Not Choking Down the Turkey

**Some people see a weed; some, a million possibilities.**

My son made the best turkey. He had his own recipe that included lemons and a lot of garlic. He would keep a watchful eye over it until it was ready to serve to the family. I taught him to make his first turkey when he was 11-years-old, but every time he’d tell the story about the origin of his culinary prowess, he got younger and younger, until I finally said to him. “Actually, you came out of the womb with a turkey in your arms.” He was not amused.

If you had asked me how I was going to spend my Thanksgiving day three years ago, I would have excused myself and found a place to sob. Holidays are tough the first year, and the second year, and depending on your emotional resources, holidays either get better or they get worse.

A couple of years ago, I would not have been able to tell any stories about Rikki; it was just too painful. I would avoid all social gatherings, even those with loving and supportive friends and family. I was irretrievably lost in my pain. My eyes were swollen from crying daily. I just wanted to sleep and shut the world out. It’s what you do when you lose a child. What else is there, right?

I couldn’t entertain the possibility that I might actually be able to enjoy an American holiday and not choke down the turkey. It is the right course of action to grieve the loss of a loved one. It is natural to go into a time of mourning, when there is truly nothing that will comfort you. I remember.

I was well-supported by friends, but I still felt alone. Who can comfort a person whose heart has been shattered? I know the heart and the brokenness are just metaphors, so why then does it hurt in your chest? Because pain affects our physiology as much as it affects our metaphors. Breathing through pain is very helpful. Breathing is also necessary to life, a burgeoning and thriving life.

I can’t pinpoint a date when I started to come out of my abysmal grief. I remember saying to myself and to others that I would never get over losing my son, and that I would never accept that he was gone. I held on with all my might, until I realized I was hurting myself, and pushing people away. To be honest, I was glad when the casseroles stopped coming. I didn’t want to have to deal with anyone. I did not navigate grief very well the first year. I didn’t think I was going to make it…but I have.

One day and 104 weeks later I woke up, in more ways than the literal sense, and I asked myself, “What happens next?” I had finally accepted that my son had died and he wasn’t, like Lazarus, going to be miraculously resurrected. Trust me, when your heart is in excruciating pain, you bargain for unrealities, but then one day, the intensity of your pain begins to lessen, and you notice the smile on your husband’s, wife’s, and children’s faces again and you want to share in their joy, and you feel like you finally can. The sunrise, the sliver of moon in the sky is analogous to the first inkling of light you see after being in the dark for a long time, because you really thought you’d never see that light again.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in America. It’s a day we count our blessings and allow gratitude to be the spirit of the day. I thought I’d never be able to be grateful again. Grateful for what? My son, my only child is gone. What do I have to celebrate now? Three years ago I might have answered that with a big, fat nothing. It’s been an arduous journey, to walk out of a life of visceral pain and into one where joy is still a possibility.

I have much for which to be be grateful. Some grievers and some spectators of my grief might find that difficult to believe. How can you go on without your loved one? You can, eventually. I like to think of grief as a place to germinate. I also have a greater appreciation for Frida Kahlo’s agonizing painting where she is giving birth to herself. It’s about as accurate and intimate an expression of someone coming out of mourning, and rediscovering his or herself, than I could ever possibly articulate in words. Transformation doesn’t come without some measure of pain, but, oh, the rewards when we ride it out to the other side where joy and peace abound.

I have been on cloud nine for several days now. No reason I can think of. Tomorrow is also the 34 month mark of my son’s passing, but instead of a dirge, I’ve been there long enough, I will join in the festivities, thankful for how my son touched my life, and for how much we loved each other. Tomorrow I will enjoy the company of friends. We will eat, drink, and be merry. I am looking forward to the celebration, and for that very reason, I am grateful.

Grief as Catharsis

“Feelings, and feelings, and feelings. Let me try thinking instead.”

― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Grief is labyrinthine at best. There are twists and turns, highs and lows, abysses and moments when you are able to take flight and soar toward the light. On January 22nd, 2019, it will be three years since I lost my only child. He was 32. He was the love of my life, and my best friend. To say grief has been a difficult journey is, quite frankly, a devastating understatement.

There were days I could barely breathe from sobbing uncontrollably, and I cried for nearly an entire year after he died. I must say his name; doing so is important to me. His name is Rikki. Acknowledging my child’s name, life, and death are now adornments I wear like a string of fine pearls, originating from the irritation of a grain of sand, and culminating into a thing of beauty. If my pearls are admired and inquiries are made about them, I will share a bit about my son. If no one mentions them, I am now content to join the party and shelve the need to speak about my son until a more opportune time.

People think grief is something that dissipates after a time on its own. This could not be further from the truth. Grief does become less intense after time, but the grief journey is a process that requires a tremendous amount of work if one is to begin healing from the loss of a precious loved one. The work can be grueling, and there are days when the prospect of a sunny day seems inconceivable; it is exactly then the decision must be made: to heal or to continue hurting.

I miss my son more than there are words to convey from any lexicon. Please, don’t think I have chosen healing easily. I pushed that burdensome stone of grief up that mountain only to roll back to the bottom of it into the pit of despair, and I did so many times.

I decided one day that the fetal position does not accentuate my best side.

Grief is a journey that can be traveled alone, although I don’t recommend it, or it can be accompanied by others who have incurred life-shattering losses. I don’t presume to judge how one navigates his or her grief journey. I can tell you only how I have traveled through the muck and mire of the visceral effects of grief, into the promised land where true healing takes place.

I was told by some people early in my journey I would never heal, that it was impossible to heal from the loss of a child. I don’t accept that. I will never accept that. I am healing in great leaps and bounds, despite the triggers that still moisten my eyes and clutch at my heart from time to time.

It’s been a long time since I doubled over in pain, and I choose to not live my life in that manner.

I choose life. I choose joy. I choose peace. I choose me.

And so we begin.

Welcome to [from] Grief to Gratitude

Grief is ubiquitous. Like REM sings, “Everybody hurts — sometime.” I lost the most precious person in my life, in all my lifetimes: my son, only child, and best friend. I’ve been navigating the grief process for nine and a half years at the writing of this blurb. I write about the improvisational nature of grief; it’s a day-by-day thing.

Some days we soar and some days we sink. I write about the ways we manage our grief from the sunbeams to dark nights of the soul. I’ve managed to create purpose from my pain. I went back to college and earned three degrees. I help raise our grandson. We have cats who entertain us for hours at a time. I spend time reading, writing, and visiting with people I love. Life is short; my son was only 32 when he died from alcoholism and heroin addiction.

Life is very short. In the interim between the time of our birth and the time of departure from this earthly trip, we must grab hold of all the amazing things life has to offer.

I miss my son more than there are words to express, but life goes on; it must. There’s still so much beauty, beauty we shared with our loved ones. Beauty they left behind for us to remember them. Their beauty shines through our lives…let’s do them proudly.

#grief

#grieftogratitude#rediscovering joyafteraloss#death#

#joy