HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT
They left me with your shadow saying things like
life is not fair & I believed them for a long time.
But today I remembered the way you laughed
and the heat of your hand in mine &
I knew that life is more fair than we can ever imagine
if we are there to live it.
Brian Andreas, StoryPeople
I listen to podcasts when I take Buster for his nightly walk. Moving my body every day has become as essential as breathing during this time when we’re all confined at home. Without it, I not only lose what little mojo I have to get stuff done, I find myself getting short-tempered, impatient and cranky. Never a pretty combination, especially for those who are sheltering with you.
In last night’s episode, a young woman whose sibling had died shared her thoughts about the comments people had made to her – what she found hurtful instead of helpful, what she found thoughtless instead of considerate. Some of it, I related to. Some of it, I didn’t. But what struck me, and not for the first time, is the way we make our own pain worse when we’re grieving and how we try to universalize the needs and wants of the bereaved, even as we acknowledge that everyone’s experience of loss is different. For example, we complain about the words people use when they ask how we are instead of appreciating that they care enough to ask. We fool ourselves into thinking that perfectly phrased sentiments exist, and that, when uttered, they will somehow ease our pain. It’s what’s led to scores of articles chastising people for what they say to friends and family members who are grieving, as if those magical, healing phrases worked for everyone.
When a friend called to check on me after Jimmy died, I discovered I didn’t care how she phrased her concern. Most of the time, I was too numb to hear the exact words anyway, but I didn’t miss the love behind them. On any given day, I might be too fragile to answer, but it was never lost on me that she loved me enough to want to know.
When my friends offered to help, I rarely knew what to ask for. I was uncomfortable admitting that my guest bathroom was filthy or that I had no idea what to make for dinner. Often, I didn’t even know what I needed. So people would guess. Whether or not their actions hit the mark, I appreciated every persevering soul who didn’t let my reticence stop them. The meals that showed up, the counters that got cleaned, the household supplies that appeared on the front porch, the flowers that brightened my day, I was grateful for all of it. I appreciated that my friends were willing to try, even if the casserole was bland, or we already had enough bananas and paper towels.
We don’t always say or do the “right” thing when we reach out to a friend. Death is shattering, and grief is scary. If you haven’t lost one of your most important people, how could you possibly know what to say or how to help someone who has?
But this isn’t a piece for the people who love us and want to help. It’s a gentle plea for the grieving to see what’s hiding in plain sight. The miniature miracles all around you. The still hot latte waiting on your desk when you drag yourself back to work after your mother dies. The delicate pink roses on your front porch from your neighbor’s garden. The two enormous Tupperware bowls packed full of summer fruit dropped off by your climbing buddy, more salad that your family of three could eat in a week. The garbage cans that get hauled to the curb on the days you’re too broken to leave the house. The way even your most terrified, uncertain friends keep showing up. As Emerson said, “What you do speaks so loudly, I can’t hear what you say.”
After Jimmy died, I walked and walked and walked. Most days, it was the only reason I left the house. I walked to survive the pain, to keep myself from curling into a ball on the floor, to avoid being alone in the house. But even in my addled state, I couldn’t fail to notice the beauty that was all around me – the purple lupine blanketing the hillside, the warm caress of the sun on my back, the blue green lake water shimmering in the light. Everyday miracles pulling me back to life as I trudged alone behind Buster and my husband, Dan, carrying the memory of Jimmy with me.
There is no way back to the life you had before your beloved died. That life is gone, and so is the person who lived it. The path to a life in the aftermath of loss is built with small, round stones, not large pavers. The sunlight in the oak trees, the orange California poppies brightening the concrete highways, the sound of a child’s laughter, the smell of summer barbecue, a hug from a friend, the sweet tart taste of the first cherries of the season. These are the pebbles that lead you back to the land of the living. The key is to look for them, even on the hardest days. To remember that the pain and the longing will always be there, reminding you of all that is lost, but that life is still a gift, if you are here to live it.
WAITING
You know that place between sleep and awake,
The place where you can still remember dreaming?
That’s where I’ll always love you.
That’s where I’ll be waiting.
Tinkerbell, Hook
I dreamed of Jimmy the other night. It’s a rare gift, one that the universe doesn’t grant me very often. When I woke up, I lay there quietly, reluctant to break the spell of feeling like he was still alive. In the dream, we were with my mother and grandmother in the house I grew up in. Jimmy had cancer, but his hair was thick and full, and he was moving freely, gracefully, without the balance issues that plagued him near the end.
We spend so much of our time waiting for the next shiny new thing … the start of school, the perfect mate, the job of our dreams, our first-born child, the next vacation. But our lives happen in the everyday. The conversations in the kitchen, the ball game after school, the spats over homework, the whispered exchanges late at night after the lights are out.
I made all kinds of promises to myself about living in the moment, appreciating everything I had, acting like every day could be my last after Jimmy was diagnosed and again each time his cancer returned. But I broke those promises over and over again. It’s hard to live with that kind of intensity 24/7. There are meals to cook, errands to run, projects to finish, work to do. Distractions and demands are everywhere. It’s not until the light begins to withdraw that you start to notice the preciousness of the days, the hours, the moments that remain. You come to understand that nothing is guaranteed in this life, and that the bright, beautiful future you envisioned may never come to pass.
In the stillness, time slows down, and you notice the world in a way you might never have otherwise. The beauty of the ordinary. The magic of the mundane. The presence of the people you love most. Still here, still talking, still breathing. The flowers on the kitchen counter seem to open a little wider, smell a little sweeter. The crystal vase catches the light and makes it dance.
When the life of one of your most important people is coming to a close, everything else gets stripped away, and all that matters is being present. It’s simple, but not easy, as you become painfully aware that your days together will be ending soon. You barely sleep, determined not to miss a comment, a conversation, a bad dream. You can’t eat, as you wait for what’s coming, having no idea how you’ll ever survive it.
This new life you’re facing, the one in the aftermath, is no test. You can’t study or prepare for it. It will require every bit of the hard-won experience you’ve gained from a lifetime of being hurt, denied, crushed, knocked down. Unbeknownst to you, you’ve spent your entire life preparing for this blow. All you can do is wait and hope that when the light goes out, you might just be able to go on.