I like to have a plan laid out and feel great satisfaction when I complete it.
As a high school teacher, I planned units of study that spanned several months, carefully plotting out the material we would cover and the methods we would use. I loved to see the plans placed neatly in the lesson plan template, ready to go for the weeks ahead. Even if I needed to change them, I felt comfort in having a roadmap to follow.
Similarly, I like to prep for holidays well in advance. I'm the kind of person who plans out Christmas gifts for loved ones months ahead, making lists and checking them off as I complete them. Completing those checks feels so good to me.
I even like packing for a trip, long before I need to do it, prepping for the weather, having everything I need. Just in case, I'm ready.
I like to feel a sense of control. But, really, what I feel in all of these examples is the illusion of having control.
Now, less than two months after my son's death, it is that sense of control that I crave and am realizing will never have again.
There is no "getting ready" for this walk through sorrow.
Grief trashes any sense of agenda. It will not and cannot be controlled.
Resisting her only causes more pain.
I am letting her have her way with me. I am open to what she teaches me. It is the only way to survive these early days.
What am I learning?
I am measuring time by before and after his death.
I am living in a series of "firsts."
Every first is a new experience that is colored by the fact that my son is no longer here.
The first time I went to the grocery store
I wandered through the aisles, seeing foods he liked, wondering if I should pick them up for him. It was easy to slip into a place of forgetting that he is no longer here. As reality hit me, I purchased things he liked: butterscotch pudding, iced cinnamon buns, egg custard, just to taste them as reminders of him.
The first time I got a text thought it was him
The familiar "ding" breaks my focus. I look at my phone fully expecting a text from him. My heart sinks when I realize that will not happen again. I know that the automatic response I had will likely happen again. Over and over, I will experience the shock of reality and the temporary reprieve of thinking nothing has changed will evaporate.
The first time I drove alone
I realize that there is no need to take the shortcut to his condo anymore. The beautiful ride through the country to avoid traffic is unnecessary now. I do not need to go to that part of town. And if I do, nothing looks the same. It will be the first time I see that area, knowing he no longer lives there.
The first big holiday without him
Right around the corner sits the holiday season. I want to skip this one, like it doesn't exist. And the one after that. And the one after that. I can't envision celebrating right now.
The decorations will stay boxed this year. I will focus on loving those closest to me to the best of my ability. I will keep it very simple and be open to what I experience as I experience it. That is all I can manage, and, right now, that is a lot.
The first time I felt the chill of winter coming
I wondered, unnecessarily, if he would be warm enough this winter. I remembered that his body no longer has needs of this world. I thought of his grave, knowing that soon it will be covered with a blanket of snow. I hear the words echo in my mind, " He's no longer there. Only the vessel that carried his spirit rests there." And I exhale.
The first time we had dinner with good friends
Our conversation centered on losing him and how his death is affecting each of us. I have a renewed appreciation for good friends who allow us to express what we feel, experiencing it along with us. They help us toggle between the ordinary and the extraordinary demands grief makes of us, letting us know we are not alone.
The first time I got a haircut, went to the dentist, and had an annual check up
My hairdresser, who has heard stories about him for many years, falls apart with me. My dentist reaches over and holds my hand. My doctor walks through every system in my body, asking about how each system is functioning in the face of this. I see in her eyes her concern. She does the thinking I cannot do.
"Firsts" have always made me anxious. I can't plot them out and plan accordingly. There is no way to prepare for them.
The only thing more difficult than firsts is my recognition of the list of lasts. How would I have behaved if I knew these were "lasts?"
I remember that we did hug goodbye the last time I saw him. I am grateful for this, but I lose my footing when I realize that I have had my last hug from him. I am sent spinning when I know that I will not have the ability to touch him as I tell him I love him.
My last meal with him was at one of his favorite restaurants. He ordered a Cuban sandwich when I thought he'd get a full dinner. I ordered jambalaya. When I saw his downcast eyes, I reached over and patted his hand, assuring him that things would get better. I was wrong.
Our last phone conversation was a total of 55 seconds. I want that time back again. I guarantee that I won't squander the opportunity.
Grief is surprisingly dynamic. There is an unpredictability that can unnerve me, but, interestingly, it has also given me a new perspective.
Grief is a teacher. She is directing me to that which is most important in my life. With a very limited bandwidth, I have to focus on only that which matters most.
She tells me to let go and to bring awareness to this process. I need to be curious and open.
She tells me to take it slowly. She will carry me in her arms through these "firsts."
She has been with me from the day he was born. She wants me to know that grief and love are inextricably intertwined.
Although I did not want her to be in my life this way, I am learning that what she wants most is to heal me.
My job is to let her do just that.