf Stream at the helm of our sailboat, I’m struck by the line between sky and water. It is a remarkably straight distinction between two worlds. It cuts across the distance in every direction. I hold the sight, concentrating so that eyes and brain come to an agreement to retain this view – it is special. 

Looking into the distance, my thoughts whisper out to it acknowledging that no matter how far we go toward it we will never reach this artificial line in the same way that you can never get to the end of the rainbow.

I swivel my head from left to right and as far as I can see, there is only this line, these shades of blue, this breeze petting my face or causing hair to whip around ears and into my eyes, depending. The uninterrupted line is like something drawn with a ruler in the distance. 

Many of us have seen a version of this – a slice of this separation – standing on a beach looking into the distance. But as we cross toward the Bahamas and the 360-degree view surrounds us for the first time, it feels like an important message from the universe. But I don't know what it is just yet.

Grief began driving us to upend our stationary life in California after Riley died in 2014. Last summer our plan was nearing fruition as we gave away most of our things and filled a tiny storage unit with sentimental items. Being on the water is the culmination of our years of planning, the beginning of our escaping, of running away. All of it promised to reduce grief's weight. 

Then we drove. And drove. And drove. First from California to Florida. Then from Florida to New York City. Then after three months in England, we drove from New York City back to Florida. 

Grief stayed the same.

If anything, being away from Riley's things, his bedroom, his clothes, his toys, his school, and the baseball fields he played on became a new, weighted layer of grief to manage. When we finally moved onto a boat in February, I thought settling into our new home would be the key to finally shifting grief. And at times, being away from the place where Riley died was a relief because I had the illusion of control – thinking I could decide when to let it pummel me. But the sadness continued to course through me without an appointment, just as heavy. 

I had been clinging to the hope that each step would allow grief to soften its jaw... Once we move out of our house. Once we drive across the country. Once we find a boat. Once we move onto our boat. 

But Riley’s absence, his death, his hospitalizations, his surgeries, are still ever-present. At the same time Riley’s smile, his laugh, his floppy hair, his nail-nibbling, his love of penguins – are equally real. The lists hurt my heart in different ways, but they both hurt. 

We've seen dolphins and sea turtles and flying fish and a sting ray glided its body over my toes. We've padded along soft sand and splashed in warm water. Grief continues to clamp its unrelenting jaw around me. Leaving Fort Lauderdale was my last once we. 

That realization has amplified everything. And when the hurt is bigger, like it has been in recent days, I pull away from the people I love who have run away and toward this sailing life with me. I retreat into a shell of unfixable sadness. And my hurt hurts all of us. I become short-tempered, brusque, erratic – a version of myself that I am not proud of. 

I'm hyper-aware of this privileged opportunity to run away. I'm also hyper-aware of how self-indulgent grief can feel. The world is full of tragedy, and yet the clay that shapes my being is my beautiful boy and his death. 

When the sadness is inside, it doesn’t matter how pretty the view is.

I can't help but try to make sense of this realization. Walking along the beach and seeing the storm clouds bubbling toward us, I know that no matter how far ones goes toward it, the horizon is always in the distance, always unreachable. And that line between sky and sea is an illusion. One rises above the other. Yet, the sky is full of water and the water is full of oxygen. They are connected through the water cycle and one will always be a part of the other. Like life and death. 

Riley is my past; he is my present. There are the experiences he had; there are the experiences he will never have. The past is full of possibility; the present is full of memories. Riley is here, Riley is gone. Riley is everywhere. Riley is nowhere. There will never be a Once we that provides a reprieve. Like the horizon, that idea was just an illusion. 

Grief and thrifting

My boots shuffled along the long aisles of stained linoleum. My hands slid hangers along the rack to look at the jumbled assortment of tops and jeans and kids jackets and pajamas. I did not find a small rain jacket for my daughter. I was not surprised. I wandered along, not sure of what else I was looking for, but I knew that if or when I found it, it would make itself known. I picked up a coffee grinder. I picked up a backpack covered in unicorns. I found a small North Face fleece jacket in a pile of duffel bags and tucked it under my arm. I found a pair of gold Mary Janes just the right size for my kindergartener. In the checkout, I spotted a sudoku book on the shelf next to me and remembered how Riley and I used to do the puzzles together. I fanned through the pages and realized it was unused. I kept it and imagined Riley whispering suggestions to me in the months to come as I attempt to solve the harder puzzles.

Grief is chaotic. Thoughts don’t make sense. The world feels upside down. There were times when I couldn’t believe that walls were sturdy, when I questioned whether everything I saw was a mirage. There were times when I wore the same clothes pulled from the floor next to my bed for nearly two weeks straight. I couldn’t fill out a form that would allow our surviving family members to go to a grief support group. The words didn’t make sense. The questions were too overwhelming. I couldn’t hold a pen. Friends left food on our porch because I didn’t know how to go to the grocery store. Being in public was too scary, too overwhelming, too unknown. I would see women and they would turn away from me. I would see women and I would turn away from them. I was famous in my town, but not in a good way.

I say was because it’s been so long now. People’s lives have moved on. Riley’s peers have moved away. My surviving children’s peers have moved away. Riley’s death is old news. For other people. But not for me. The waves are just as turbulent, though they knock me over with less regularity.

Grief is also full of guilt. I grew my baby wrong. It was a mistake with epic, life-altering consequences. My confidence plummeted. And for many years, I pulled the brim of my hat over my eyes; I kept my eyes down; I sat away from other moms and families at little league or basketball games.

Grief is full of fear. I was fearful of getting other things wrong. And I have gotten them wrong, though with less consequences. I have taken my children to their practices at the wrong times. I have driven to the incorrect locations. I have gotten lost while driving home from familiar places. I failed to renew my driver’s license, accidentally driving around for months with an expired license. I have dropped a dozen eggs. I have had my phone silenced when one of my children needed to reach me. I didn’t fix the gate that separated our dog from our chickens, and the chickens were killed. Most, but not all, of this was inconsequential.

All through the years, though, the thrift store is one of the few places I have felt at home, and I haven’t understood why. But last week, as I did a TikTok about my thrifted outfit with fall vibes that makes me feel cute and confident, I gave myself some space to consider that question. If I could pull a cute outfit from the jumbled chaos of the thrift store, I could bring order to chaos. I could take something unruly and make it orderly. I could assemble a mishmash and make it feel as if it was all made to go together. It gave me a small amount of control. I can accomplish this small thing. Mistakes only cost a few dollars. I am capable. And being capable of this one thing has given me the smallest amount of confidence. 

Plus, putting on something cute and feeling good in my clothes is an exercise in self-care. And that is huge for this grieving mom. 

Take your platitudes and leave

There was an article in the NY Times yesterday about what not to say to a grieving person. It said never say, “Everything happens for a reason.” 

And that is good advice because when you say “everything happens for a reason” to a grieving person, they may want to punch you in the face. Because most people are polite, they will not punch you in the face, but don’t be surprised if you are kicked out of their inner circle of safe and trusted friends.

People said this to me shortly after Riley died. They also said this to me after Riley was born and we were told that he would need three heart surgeries to survive (though he ended up having six during his 11 years). Luckily for them, I restrained my fists. But it makes me wonder how this asinine phrase became a popular reply to grief. Please give me an example of when this has been useful. Seriously.

I imagine it comes from religion where we’re meant to put our faith in some greater power who has a master plan. And the only way we can make sense of a child’s death, or a young parent’s death or your house being swept away by a hurricane, or any other tragedy, is that it must serve some higher purpose.

But, honestly, life is random. We are powerless. And if we acknowledged this unspoken contract with the universe, we’d probably stay home more often. Because we get into metal boxes and move at high speeds on highways. We let our kids go to school. We know that people walking around are carrying guns. We know that there are contagious diseases. We live in earthquake zones or in places dubbed "Tornado Alley." We know that there are alligators and bears and bacteria that can overwhelm our immune systems. Every single day we don’t die is pretty astonishing. And getting to live another day is not because some higher power granted me the opportunity to do so because I am good or deserving. It is just luck. I think luck is too terrifying for most people to acknowledge.

So, what do you say when someone you love is faced with unimaginable tragedy? The article recommended: “I am so sorry for your loss. I don’t know how you feel, but I am here to help in any way I can.” Or something like: “I am always just a phone call away. I am here for you.” And, of course, if they are sharing with you how they are doing, validate their feelings. 

The article reminded me that I've been wanting to read Everything Happens for a Reason, and Other Lies I've Loved, by Kate Bowler.

If you are incapable of being there, of sitting with discomfort, of saying something less painful than "Everything happens for a reason," please, just take your platitudes and leave.

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 self-promotion

I used to write while wearing platform shoes in the hopes it would help build my writing platform. It didn't help. For years, I've held onto the illusion that writing and sharing powerful stories was enough. I wanted to focus on my craft and not on the promotion part of being a writer. But it's not working, even though I have a small arsenal of dedicated readers - thank you readers. So, over the weekend, I started using TikTok to connect with other writers and people who read memoir (I have 17 followers!). It’s a bit nerve-wracking, since writers are usually invisible, but I've decided to be brave. That said, I’ll think I’ll dust off those platform shoes and give them another try as well. It can't hurt, right? In the meantime, if you're on TikTok, check me out.

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 alternate reality

It was a white legal-sized envelope like any other. It had fallen through the mail slot just like any other. It had my name on it. It was from a charity that we had donated money to. The day I opened that letter, the sun had shone down on the driveway as I left the house to walk the youngest to school. We held hands. We talked about flowers, then sang about them in a song we took turns making up verses for. We waved to the bus driver who trundles down our street each weekday morning.

The day that the letter landed on the entryway floor was a day sandwiched between the holidays of thanks and gratitude and celebration surrounded by family and friends. All days are hard, but those weeks of cheer and joy are especially hard because I don’t feel cheerful on the inside. I don’t feel grateful on the inside, even though I have things to be grateful for.

The letter didn’t arrive until after lunch, though. I only grabbed it after the little one’s nap on my way to give her a bath. She bubbled in the water while I sat with my laptop perched on my thighs. There were email messages to reply to. There were Breaking News messages from news organizations I subscribe to. When I was done replying to or scanning through the messages, I put the warm device on the floor next to me. I picked up the stack of mail. There were catalogs and fliers and bills. And this letter.

As I read the words – this near-form letter from this charity – my boy's name stood out. “Thank you so much for your generous year-end donation in memory of Riley Norton,” it said. It occurred to me that whoever typed this letter typed a multitude of others, replacing the name of the donor and the name of the person honored or remembered through the gift for each one.

He was just a name to them. A name to type, then forget. The admin typing up the thank-you letters has no idea he’s an 11-year-old boy. My 11-year-old boy. Nor do they care. I’m sure little, if any, thought is given to these names. These dead people. If they were curious, I wondered how likely it was that they would have found him online.

I retrieved the laptop from the floor and opened Google. I did a search for Riley Norton died. The first result was for a man of 85 who lived in Utah and died in 2019. There were some results relevant to my boy's life and others connected to old men. I went back to the first result, the one for the 85-year-old man. I read that Riley Norton's obituary and stared at that Riley Norton's photo. The old man had an oblong face and white hair. Could this have been my boy? Could this have been my boy’s alternate reality if he had been born with a working heart and the privilege of long life? 

As I stared at the photo, I squinted a bit and tried to see my boy in this old man’s face. Loving husband, father and grandpa. Then my vision blurred as I thought about my boy as an old man with grandchildren. Or perhaps the blurred vision was me thinking about how my boy was never the granted opportunity to be an old man with grandchildren. Or even a teenager with a job or a girlfriend. So much lost opportunity. So much lost. For him. For me. For his siblings. For his grandparents. For his friends and classmates and teammates. Thinking of all of the things that would never happen felt like every single life experience had been sucked from a jar with a giant syringe. I'm not sure if thinking about this alternate reality felt good or bad. 

As I wiped my face and stared into the middle-distance, the little one in the bath said she was getting cold. I closed my laptop and tried to shift my thoughts to the present, even though the present is informed by the past -- by Riley's life, his death, and grief. Every single day. I pulled her from the water and toweled her off. Then I got her dressed in pajamas and went to the bedroom she shares with Riley's things. Afterward, I picked up the letter and put it into the folder with our tax documents.

Grief and milestones

Photo credit: Jina Morgese, Ember & Earth

I hemmed and hawed. It would be our 10th wedding anniversary, then a few weeks later, it would be my 50th birthday. These are big milestones. Weighted. They are time markers. They are accomplishments. They are heavy with grief. I wanted to honor them, though. 

Attorney Friend, who now lives near the west coast of Florida, had offered to keep the four-year-old for three nights while we acknowledged these days, just the two of us. We jumped at the opportunity. We had only had one night away from the four-year-old since she was born. It was the night after a bear broke into our vacation rental. Our college-aged daughter was fortuitously visiting, so we left the small one with the big one and we drove away. When we got there, we screwed plywood over a smashed front door, cleaned up bear poop, made nail boards to deter other bears from getting too close to our house, and drove soiled rugs to the dump so that our tenants could move back in. 

So we would be in Florida. We would have an alternate reality for three nights. One in which we had childless lives. I rented a hotel room on the water in Sarasota, a short walk from St. Armands Circle. There would be warm water to swim in, white sandy beaches to walk along, and tables at restaurants to eat at that didn’t include a high chair and a small voice singing “Let it Go.” There would also be cocktails and dresses and late nights staring at the stars and into each other’s eyes. 

And I wanted to have our photos taken to commemorate it all. When I told Attorney Friend my plan, I couldn’t articulate why I wanted photos. “Why wouldn’t you want them?” she asked, as if the answer was obvious.

At the time, it wasn’t obvious for me. It was just a feeling. Or I just hadn’t found the words to articulate it. But I wanted framed photos on the wall that documented our love, the years we’ve held each other through joy and death and birth and graduations.

Photos have been difficult since Riley died. So many things have been difficult. The idea of smiling was difficult. The idea of smiling so that someone could capture it in a photo felt paralyzing. How could I smile? How could I feel joyful? I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to see the smile or to see the joyful photos because I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I’m done grieving. I’ll never be done grieving. And if your child hasn’t died, what I’m saying might be a difficult concept to grasp.  

But I still wanted that photo. I realized I wanted it because I want to make a conscious effort to honor the good as well as the pain. The pain is easy. The good is much more challenging, though not less deserving. I would need to let my guard down, though. And I figured a photo of the two of us would be easier than a family photo of our lopsided family where someone will always be missing.

I sent an email to a Sarasota-based photographer. It said, “Our 10th wedding anniversary was 8/3 and I'm turning 50 on 9/15. I have shied away from photos since our 11-year-old son died in 2014. That said, I'm hoping to be able to relax and just celebrate our relationship. And I'm hoping you can capture the love and not the pain that is part of who we are.”

I had to share about Riley because I need to live authentically. To not share it would be to deny all of the grief that now lives in my DNA. And it would be easier if she knew. I wouldn’t need to pretend that I wasn’t struggling. Because I would be, especially if she didn’t know. And in the moment, it would be harder to explain the tears that are always just below the surface.

“It would be an honor to photograph you and your husband, and I thank you for sharing your story with me,” she replied. 

And as soon as I confirmed the date and time of our photo shoot, I began questioning the decision. Anxiety built and I started worrying about dumb stuff, like what I would wear and if I’d look old. 

When the day of the photo shoot finally arrived, we’d already been at our hotel for two nights. We’d had time to swim and nap and see the Barbie movie. That day, we went to lunch and on our way back, we stopped at the Daiquiri Deck and had afternoon slushies. I had two – it was happy hour after all – and it was coffee-flavored and tasted like boozy coffee ice cream. The bartender gave everyone jello shots. I pushed mine to Adam while a football game blasted on the large-screen TV over the bar. 

On our tipsy walk back to the hotel, I dragged my feet through the surf and stumbled and giggled and slurred my words. As Adam napped, I went to the ocean knowing this was my last chance for an afternoon swim. As I watched hundreds of silver fish dart around my legs, I did some math and realized that it must be getting close to her arrival. When I got back to our hotel room, I only had 30 minutes to shower, dry and style my hair, do my makeup. It was probably just as well because I didn’t have time to fret or second-guess my outfit.

When we got to the lobby, she smiled at us. “You guys look amazing,” she said, which I imagine she says to all of her clients. 

“Thank you for coming. I’m really nervous,” I said as my voice broke. 

“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to focus on the love between the two of you,” she said.

“It’s just that pictures are hard for me since my son died,” I said, as I waved my hands in front of my eyes so that tears wouldn’t smear my mascara.

And for the next 40 minutes, she had us hold hands and kiss and walk and stand in the water. Adam spun me around and dipped me and I wanted to weep at the enormous love I feel for him. He has loved me on all of the days. And he “knows that nothing – not dancing or laughing or drinking or orgasms – will change grief. A temporary reprieve is just temporary. Grief is always coursing through my veins. Always will be.”

At the same time, so is love. And now I have these beautiful photos documenting it.