Diary of Grief

Day Two: Sinking In

This morning I wake feeling pinned to the sheets – so I decide not to get up. Instead, I lay diagonally across the bed, peering out the window at the camel-colored hills, and the silvery fog draped over them; I think of Steve. A hawk swoops over some cattle out in the distance and some beautiful words written to Steve on his Facebook Memories page come to mind: The heavy blanket has finally been lifted and your spirit is free to soar.* I try to imagine Steve’s spirit soaring like the hawk: free: unencumbered: whole. And it’s to this image I cling. My own heart is so heavy. Not soaring. Not free. Or light.

Chad has a work meeting today, so it’s just the kids and me again. Maintaining composure with the boys feels like it will be impossible. The intense feeling of restlessness is worse than it was yesterday – like lightening bugs trapped in a jar. I find myself ducking into different rooms of the house to let the involuntary tears fall. I notice, though, as I allow the tears to fall that the restlessness finds relief – like the fireflies are finding their way into the open air again, one at a time.

In the kitchen, after trying to eat a piece of toast, but composting it instead – after making the coffee required too much effort – after doing a couple of aimless laps around the house - I scribble the following on a note pad:

Grief doesn’t let you

make your bed in the morning

or even sleep in it

during the night;

no—grief keeps you

awake

into the early hours

of morning, poised on the edge

of you don’t know what;

awake to

the fragility of

e-v-e-r-y-thing.

Grief immobilizes.

I let the boys watch extra videos today, and draw myself a bath. Submerged in the comfort of hot water, I recall that tonight I’m supposed to host a dinner party. Will grief let me host a dinner party? Should I cancel it? Friends we have not seen in nearly a year will visit; I decide to keep the plans, concluding that as fragile as life feels at the moment, it’s important to connect with friends. So after the long soak, I gather up the boys and head to Trader Joe’s. I make it as far as the parking lot, but we are near the place where Steven was found; we are on the very street, in fact. Behind the wheel in the parking lot, I collapse into tears again; after a few deep breaths, I turn and speak to my three boys: Listen, I say, I’m feeling very sad and the sadness makes it hard to do the things I normally do. Do you boys think you can be extra well behaved and helpful in the store?

The world in Trader Joe’s feels divided in two: those who know Steven died and those who don’t – which makes it lonely. The boys, who know my soul’s sad secret, are angelically helpful; and I am so grateful. I feel rather zombie-ish, tossing bananas and bread loaves into the cart. I watch the faces move past us in the aisles, going about their shopping: alive: inhaling and exhaling, laughing, speaking and texting. I feel oddly disconnected from the living. It feels strange and surreal that all things are still in motion, when this beloved old friend of my mine is not.

After loading the groceries into the van, I find myself turning left out of the parking lot, instead of right. I am looking for the place where Steve’s body was found. I drive slowly, frozen groceries and all, an obvious aggravation to cars trailing behind me. What I’m looking for is important; what I’m hoping to find, my soul needs. As human beings, physical in nature, when faced with death, with the nonphysical realm, I think we grasp for something that can connect us – that can help us feel less lost from that which we mourn. I think I understand now why a cross at the roadside or flowers on a gravestone, or even a Facebook Memories page, can all be vital for those suffering a loss; it’s part of how we make sense of our grief; how we move on; how we comfort ourselves. It’s how we stay connected with whom it is we love and grieve. We believe they are with us in a new way: admiring the crosses we’ve stood in the ground, smelling our flower bouquets, and reading our words, from whatever mysterious place now holds them. After traveling up and down the street a few times, I realize that with the limited description I have, I won’t be able to find the sacred spot I long for today.

Maybe tomorrow I will find what I'm looking for.

*compliments of J. West