A dance along the edge

It’s hard to tell what is dream and what is reality these days. My life is a nightmare. Not feels like a nightmare. It is a nightmare. The kind that at some point your brain would wake you up from so you didn’t have to endure it anymore. But there is no mechanism for turning off reality.

Well.

There is.

It feels unfair to call it a hole, what is in me right now. It’s not a hole. It’s a chasm. It’s a canyon. It’s…

A pit.

The vastness is not so much the defining factor as is the depth. Pit really truly captures that.

Some days, I can walk around the pit. I dance delicately along the edge of the pit and it feels like a mirage. “What was I so worried about? It’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

Some days, some days. Some days I stare directly into the pit. My toes hang off the edge and I know the balance is tenuous at best, fatal at worst, and I wish that an errant breeze would just push me into the pit.

Push me into the pit.

Push me.

Into the pit.

Looking into it, it’s too much. It’s too big. How can I dance around this like a sprite? How can I live next to it? How is it safe? How is it safe? How is it real?

Will someone wake me up from the nightmare, please?

Do I need to turn off reality?

Push me.

Into the pit.

There is a breeze, but it pushes me back. I catch my breath, not realizing I was holding it. My chest caves in on itself, my heart shrivels, and the relief from not falling is almost as bad as the pit itself.

God bless my safety.

My son.

Our son.

When I talk about him, it is no longer plural possessive, it is singular possessive. He is my son, even though he is really our son. But to talk about you as if you were still here some days pushes me back to the edge of the pit.

What if I hovered one foot over the edge? Would it be so bad? Would it be hard? Would it hurt?

Did it hurt?

When you fell?

Into the pit?

Some days, my heels hang over the edge and it’s only the strength of my calves and thighs that keep me from falling back.

I am strong, but this is too much. My body and brain and heart can’t handle this. Will a breeze please come and put me out of my misery? Will something please wake me up?

Oh, there’s my safety again. He’s calling my name and telling me how he hurt his head. And I hold him and curl my arms around him and smell his beautiful sweet smell. He tells me about the planets on his ceiling. You are Neptune. I am Venus. He is Earth.

He is Earth.

He is my safety, and I am ashamed that I need a safety. I am ashamed it is him.

But, as someone told me, he is an excellent reason to stay tethered to Earth. To him.

I miss you.

It’s our wedding day. Was and is still the happiest day of my life. The days leading up to today, I hovered near the pit, danced along the edge, tried to turn my back, tried to get a just right breeze to lend me the force I needed but couldn’t do myself.

This day is being done to me. It’s been barreling towards me since this whole thing started. I keep thinking the last Day without you was the hardest, but each passing holiday I get to celebrate because of you proves to be harder than the last.

Why do people who have terrible partners get to be married and have anniversaries? Why are we the ones who have to be apart?

For now, I will make a home next to the pit. I will tether myself to my safety for as long as that golden rope will hold. I will spend some days with my feet dangling over it, like it’s a cool pool on a hot day. I will wish you were next to me. Sometimes I will feel you. Sometimes I won’t.

Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.

National Widow’s Day

So, right now in my house I’m dealing with a pretty major plumbing issue.

About a week ago, my tub started backing up. I thought it was a weird clog, so I did a couple of Drano treatments. We have weird plumbing that is original to the house from the early 50s, plus plumbing from a remodel by the previous owners that seriously violates code with the size of the pipes and the amount of turns in them.

The morning following my Drano treatments, it seemed fine, but while running the washing machine, my tub started backing up again. So I went to Home Depot and rented an auto-rooter to try and clear up the clog. I had done this bit of home maintenance within the first year of homeownership. At that time, I had to take apart the toilet to get the rooter down the drain easier and very quickly the problem was resolved.

This time, I removed the toilet and did so much work with that damn rooter and thought I had solved the problem. But, two evenings later, my tub started backing up again. I called a plumber to come, who arrive the next day. After breaking up the clog and putting a camera in, they discovered that my big, beautiful tree in the front of the yard had finally made its way into the original clay sewer pipes and had damaged them to the point of replacement.

The plumber drew up an estimate to replace the pipe and do some additional work on the pipe under my asphalt driveway and the total came to…$20,000.

This is the moment I find myself in a lot as a widow. I have a huge decision to make and not having my partner here with me means that I am limited to my own perspective on the issue. When Andy was here, we would have stopped to discuss the options because the stress and anxiety of doing the initial repairs and the monitoring of the water level and the research of what to do would have been spread amongst the two of us. Maybe even mostly on him. So, I would not have had the built up anxiety to GET IT FIXED NOW.

I told the guys to get it going, but I’m glad I had the need for connection so deep that I reached out to a few friend groups. In one group, my Mom Coven, a friend immediately suggested a second opinion. I felt so tired at that option and given what the plumbers had told me, felt like it wasn’t an option because we needed to GET IT FIXED NOW. Then a friend in the second friend group, the Circle of Zehn, suggested I get a second opinion. Huh. That’s a pattern. So I called CoZ friend and talked through it. Finally, I called Ronan’s godparents, who had just picked him up to take him to their house to be out of the way of all the coming and going. Ronan’s godmother, like me, is prone to wanting a solution ASAP and I knew I could talk through all I had heard with her and come to some reasonable conclusion.

So, I decided to seek a second opinion.

I stopped the work, got them to get things to a reasonable place, knowing that things could start backing up again as soon as that same evening, and asked them to email me their bid while starting the process of finding other companies.

I’m waiting to get that second opinion, plus more, and have had so many conversations about this thing. The most notable was when a friend and her husband got on FaceTime with me after reading through the bid and wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting fully taken advantage of.

This help was immense and relieving and also…exhausting. Where once I had one counselor, now I have 14. This story got told and retold to 14 people. That’s a fuck ton of emotional labor. And while it’s so helpful to have their love and support and perspective along the way, it highlights for me just how hard things are.

Widowhood is desperately difficult.

Not just because of the parenting decisions I have to make or the home decisions or the lack of support right there, but also because even to fill in 80% of the experience I had with my husband requires 14 people.

I had a meeting with my grief support group yesterday morning, the day before National Widow’s Day. We had an extensive conversation about having relationships beyond our person. There will be no “moving on” from them. Whomever I partner with next needs to be at least as wonderful of a man as Andy was. And, they have to be ok with me being in love with another man the entire time we are having a relationship. It’s a big spiritual and emotional ask and one I’m not willing to compromise on.

I don’t think people who haven’t been through this realize just how difficult this is. It’s not just because my best friend is dead. It’s not just because I’m now a single parent. It’s not just because I’m a homeowner alone. It’s because of all the extra work it takes to do the due diligence akin to what a conversation with my husband was like. And it’s the thought that this feeling of being deeply in love with him will never go away. That I will forever feel this gap. There is no time when it closes up.

It’s the ultimate unrequited love.

So today, National Widow’s Day, also the 7 month mark of his death, I want to document not only the loss of Andy, which is immense and still reverberating loudly through my family and community, but also what the true fallout is of his death. It’s a never-ending ordeal. There is no point where it gets better. It just gets more. It’s more devastating as I learn about what I have to truly do without him. It’s more tragic when I see what I and others are truly missing now that we’ve run through 7 months of scenarios without him.  It’s more sweet to think of him and reminisce. It’s more unjust that this happened to me and my son.

Being a widow is a lot. Alotalotalot.

And that’s it. No sweet but message at the end. No silver lining. It’s just a lot.

Love your widow friends today. And love them everyday. Our burden is so much bigger than you could ever imagine. And it’s one of the few times in my life where I really don’t want anyone to walk in my shoes to learn this. So, believe me and other widows. And then maybe send us some dinner because some nights that’s as hard as a major plumbing repair.

Day 19

I remember falling to my knees in the hospital and sobbing into your hand, “I don’t want you to die. I’m not ready for you to die.”

I had made fun of people earlier who had taken your Stage IV diagnosis for a death sentence and were already planning your legacy. But once they had all cleared out and it was just me and you and the darkness of the November sky, I collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

I remember walking a lot with you. I remember walking near the ocean, near mountains, in forests, in grocery stores, down the aisle.

I remember the feeling of your hand in mine. Big hands, rough hands, strong hands.

I want to forget…nothing.

You taught me not to regret my choices. That they all led me to the place I am now and that place, despite your absence, is beautiful. And fun. And funny. Ronan is trying to restring a play bow so Lighting McQueen can have a hang glider.

That’s funny.

So, because you showed me how all your choices make you who you are, and that I should not be ashamed of who I am, I don’t want to forget anything.

I hate that I’m already forgetting things.

Day 18

If you have to be here–and you do because there is no taking this back–may you live and love as if this hadn’t happened to you.

May your heart be full of care for others and for yourself.

May your heart be filled with the care from others and from yourself.

May you live a life that your loved one would be proud of–but also, that they would miss. Live a life so full and glorious that your loved one makes every effort from the Other World to come join you. They will be Eurydice and you will be Orpheus. Your music will be your beautiful life and they will try and trick the Gods to come home to you. They will fail, because this is not a state that can be reversed. And you will continue with your tempting music.

You will live, laugh, love. You will do things they will be embarrassed about and things they will roll their eyes over. You will make terrible choices and good choices and you will miss them the whole time. And they will continue to pound at the underside of the Earth in an attempt to get back to you.

They will not. They are spectral, you are corporeal.

Live a life that will prompt them to remember that because they are spectral, they can be with you always. That though they cannot hold you, and kiss you, and drive a car with you, they can be next to you, over you, under you, maybe even through you if they can figure that one out.

Live a life that will make them want to explore their Old Magic and create New Magic so they may continue to be close to you.

So on a spring day, as the sun is bright and blinding overhead, you feel a gentle breeze, smell the green of the new blossoms, and hear the wind in the wind chimes and know they are with you.

May you live a life worthy of your loved one. So their death may not be in vain. Live a life as if death has touched you, so you know the true meaning of life.

Day 16

During cancer care, I was and still am connected to a secret network of Facebook groups specifically for supporting people through Colorectal cancer. A lot of the ideas we got for treatments outside of the normal chemo approach was because of these groups. Specifically, the group for Stage IV caregivers. Because cancer is such a deeply personal disease, there are a million ways to treat it. And even in that million there might not be something that helps.

So I got up close looks at people with liver complications, bone complications, open wounds, different kinds of ostomies from what Andy had, procedures I didn’t even know existed and specialists that I didn’t know could have a specialty.

One thing that always fascinated me was suction wound care. Our one experience with it was while in Hawaii on vacation, Andy started vomiting. After two days it didn’t go away, so we went to the nearest hospital. That one didn’t have CT machine, so we went to the bigger hospital. But even that one wasn’t big enough and so Andy was airlifted at 3am to Honolulu to go to the hospital there. I took a commercial flight a few hours later, the first leg of what was supposed to be our journey home, and found him with a bag attached to him

Andy had had two abscesses next to his liver. The doctors drained one quickly and efficiently, but the other was a little more stubborn. So they put a drain in, specifically a suction drain. It had negative pressure on it so it would be constantly drawing out anything that formed in that little pocket where the abscess had been. Very little trickled out, the doctor knew she had gotten most of it, so she wasn’t surprised when the bag remained mostly empty for the rest of the week we were there.

I feel like my heart is permanently bruised. Or permanently tender. Over the wound of Andy’s death is left a pink, newly grown area, and over that is a bit of negative pressure wound care. It’s ensuring that nothing is touching it while my heart heals.

Surprisingly, Coronavirus is what made this happen.

I was going around in the world, the newly healing part getting bumped and bruised regularly. But now, I’m with my kiddo all day long, taking things and mostly the pace I want to be taking them. I don’t have enough interactions during my day to bump the wound again, so it feels like it’s…healing is too strong of a word. It’s existing without incident.

And that’s nice.

When we restart whatever version of the world we have when we are done with COVID, whatever that looks like, I don’t want to go back to the old ways. I want to continue to honor my heart that is existing without incident. I don’t want to get sucked back into the vortex of capitalism and the pressure to be productive and the pressure to parent a particular way; to exist in a particular way. I want to exist and live and–dare I say?–thrive in a way that let’s my heart exist without incident. Or with fewer incidents. Maybe someday I can remove the negative pressure drain keeping the bacteria out. Maybe my heart will never be more than a mostly tender lump of strong muscle. If that’s true, I think it’ll be ok.

Day 13

When I was in graduate school, I learned I was very powerful.

People were scared of me and what I would do. They were afraid of the power I would wield and how I could choose to decimate entire civilizations. I learned that in order to keep people from making up stories about me and my power, that I had to be wildly transparent. I was in a cohort with people learning to be therapists and organizational change makers. You don’t get drawn to the work of healing unless you yourself are broken. So, I twisted my natural comfort to be a private person into being an open book.

Like all new powers, this one swung too far and while it made others comfortable, it had the affect of laying me bare more than I wanted to be. But, the gift in this newfound practice was that going into Andy’s cancer care, I was wildly transparent with what was happening.

I kept a CaringBridge journal with regular updates. They not only included the medical situation, but also our spirits and moods and what we needed for support. We had built around us a community of people who wanted to help and this was an easy way to stay transparent with them; to get the help we needed without having to be asked “How’s it going?” 200 times.

So, when Andy died, we all saw it coming. I wrote about it, prepped everyone for it, gave out tips on handling grief and supporting me and Ronan. From a community standpoint, our transition from cancer family to grieving family was seamless. Because I brought them all along for the terrible rollercoaster we were on.

That means that I have the gift of not being seen as “other.” I am other, but not in a scary, perilous sort of way. My otherness is not something to be feared, but rather a part of me. What makes me a good friend and family member is this otherness. Death is not a specter in my world, but something that I live with and manage every day like my toddler.

Because people see me managing it, they don’t avoid me. In fact, they lean into me. The transparency and authenticity is seen as refreshing in a world where you are asked to mask the scary parts. I mask nothing and as such, people come to me and match my authenticity. I know all of my friends’ insides and outsides. I know their fears and their dreams. I know what they want and what they love. I know that this happens because I don’t hide what I’m feeling or experiencing.

At first, the bareness was a harmful practice. I was with people who wanted to test how vulnerable I was. They were encouraged to weed out the soft parts so I would know where they were and could defend them or tend to them.

Now, my bareness is a gift I bring to everyone. It’s my wisdom and my love and my truth. It’s what people want and what I need to feel held.

In the midst of the pandemic, I have been talking to a lot of friends. When they are missing vital, essential pieces of self care like drinking water and going outside and sleeping enough, I remind them of their foundational humanness and how that needs to be tended. And sometimes they say, “You’re never wrong, so I should just listen to you.”

That’s the power of living wholly authentically and in the deepest integrity. People respect it, want to emulate it, it’s a power unto itself.

So, I’m not the witch in my fairy tale. Or I am, but not in the way we typically think. I bring a gift that while people don’t want it necessarily, they know it’s inevitable and watch my movements for their own edification. So when their time comes they know that my gingerbread house isn’t a trap to eat them, but actually full of treats and a warm fire and some tea. I am the quintessential hostess to my own grief and I am the quintessential hostess for others. I do this so I can get support, but also I do this because I have no other way of being. Those who don’t want my gifts and powers weeded themselves out a while ago.

Day 12

Sometimes I worry that I’m not in enough pain.

I feel my loss for Andy every day, but it’s not the piercing, debilitating way that I thought it would be. I’ve had moments of debilitation, but they have only happened a handful of times over the 6 months since he’s been gone.

6 months. Holy hell.

Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. How has it only been 6 months?

I thought I would be more paralyzed, more apathetic, more aloof. I’m sure that having a 3 year old accounts for a solid 80% of the forward momentum I’ve experienced. He cannot fend for himself, so I get up every day and care for him. And I’m afraid of irreparably harming him, so I do the work to be there for him.

So, in a way, I feel the pain every day. Sometimes it’s an ache or a slice. Sometimes it’s a soft smile, a laugh out loud. I feel the pain directly and I feel it with love.

I am very lucky that Andy had a good death.

In light of all that’s happening with COVID, I’ve been taking in a lot of information about people have good and bad deaths; what distinguishes them. For so many right now, they are having bad deaths. They are isolated and alone without having had the experience to tie up loose ends, say the things they needed to say, finish their business. I often wonder about how many spirits will haunt us after this ordeal has subsided.

Andy and I talked about his death for the 1 year 10 months and 24 days we had from his cancer diagnosis. We passed information back and forth. I asked a lot of questions, he gave a lot of answers. He got his affairs in order, checking beneficiaries, writing down passwords, telling me about how and when to clean gutters and how and when to show up for our son in Andy’s absence.

When he started hospice, we talked about his funeral service. We got very clear about who would speak and what order things would go in, who would be our host for the evening (the same man who married us), how to support all our friends who have children during the memorial, and how to support the children themselves.

When Andy died, he was by no means ready. He wanted to live and have a life with me and his son. He wanted to watch Ronan play soccer, likely be the coach of the soccer team. He wanted to maybe have another baby, maybe travel to Australia with me, maybe get a dog. He wanted to get an RV and go on long road trips with me and Ronan. He wanted to see the next phase of Marvel movies and see how Star Wars concluded. He had a whole other life he wanted to live.

When Andy died, he wasn’t ready, but also, he was. He did his work, he processed his stuff, he said his goodbyes and took one last nap with his son, his big hand on Ronan’s tiny chest. He told me I was the best choice he ever made in his life.

Because of all of this, the pain flowed alongside the love for 1 year 10 months and 24 days. I worry that I’m not in enough pain, but I realize that because I did the work of feeling it and saying it out loud and sharing it with him, the pain isn’t quite so sharp. It’s not quite so debilitating. ’Tis a flesh wound as opposed to a mortal wound. I can tend to it with my good first aid (that Andy taught me) and continue to live my life.

As I type this now, tears flow gently, my son sits behind me quietly playing. Love and grief live side-by-side. Because, it turns out, they are one and the same.

Day 11

When Andy was alive, I often had jobs where I would toggle wildly between being around people for like 14 hours a day, to days and weeks of total isolation. If our lives intersected in a way where he was in tech and then I was in tech, I could go 6 weeks with us only seeing each other for an hour a day. Maybe less.

There was one show he did a few years ago after I had our son where he put in 16 hour days for 3 solid months. It was so isolating. Being a new mom is already super isolating, but doing it with my husband unavailable for all that time was hard. I would make choices and observations about our son that I wanted Andy’s input on, but I would have to wait sometimes literal days to actually talk to him about it.

It was hard as an introvert to not get those days where I would be alone all day and could recharge. It was even stranger when I felt profoundly lonely despite having a tiny human with me all the time.

I worked very hard to get that tiny human to a place where he could be more adaptable and independent. I wanted to have some freedom from being attached to him all day. I watched other moms take this approach and they were fucking crazy. Like somehow they missed the part where their own mental health was suffering from being so involved with their kids. I knew with my hardy introvert-ness, I would need alone time, or as alone as I could get with a small child.

Fortunately, Ronan was happy to take some space from me and seemed to really want it. He would go to his grandparents’ houses with no problem and was excited to go to school. I was happy to not be doing things like bedsharing so I could have downtime every night.

But it’s so paradoxical how this has ended up. Because since Andy died, I have been aching to share a bed with my son. I sleep terribly when I do this, but the isolation at night is truly the hardest part. It’s where I feel the most vulnerable, where I feel his absence the deepest. Despite us working wildly different schedules, I could always count on that some point during the night Andy would crawl into bed next to me, likely holding my hand.

It’s very strange to not have that now. To go to bed in a bed alone, to wake up alone, to live a life of strange isolation, one that seems like it would appeal to an introvert, but in reality is miserable. Isolation to soothe introversion is only helpful if I know I’m not truly alone. Andy was the emotional safety net for that. The reminder that every night he would eventually come to my bed and lay his hand next to mine and, like, otters, we would fall asleep holding hands so we wouldn’t float apart.

He died holding my hand. To me it feels like the ultimate symbol that he felt he was safe as he moved into the Other World. I was there, laying beside him in the ultimate position of security. The daily reminder that we had each other because we always ended up asleep together.

Falling asleep now is hard. There’s no button to the ritual. There’s no punctuation that symbolizes the actual final moment where I’m choosing to go to sleep. The period on my day was Andy.

Now I live in a constant ellipses…all the moments blend together as I await the clarity Andy’s presence gave me to come back .

Day 10

I recently said that even if my child gets to live the ideal, idyllic life for the rest of his life, nothing will overcome the loss of his Papa. There is no amount of payment the Universe can offer that would repay this debt.

When I met Andy, I thought my life of hard was coming to a close. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop in this almost magical relationship. Really, we were quite sickening.

Until I met Andy, life was hard. Addiction and abuse and infidelity and parentification and narcissism and illness and instability and not knowing what a loving relationship was actually supposed to look like. I felt like I was constantly coming up for air only to be pushed under again.

Andy was like a scuba tank. No. He was a submarine. But not a little one, like a big one. Like a big wartime one, except his somehow wasn’t tight and confining, it had sprawling banquettes with plush pillows and a constant stream of tasty seafood. I could stay underwater for a long, long time while enclosed in my Andy submarine.

Then the submarine was torpedoed.

November 9, 2017 we were attacked from within. A mutiny by the crew.  Andy’s own cells were growing in uncontrollable ways and had invaded his guts. It was a rare kind of mutiny. The kind of mutiny that happens so quietly that less than 1% of submarine mutinies go down this way, but here we were. A veritable mutiny that had become a coup.

And we gave into the demands, the fatigue and the altered appetite and the strange sleep schedule. All while trying to keep the submarine going every day. Our newest crew member was only 17 months old and so we tried to keep things running smoothly while the coup got more and more intense and the submarine got more and more damaged.

Eventually, it sank. With you in it.

But in the course of the coup I learned that “Nothing overcomes me-/this must be life’s way.” I have never succumbed to the hard stuff before. And the coup, the cancer, showed me that. I have an ability to rise above. I had somehow grown gills and was making a home under the water, my little baby fish person beside me. I knew nothing would overcome me. Nothing would take me down.

Some moments I wish for that submarine again, for the safe haven of peace where you and I would trade off being captain and I could, fuck, just REST.

But nothing overcomes me. This is life’s way now. I will continue. And, surprisingly, I’ll do it better than I did with the submarine. I needed the submarine to grow my gills and my scales and strengthen my fins. But now they are ready. They will keep me moving. They will keep our son safe. We will make a new home in these depths.

Day 9

I moved to a city that is called “The Emerald City.” While here, I met you and the color would forever be associate with you. Green trees, green grass, green fleece jacket I could bury my face in and breathe you in.

And your eyes.

Officially, called “hazel,” but often: green.

You wore the color often. You blended into the green and blue and gray of the pacific northwest like you were crafted for it and crafted from it. Because you were. Water and granite and lush rainforest made you. The rain making things green, making you blossom, bloom, grow.

The winter, when the rain is the hardest, we would hole up in our green living room and snuggle. We would breathe in the smell of the water on the earth and watch all the leaves turn colors and fall and everything would halt in this green and brown and gray palette.

And your eyes would shift from green to gray to blue to green. I would look into those eyes for solace and wisdom. For love and hope. For reason and order.

Your son has your eyes. Every day they get closer to the hazel that yours were. But his don’t reflect green as much. Our world right now is gray. You died just before winter and the rain didn’t feel enveloping or cozy. It felt, for the first time, oppressive.

Ronan’s eyes become more gray. I worry that his heart will be gray as a result of not having you. That he will be muted in his love or emotion or care because he doesn’t have you to hold him through all of those milestones that only you can know.

How do I help him? How do I keep him growing and green? Flexible and lush? Adaptable and willing and loving?

I think about you thousands of times during the day. Millions. Infinite. I think, what would Andy say? What would Andy want? How would Andy do this?

And I think of your eyes and the fleece and I look out the window to the Emerald City. It holds all the love of you. It holds the family we built together. And then I worry a little less about his lushness.

Day 8

(I skipped Day 7 because the prompt didn’t quite work for me.)

In the early days of grief, I kept thinking about Lorelai Gilmore from The Gilmore Girls. She wasn’t a single mom because she was widowed, so the circumstances are wildly different. But, I think about her living her life, mostly happily, successfully, fully, and I have some version of a role model for all of this. But she’s still not quite it. The circumstances of single parents are often out of pain, but my circumstances aren’t a choice. My circumstances were thrust upon me.

There are lots of images of parents raising kids as widows and widowers, but they’re usually somewhat of an antagonist to the child’s protagonist. Think parents in Disney movies or other fairy tales.

So, maybe it’s conceited, or maybe it’s practical, but my north star, my guide through grief, is me.

There’s no one I know who is navigating this as holistically and healthily as I am. There’s no one else with a small child and a small business. There’s no one with enough overlap that I feel I have a path ahead of me. So I’m forging my own.

And I’m happy to do that. I’ve done a lot of bushwhacking in my time and being a guide for others is what I do for a living.

Some days it can get hard. Some days it can get scary. The metaphorical looming cliff is when I’m in the middle of a massive showdown with my toddler over toy clean up and I wonder if this is the moment I create irreversible damage to his psyche and he becomes a serial killer.

But, more likely, I’m navigating it as well as my loved ones with partners. Even with the handicap of the grief and the life I didn’t ask for, I’m somehow making lemonade out of lemons. Or at least lemon water.

The thing that I didn’t have an example for is the ebb and flow of grief. I always thought it was a constant thing. Either you were in mourning forever, on the verge of tears, not eat or sleeping, staring despondently out the window. Or, you were “recovered” and living your life, occasionally reflecting on your loved one’s death with sadness, but the kind of sadness that is pretty and unobtrusive. The kind that would be painted by a Renaissance artist. “Portrait of a widow in the parlor” or something.

In reality, I never forget Andy has died. But I feel it more or less depending upon the circumstances. Right now, while my son is happy and my cat is splayed across my arms and my cup of tea is warm by my side, it’s a gentle day at the beach, it’s low tide and we can walk relatively easily and see all the beautiful shells beneath us. “Us” in this case is me and my son. I rarely think about my grief without him in the picture.

But last night, after an epic 2 hour fight with my kiddo about putting toys away that resulted in the harshest consequences I’ve ever doled out (I took his fire truck away for a day!), the sea was suddenly stormy and I was drowning and I laid on my bed afterwards and sobbed. And it was scary sadness. The kind that you see people do when they’ve been involuntarily locked up. In that moment, the situation felt involuntary. Sure, I signed up for temper tantrums, but I didn’t sign up to do it alone. I signed up for a partner and confidante and tag-teamer. To have to check in with myself that many times about whether I was doing it “right” was exhausting. Fortunately, I believe that Andy was hanging out with us, so I felt a gentle nudge every time I felt unsure and kept to my course. But that creates decision fatigue. And decision fatigue is, well, fatiguing.

In the course of this new pandemic paradigm, I’ve had to make a lot of choices by myself. I got more used to the level of decision making I had after Andy’s death, but now having to make a ton of choices akin to newborn days where it was all new and it could all be right or wrong and I was alone, it’s a lot and it’s fatiguing. And the hardest part is that there isn’t a point where my favorite person comes home. There isn’t a point where I feel relief to have a partner again. It’s just endless hours and days and months and years ahead of me.

And no one I know, no one I see is experiencing this. So, I’m my role model. Or at least the idealized version of me that is handling all of this relatively gracefully and realistically is my role model. And she is not all that different from me, it turns out.

Day 6

The cruelty of grief isn’t within me. It’s within the carefully avoided glances, the tiptoe around my broken heart. It’s in the judgment that forgets that I am not normal, typical right now. I am hollowed out, missing, rebuilding.

The cruelty of grief is when I am held to the same rubric as someone who is still living their chosen life. Even in the discomfort or pain of that life, they are still choosing it. I did not choose this life and to measure my worth/value/productivity with the same yardstick is a cruelty.

Kindness looks like the check-in despite a lack of response, in the gracious rescheduling again, in the dropped off meal or the offer to watch over my child.

In myself, Kindness looks like space. Spaciousness. A lack of sharp corners and bars to be held to. It looks like, for the first time, time. And how convenient that the entire world is taking time right now. My grief was willing to travel with me through work and play, only occasionally throwing temper tantrums when it went ignored too long. Now, my grief gets to sit with me while I read, write, watch TV, hang with my kid, go for a walk, silently stew about the state of the world–coronavirus.

It is happy for the time and I am happy to hear it. It is not wrong in its feelings–anger, injustice, sadness, ambivalence, joy, terror, ennui–all are right and welcome.

The pause, the kindness the world has granted me, allows me to be a hostess to my grief. And I give it coffee and cookies and a soft place to sleep with clean sheets and flowers. And I’ll make a home for it for as long as it wants. I’m not ready to let go of it yet, and it’s not ready to leave.