High Tide

May 092022
 

I cry easily, almost as easily as I did way back when. It’s a triggered response. Not everything makes me cry, but whatever does—an unbidden recollection, an unwelcome piece of information, a devastating image, a piece of music; really, anything that has to do with loss—and I am ready to weep. More than seventy years on this planet and I still can’t locate, much less disable, that switch. Believe me, I’ve tried.

The best I’ve been able to manage is a near immediate follow-up response that muffles the reaction and keeps the wave from becoming a tsunami, at least in public. I’m not entirely successful at stopping the churn, but I’ve learned to take it down to watery eyes and a choked voice.

April was a cold and rainy month; there were sorrows aplenty. I had shoulder surgery, a good thing but an event that rendered me temporarily more vulnerable and less independent, despite help from wonderful friends. The international and national news pulled me low. The unexpected death of my friend of forty-seven years was a gut punch (although the quiet and dignified way in which his wife, also a dear friend, has handled her loss is a lesson in living with sorrow that is both informational and inspirational). The steady decline of my beloved dog Molly is a daily challenge.

For the record, I laugh, out loud, both publicly and privately. Well, more a giggle or a chuckle, an occasional guffaw or snort. It helps. Singing and dancing are also good for the soul, especially for someone who spends as many hours alone as I do. Sometimes, in the company of friends, I marvel at how I can be so experienced in grief and loss, yet laugh so freely. I appreciate the contradiction, appreciate that something outside me can pull that sound out of me or that I can find it within me.

In the last few years, we’ve all experienced more pain than joy. I’m told that’s to be expected at this time of my life. I don’t like thinking that way. Instead, I remind myself that crying is a release, that my reaction is a sort of cleansing process, that it’s probably good for me (as long as it doesn’t go on forever, I suppose), that holding it in isn’t healthy, and that if my friends can’t handle it, I should get new ones. That I still have more joy to discover.

I hope so. My constant companion, has a host of neurological, cognitive, and physical issues that may not yet threaten her life but negatively affect her quality of life. Pharmaceuticals help, as does abundant patience on my part. Periodically, I’m asked by the vet to measure the ratio of joy and curiosity to pain and apathy in her life. I will likely have to decide when it’s time for her to go, with her help.

Cue the tears.

Meanwhile, in the here and now, Molly wakes from her long nap. She’s gotten up and trotted over, tail wagging and eyes bright as if to ask, “What’s happening?” or maybe “What’s to eat?”

I laugh out loud.

The First Halloween

Oct 252021
 

I receive requests for this original short story every year at this time. I happily comply.

The all-purpose table had been cleared of dinner dishes and now held four pumpkins, two knives, six magic markers, and several squat orange candles. Claire had switched off the harsh overhead fluorescent and dragged two lamps in from the living room, hoping to create the right atmosphere.

“Mom, Becca’s doing it wrong.” Sadie’s whiny voice cut through the stuffy kitchen air like a dentist’s drill. She glared at her older sister.

“Shut up, brat. I’m making art.” Becca had carved out a single baleful orb and was assessing her work. Her own eyes, heavily lined and shadowed, cut to her mother.

“What? All the 7th grade girls are doing it.”

Guilt is surely a child’s most potent weapon, thought Claire, rubbing a spot between her eyebrows. She exhaled slowly, maneuvered the knife away from her youngest son’s exploratory little hands and forced a smile.

“Let Becca do her thing, Sadie. How’s your pumpkin coming along?”

“Wanna cut, Momma.” Robby was leaning out of his high chair, reaching for the knife. Claire slapped a marker and a smaller pumpkin in front of him.

“Draw a face.”

“It’s not right, Becca,” Sadie persisted.

“I’ll do this dumb pumpkin any way I want, cretin.” Becca waved her hand in dismissal. “I can’t help it if you lack imagination.”

“Mom!”

“Girls . . .”

“Becca’s not doing it the way Daddy showed us!”

“Duh, he’s gone, idiot!”

“You’re the idiot!”

Robby, alert to any discord between his two sisters, chimed in with a plaintive wail. “I wanna Dadda punkin! Want Dadda punkin now!”

“QUIET!” Claire pounded the table, sending knives and markers flying. The children froze, stunned into silence by her outburst and by the single tear that hung precariously from the corner of her eye. She regarded them bleakly: restless older daughter, resentful middle child, and a small boy suddenly marooned among so many injured women.

“Here’s how we’ll do it,” she said firmly. Picking up a knife, she made a series of shallow cuts on the remaining pumpkin to indicate a face. She worked quickly, her labors informed by years of medical training and months of suppressed grief. Within a few minutes, she had the outlines of an expressive-looking face whose sad eyes belied its wide smile. She stood back, feeling oddly satisfied. Robby clapped his hands.

“Good punkin.”

They laughed.

“I like your pumpkin idea, Mom,” Becca ventured.

“Me, too,” her sister added.

“Our pumpkin,” Claire told them. “We’re in this together.”

all-purpose table had been cleared of dinner dishes and now held four pumpkins, two knives, six magic markers, and several squat orange candles. Claire had switched off the harsh overhead fluorescent and dragged two lamps in from the living room, hoping to create the right atmosphere.

“Mom, Becca’s doing it wrong.” Sadie’s whiny voice cut through the stuffy kitchen air like a dentist’s drill. She glared at her older sister.

“Shut up, brat. I’m making art.” Becca had carved out a single baleful orb and was assessing her work. Her own eyes, heavily lined and shadowed, cut to her mother.

“What? All the 7th grade girls are doing it.”

Guilt is surely a child’s most potent weapon, thought Claire, rubbing a spot between her eyebrows. She exhaled slowly, maneuvered the knife away from her youngest son’s exploratory little hands and forced a smile.

“Let Becca do her thing, Sadie. How’s your pumpkin coming along?”

“Wanna cut, Momma.” Robby was leaning out of his high chair, reaching for the knife. Claire slapped a marker and a smaller pumpkin in front of him.

“Draw a face.”

“It’s not right, Becca,” Sadie persisted.

“I’ll do this dumb pumpkin any way I want, cretin.” Becca waved her hand in dismissal. “I can’t help it if you lack imagination.”

“Mom!”

“Girls . . .”

“Becca’s not doing it the way Daddy showed us!”

“Duh, he’s gone, idiot!”

“You’re the idiot!”

Robby, alert to any discord between his two sisters, chimed in with a plaintive wail. “I wanna Dadda punkin! Want Dadda punkin now!”

“QUIET!” Claire pounded the table, sending knives and markers flying. The children froze, stunned into silence by her outburst and by the single tear that hung precariously from the corner of her eye. She regarded them bleakly: restless older daughter, resentful middle child, and a small boy suddenly marooned among so many injured women.

“Here’s how we’ll do it,” she said firmly. Picking up a knife, she made a series of shallow cuts on the remaining pumpkin to indicate a face. She worked quickly, her labors informed by years of medical training and months of suppressed grief. Within a few minutes, she had the outlines of an expressive-looking face whose sad eyes belied its wide smile. She stood back, feeling oddly satisfied. Robby clapped his hands.

“Good punkin.”

They laughed.

“I like your pumpkin idea, Mom,” Becca ventured.

“Me, too,” her sister added.

“Our pumpkin,” Claire told them. “We’re in this together.”

Heel/Heal

Jan 292020
 

“Heel” is a simple word. A body part, or a part of a shoe. As a verb, the act of repairing a shoe or a command instructing a leashed animal (usually a dog) to follow closely behind its owner.

Then there’s “heal,” which is a more complicated verb. When it comes to physical injury, the definition is “to cause (a wound, an injury, or a person) to become sound or healthy again.” The implication is that the thing or person being treated will be somehow restored. Sample sentence? “He would wait until his knee had healed.”

Then there is the second definition: “to alleviate (distress or anguish)” What it suggests is a lessening, an accommodation of sorts but not a restoration. Sample sentence? “Time can heal the pain of grief.”

Which is to say, the griever becomes far better at coping, more adept at getting through a day, open to the idea of living, laughing, loving. Never wholly repaired. Ever. Like an aging body, it will always hurt.

I’m surprised more people don’t seem to understand this about grief. Hasn’t loss touched a great number of us? Any episode of “This is Us” or the myriad doctor shows revisit the subject time after time. True, the passing of the elderly may cause less pain, though that is also fungible. Lives cut short are always a shock to the system.

Yet most people are supremely awkward around grievers. Some feel compelled to share their grief stories. Others want to flee. I get it. Listening, just listening, is hard. Being around people in pain is a colossal downer.

Writers are natural grievers. In the effort to tell stories that resonate, we must tap into universal experiences that include joy and hope but also pain and loss. We are required to feel what our narrators feel. Further, we are by nature somewhat solitary. Isolated at times by our own unruly emotions, we must rely on whatever words we have at our disposal, so that we may reach out, connect and find the truth in our own one-of-a-kind process. Such efforts may benefit others. It definitely benefits us.

As does IRL (in real life) contact. Americans may be bad with words but they are terrific huggers. Hugging isn’t for everybody and hugging everybody isn’t for me. I’m squirmy in the embrace of strangers. My family wasn’t overtly physical, although they were never at a loss for words. I’ve been a widow for eighteen years. My sister didn’t hug until the very end of her life. Being folded into an embrace is still a novelty for me.

I don’t mind it, though. It feels as if I’m connecting to something. To another being. To life.

Speaking of connecting, I know far more people now than I did when my husband was killed. Although many of these people remain virtual, others do not. They’ve stepped up. Not only are they reaching out to me, some are determined to get me out of the house. I have (what is for me) a crowded social calendar. It’s exhausting but it’s not a bad thing. I try to accept as many of these connections as possible. I’ve even done my own outreach, making dates and planning to fly off to see distant friends. That’s some sort of record.

Still, I try not to get ahead of myself. Grief drains me. I am often tired. I do practice what my friends call self-care. Less wine, less sugar, more protein, lots of exercise and the aforementioned social engagements. I am lucky to be able to do so and I don’t take that advantage for granted. I’m even grateful to keep busy with the paperwork that arises when one is solely responsible for packing up another’s life.

I’m not a patient person and age has only aggravated my impatience. I want to get on with things. Grief has other ideas about the how and the when, confounding the best laid plans.

I don’t entirely control my broken heart’s repair. For the foreseeable future, grief is the master. Where it leads, I follow. I heel, so that I can heal.

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