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. 

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 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.

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 peers wanted

You knew him... You were in the same classes; you played baseball on the same team (or on opposing teams); you played music together; you ate lunch together; you walked the same streets; you played at the same parks. Come remember him with us at the Riley Run (no running required). April 19, 2020. For info or to register: rileyrun1101@gmail.com

Grief and Riley Run 2020

The Riley Run is coming (No running required!) Save the date... April 19, 2020 #rileychallenge #wewanttoseeyou 

Grief and flashbacks

How do you go to bed the night before your child will die? Is he cold? How do you brush and floss? Is he in pain? How many sleeping pills do you take? Does he know that he’s dying? How many minutes beforehand do you take them? Is he scared? Do you look at Facebook before you begin all of this or do you wait until you’re closer to turning off the light? Does he know that you went home? Do you send a message to tell people that your son is actually still alive even though someone has posted that he has died? Does he know you're coming back? In that email, do you tell them that while he is still alive, he probably won’t be this time tomorrow? Does he know the surgery failed? How do you undress and climb onto the cold mattress? Does he have brain damage? How do you sink your head into the pillow and pull the blankets over? Is he angry? How many minutes will it take before the sleeping pills paralyze the limbs so that the shaking stops? Has he heard you screaming? How many more before they punch you into blackness to make the hours pass? Does your screaming scare him? When the alarm knocks the blackness aside, how many seconds will it take before nothingness is replaced with knowing your child will die today? Was it wrong to let the kids see him? How do you push the blankets back? Does he feel trapped? How do you lift your head from the pillow? Has he wanted to die? How do you raise your body from the mattress warmed from the hours of nothingness? Does he blame you? Do you see if anyone has responded to the email that you sent last night? How much is he aware of? Do you do that now or do you wait until you’re ready to turn the light on? Did you ask the right questions? How many minutes before you take the Ativan? Did you choose the wrong hospital? How many anxiety pills do you take? Did you choose the wrong surgeon? As you wonder how many to take, will you also calculate when you’ll be able to take the next dose? How did you let this happen? How long will you stand in the shower before you remember to wash? What should you have done differently? How will you comb out the knots and style your hair? Does he know that he will die today? How will you decide which skirt to wear? Which blouse to wear? Which boots to wear? Did someone make a mistake? Will you brush? Will you eat? How will you walk out the door and get into the car? Will he be relieved? Will you notice all of the other cars rushing to work or to school? Does he know that you want to die and be with him? Will you need to lean on your husband as you walk toward the hospital and into the room where the machines that have been keeping him alive will be turned off? Does he forgive you? Will you recognize the sounds coming from your body? Does he know that you love him? When the machines are quiet, how will you walk away? Does he know that you will always love him?

Grief and October

I’ve been anticipating you the last several weeks and here you are. You just show up and expect everyone to get excited about fall sweaters and boots and thick socks. You’ve been pounding on the windows trying to get my attention and I’ve done my best to ignore you. You’re not good at taking a hint.

You punt the sun up into the brisk morning, and then speckle the sky with pink and orange clouds as the sun hangs in the west. It gives everything a warm and cozy glow. I hate it when you try to be cute. It doesn't suit you, and you can’t fool me. Yes, you bring pumpkin spice and pumpkin pancakes and cinnamon brooms because you want me to like you. But I don’t. I never will. I know who you really are.

You stand up a little taller than normal because you carry all of the lasts like badges sewn onto your freshly ironed shirt. His last day at school. His last puzzle. His last joke with his best friend. His last family dinner. His last middle-of-the-night picnic (something we did before every hospital visit). His last words to me (I love you, too, mom). His last hug. His last surgery. His last day. His last breath. And with all of those lasts and this death, you rally humanity to celebrate death and gore and blood and the stuff hospital nightmares are made of. Skeletons hang from trees. And tombstones appear in front yards. And bloody severed limbs lie on seemingly-normal neighbors' front steps. It’s all part of the festivities, you say. Lighten up, you say. I can’t lighten up. I have no interest in your kind of fun. Death isn’t fun. Or festive. Or light.

As I walked the dog around the darkened streets tonight, I couldn’t remember if Riley’s last day of school was today or tomorrow. I should know. If he had a pre-op day, then his last day of school was today. If he didn’t have a pre-op day, then his last day was tomorrow. Why can’t I remember if he had a pre-op day. My feet take me past his school and the gate that he exited through on that last day. I pause by the wall next to the playground across the street. That was where I waited for him after school that day, where I waited every day. Riley’s best friend rolled his backpack for him. There was an awkward, “Well, I guess I’ll see you sometime” goodbye between them, since we weren’t sure how long he’d be in the hospital postoperatively.

All of the images start lighting up. They've been on stand-by all these months waiting to affront me. I keep them close to the surface. Why should I forget. I wouldn't want to. It was part of his story. It's who he was. It's what happened. But most of the time, there is a sheen covering them so that I can drive. So that I can shop for groceries. So that I can cook dinner. So that I can play games with my other children. So that I can kiss my husband like I mean it. But this time of year, the sheen is scratched away. All the rawness is exposed. And there's something about this fifth anniversary.

That last day at school plays in my mind as I stand by the wall next to the playground. I start imagining alternate endings. I hate the forever of this ending. It makes it hard to breathe. My lungs keep insisting on pulling in air, but my throat tightens. I open my mouth because getting oxygen into my bloodstream has become a conscious effort instead of an unconscious reflex. My heart bangs on my ribs. It happens a lot this time of year. Fuck you, October. And then I back away from that scene. It's late and my feet start taking me home. 

Grief and WTF

Riley would be 16 ½ today. Instead we’re 18 days away from the fifth anniversary of his death. And to be clear, him being dead for four years, 11 months, and 12 days really is no different from him being dead for five years. The pain of grief is unchanged, really. A handful of days or months really doesn’t change the pain of living without him.

But it’s those shifts in time that change the language I use to talk about how long he’s been dead that make it harder. Even though it’s just a word: one versus three versus four or five. Five is all the fingers on one hand. It's all the toes on one foot. It's the number of points on a starfish. Clock numbers are five minutes apart. A musical staff has five lines. Five can be all of those things. But it can't be the number of years my son has been dead. It can't possibly be the number of years that my lungs have continues to inhale and exhale. It can't be the number of years my heart has continued to beat after his stopped beating. It just can't be.

Five feels like bus coming toward me while I stand on the street and watch. It’s not coming fast. It’s inching toward me. It has been every day since he died. But it’s getting closer now. I could smell the exhaust if the wind were pushing it the right way. I won’t move; I’ll stare it down, just like the others. And when it finally reaches me, the grill will push into my torso until I fall to the ground and it rolls over me. Crushing me all over again. Because this bus isn’t the first vehicle to run me over. That first month. The sixth month. The first year. And so on. But five has a new kind of meaning. Half a decade. I can’t help but say, WHAT THE FUCK.

Grief and certain death

My husband has been asleep on the sofa downstairs for almost two hours. I assume that means he’s died. He’d been to the doctor yesterday and wasn’t feeling well today and he said earlier that the medicine he’d been prescribed made him feel funny, a bit wobbly. So now he’s asleep downstairs trying to recover from the thing that has made him feel unwell. Meanwhile I’m upstairs with our crying newborn daughter. I can’t bring myself to check on him. To watch from a distance to see if his chest rises and falls. To listen for each inhale and exhale that would assure me that his heart and lungs continue to cooperate as they work to circulate blood and oxygen through his veins, to his organs, to his brain.

If I check on him and he is dead, it means that I’ll need to call 911 and there’s no turning back from that. It would be another division in my life separating before from after. It would be another grief so loud shouting into my already sore ears. It would pummel me in new ways and bash my heart already bruised from profound grief. And I’d have to raise our newborn as a single parent. Without my love. My rock. The man who has helped me walk the life as a bereaved parent. So for now, I will stay in denial upstairs with our crying newborn and hope that she falls asleep soon. She’s been crying on and off for hours now.

You see, my 11-year-old son died four years ago. And since then, it feels like everyone will die as soon as they’re out of sight. Before school ended my living biological son was off at Yosemite for the week with his class. The whole 7th grade went. Mothers posted online about how much they missed their kids. They said they wandered from room to room sobbing because they longed for the faces and bodies of their babies. The ones that they grew in their wombs and who became tweens. They imagined their kids would walk in the front door any minute from baseball practice or from having lunch downtown with a friend. I wish I hadn’t read those posts. I wanted to reply: “You know that they’re alive, right? That they’ll be home on Friday?”

And while I felt that way, there was a dichotomy. There could have been a bus accident as they drove back from Yosemite. I was (secretly) convinced that there would be a bus accident. An inferno and twisting metal stealing more children’s lives. There are so many ways for children to die. I’ve learned all about them from my grief group for parents whose children have died. They can choke on their dinners; they can have bowel obstructions; they can have cancer; they can die in car crashes or get hit by cars. They can have rare medical conditions; they can have heart defects, like my son. They can get murdered; they can have concussions; they can get crushed in freak accidents; they can kill themselves.

Please stop crying baby girl.

But when she does finally stop crying and she is quiet in her bed, I worry that she’ll stop breathing. That she’ll choke on spit-up and that she too will be gone from this world. All of my beloveds extinguished because life doesn’t care if I’m a good person or a bad person or a mediocre person. Life doesn't care about what I deserve or don’t deserve in the aftermath of my son’s death. One child’s death doesn't somehow protect me from other people dying, from other tragedies, from my own demise. There will be blood clots and pulmonary embolisms. There will be cancer. Or a car accident. A plane crash. Anaphylactic shock. Blood poisoning. It won’t be pretty. Death never is.

I pull the blanket around her body, quieting her flailing arms and her sad cries. She finally settles in her bassinet, and I listen for the pulling and pushing of air, the pushing and pulling of limbs against cloth. She sighs and my muscles relax for a moment. Glancing outside, I see the brittle leaves, the brown stalks, the wilted branches. I let all of the plants in the garden go -- too many things to keep alive. Too much responsibility. I focus on the ones that matter most.

A sneeze followed by creaks on the steps lets me know that my husband hasn’t died. Not today, anyway. He walks into our room and I push my index finger to my lips before pointing to the baby. I sit near her and wait for her to wake, wait for her to cry again, her sounds indicating her aliveness.

And then the cycle will begin again.

Grief and wanting to die

My two boys

In the last four years, I’ve met many bereaved parents. One of the commonalities is that the desire to live vanishes after your child dies. It doesn’t matter if you have other, living children (I do). It doesn’t matter if you have a loving spouse (I do). Nothing matters. Because the worst thing has happened. And all you want to do is go wherever your dead child has gone. Which is away from this planet. Away from the pain, a screaming, invisible pain that permeates into every cell in your body. Because nothing matters at all. I wrote about my death wish in the latest issue of Six Hens.

Grief and hair

There he was sitting in a chair in the row in front of me at tonight’s middle school holiday band concert. We didn’t speak, and I didn’t tousle his blond locks, but I was so tempted. This tempting boy and his messy hair. The hair that looks just like Riley’s hair. His 11-year-old floppy mess, something he called his “straight afro.” Tufts rose in different directions, defying gravity and any comb. 

Between songs, I dug my phone from my purse, poised it to take a picture of my 7th grader who was performing. But in reality, I wanted to take a picture of this rounded head with the perfect, messy hair. This lookalike even wore a black sweatshirt with a red hood, just like Riley had. It would have been creepy, I decided, to take a photo and so I denied myself the pleasure of taking this head of hair home with me as a souvenir of tonight’s visit from Riley. I tried not to stare or alarm his father who sat at his side. 

I desperately wanted to tell Riley’s best friend who sat two chairs to my left. I desperately wanted to tell Riley’s stepbrother and stepsister who sat two seats to my right. I desperately wanted to tell Riley’s dad and stepmom who sat behind me. I wanted everyone to share in this moment, to agree that indeed looked just like the back of Riley’s head. Fortunately I found a crumpled tissue hidden at the bottom of my purse to blot away the emotions that came with feeling so close and then instantly reminded that he, my sweet son, is so far away.

Grief and Halloween

As the van rolls down the winding street, it passes a torso climbing from the gutter. The torso is topped with a head, its face painted white with exaggerated clown lips and topped with a shock of red hair. It's holding a red balloon in an outstretched arm. In the adjacent driveway, a skeleton straddles a motorcycle.

As I head to the library, the grocery store, the Post Office, a row of skeletons lines our neighbor’s front yard across the street from the elementary school. As I drive around town, there are bloody severed limbs on porches. There are partially decomposed bodies dangling from trees. There are bloody mummies. There are blood-splattered tools.

It’s gruesome. Horrible. Triggering. I’ve seen enough bloody bandages, exposed bone, pools of blood, and thick black stitches holding together skin. I’ve seen blood-splattered floors. Blood on the machines designed to hold the bloody fluid pouring from tubes leaving my son’s body. I see these things when I close my eyes. When I’m trying to fall asleep at night. When I have another nightmare. And now they are everywhere during the day. When my eyes are open.

When did blood and death and gore become mainstream entertainment gleefully displayed in front yards? I don’t know how to avoid it because it’s everywhere. I hate this time of year. I hate this holiday. For a society that tends to avoid talking about death and dying and grief, we sure love to slap it around for fun at the end of October.

Should I put my son’s ashes on display in the front yard? Should I scatter his collection of lost childhood teeth on our sidewalk? Or maybe put them in a small bowl next to our mailbox? Should I hang his t-shirts on a clothesline across the front porch? I suspect that would be in poor taste. Because actual death is offensive.

In the meantime, if you pass the middle school in my town, you’ll see a yard with a large decorative -- if that’s what you call it -- tombstone at the end of their driveway. In large letters across the front, it says “RIP Max.” Max is their son’s name. Is it fun to imagine that your child has died? Even when you know a family whose son has actually died? When you've been to their house and talked about grief? Should I put a tombstone in my front yard with Riley’s name on it? Would it still be funny?

I miss when Halloween was about pumpkins and kids dressed as firefighters or dinosaurs or cows and bunnies or Mario and Luigi. And the gore was restricted to rentals from the local video store.

Seriously people, WTF?

Grief and chances

Riley - perfect at 11

Two of the last three nights I’ve had Riley dreams. When I wake, instead of aching at the realization that my son is dead, I have a moment to reflect on the beautiful make believe world my mind let me wander in for a bit. Even though -- as dreams are -- they are nonsensical as they unfold in unlikely places in unlikely situations, they are as close to bliss as I get.

Two nights ago, I was in an imaginary physical therapy nursing homes on the east coast owned by friends from college. It was illogical that I’d traveled across the country with several bereaved families, my ex-husband, his wife, and our family dog. But that’s exactly what had happened. And while we were there, my dog injured herself in the rain and my physical therapy friends used their expert skills to rehabilitate her while all of us stayed indefinitely at their imaginary nursing home, waiting for her dog body to heal. Even though it was nonsensical and illogical, it was also fantastical when an inviting light beam shone from the ceiling. It was a magical spotlight and when I was under its brilliant beam, Riley was there. Alive, communicative as ever. Three-dimensional. And still 11 years old. His brother was eager to have a turn.

Eleven will always be my favorite age. Riley was perfect. Perfectly curious about maps. Perfectly aware of the importance of family and telling people that he loved them. Perfectly excited about learning and reading. Perfectly content with always having vanilla ice cream. Perfectly sized for sitting in my lap. And perfectly loud in my household with four children, a dog, and a bunch of chickens. It was a heartbreaking moment earlier this year when I realized that no one in my house would ever be 11 years old again. I wrote about it here in the Fall issue of Six Hens.

Grief and celebrations

Riley with Freddie

There’s a warm glow radiating from the dining room. I can see it from where I’m sitting outside in the dark. I haven’t moved in an hour. It wasn’t dark when I landed on the sofa outside, but it engulfed me and I feel invisible. I like feeling invisible. But I don’t understand the warm glow inside my house. It looks so inviting and I can see the family photos on the walls. I can see the green impasto painting I bought on Etsy, its swirls drawing one’s eyes around and around. You can’t see the dust from here or the cob webs. Everything looks nicer from outside when you peer through the windows. It doesn’t look like the house of family with a dead child.

It also doesn’t look like the house of family whose daughter is celebrating her 16th birthday today, either. There are no balloons or streamers. There are no envelopes or bits of wrapping paper. There are no birthday candles. Although there was a large kitchen mess this morning when her dad made eggs Benedict (her favorite) and waffles (Riley’s favorite) with strawberries and whipped cream. He’s a good dad, that one.

Every single day there is a struggle to be present in the day while being sucked into grief’s vortex. And to be fair, I like grief’s vortex. It’s familiar and I feel like after almost four years, I understand how it works. I’m over here by myself observing other people over there in the real world. I am only an observer these days. I cannot participate in anything without feeling angry or sad or mad. Today, I’m angry. I am annoyed. At everyone. For having a birthday in the first place. For wanting to sing that song that people sing. For being excited about presents or eggs Benedict and whipped cream. For wanting to be together and talk about how exciting it is to be 16 and all the things that kids who are 16 get to do, like get a learner’s permit. It doesn’t matter how many times I go round and round with my therapist. I know intellectually that I’m not actually angry that my stepdaughter is having a birthday or that people want to celebrate that. I’m angry that Riley is dead and that he’s not here celebrating with us or that he doesn’t get to ever turn 16 (or 12 for that matter).

But emotionally, it’s hard to understand those things when all I want is for Riley to be here. My stomach is hurting. Everything is hurting. Mostly my heart, though, even though I am used to feeling my heart hurt all of the time.

Most of the celebrating seems to be done now. I can hear the dishwasher whirring. I can hear the TV chattering. I can see the dog curled up on her bed snoozing. It’s time to get some bubbly water for my upset stomach. I'm looking forward to crawling into bed and falling asleep, the only place where I don't know that Riley is dead.

Grief and age

It wasn’t on purpose. At least, I don’t think it was on purpose. I was out of the country on my son’s birthday. My very-much-alive son. He turned 12 last week. That number I’ve been dreading. The one that Riley never made it to. He is forever 11-and-a-half (and also mythically 15). I think it was just the way the summer schedule worked out -- there are a lot of people to coordinate with. But it’s possible that there was some running away involved. Some covering of the ears while saying la la la la la… “But wasn’t I with dad last year on my birthday?” he asked when I told him that I wouldn’t be around that day. “Don’t we alternate?”

I’ve used this phrase a lot when people ask how I’m doing: “All days are hard in their own unique way, but some days are harder than others.” And there is something about my younger son who is three years, three months and two weeks younger than Riley becoming the same age as Riley (last year -- I definitely ran away last year), and now surpassing him in numbers this year that makes July rank with some of the harder days.

So was the end of the school year when this younger son finished sixth grade. The grade that Riley only started. I wrote about it here in the latest issue of Six Hens.

Riley’s dad calls it “mental math.” All that counting and comparing of numbers that individually and collectively are meaningless, but we, as humans, as meaning-makers, latch onto and attempt to harness and understand in the aftermath of nonsensical death.

The younger son has become the older son. Just as I knew he would.

Grief and pointlessness

Riley's jerseys

Gray clouds were smeared across the San Carlos sky like a thick layer of jam on that Saturday morning a few weeks back. It was early, but not too early as I set up my stadium chair at the top of the bleachers. With my cup of decaf, I cornered myself, away from other parents as much as possible because I was solo that morning. C’s dad was out of town; C’s stepmom was out of town; my husband was working. It was just me and I hate mornings when it’s just me at the Little League game. I just don’t know how to fit in. So I put myself in the corner and pretend I’m invisible. Then I scan the opposing team for blond boys with blue eyes and glasses that I can pretend my dead 11-year-old son is there. So that I can cheer for him silently. So that I can pretend that Riley is still playing baseball.

As the innings progressed, the clouds thickened and then colluded to make everyone and everything wet. It started as a few drops, but quickly progressed into a downpour. After a few minutes of rain, the umpires called a rain delay. Most people -- including the kids from both teams -- moved under the awning of the snack shack. I pulled my hood over my head, but stayed put. If I didn’t move, then no one would see me. I felt like a deer, frozen in place in my winter coat with the hood pulled over my head in an attempt to stay dry and invisible. One minute. Five minutes.

The other parents eventually joined the kids under the awning. Why hasn’t the game been called, I wondered. But I couldn’t ask anyone. I don’t know how to talk to the other parents. Do they know I have a son named Riley? I don’t know how to talk about the score or the at-bat or the home run. It’s easier to stay invisible. Ten minutes later and the rain continued.

For the sake of my son’s health, I mustered the courage to approach the team under the awning. I pulled him aside. “Do you want to go home?” I asked. “The game isn’t over yet,” he said. “But you are soaked and it’s cold. I’m worried you’re going to get sick. And it’s just baseball,” I said. “It’s okay. I want to stay.” I said okay and went back to my wet chair in the bleachers. A few minutes later, the drops became less frequent and the umpires said the game could resume as patches of blue punched through the jam layer.

The children went back to their sides of the field, their dugouts. The parents reclaimed their spots on the bleachers.I could hear their voices nearby. They talked about the rain delay. They talked about the score. They scolded their children for not catching the ball when they thought they should have caught the ball. They scolded the teen umpires for calling their child out when they believed that their child was safe. They cheered when a bat made big enough contact with a ball that allowed their child to run to second base without the need for scolding.

It’s all so pointless, I kept thinking. All the cheering and scolding and celebrating and complaining. But then again, what’s the point of anything? It’s all just a way to pass the time, to get through the weekend. An excuse to take pictures to hang on the wall. Something to do as a family. I don’t think it felt pointless when Riley played for all of those seven years. It was a place that he felt normal. A place where a uniform made him look like all of the other kids who had two ventricles and a spleen and their heart on the correct side of their chest pumping blood to its neighboring lungs and then to the far reaches of the body with ease. A place where I let myself believe that he was just like the other kids. And that him growing up was just a given instead of a fear sewn into my DNA that expanded and contracted with every breath.