There are so many things we will never know about Reed. A million lost memories for us to grieve every day. We will perpetually wonder who he would be, what he would love, what unique quirks he would develop that cannot be explained by looking at either Marc or I. There are some things, though, that we do know about him. Indisputable truths that we learned from him in the days he was with us. These are the things I revisit every day, these little personality traits and physical characteristics that prove he was real, he is real, and he will always be real.
For example, we know that today, at nine months, his crazy hair would probably be as untameable as ever. Though he was only four days old when we said goodbye, there are certain personality traits that were apparent before he was even born, and were reinforced in the days we spent by his side in the hospital. One thing we know for sure about our little boy - he liked things to be done his way. He was stubborn, right up until the last minute. The kid liked things done according to his plan, and he had no problem throwing Mom and Dad’s ideas out the window.
When the trail I had chosen to hike on September 10 turned out to be closed that day, I quickly got over my flicker of disappointment and instead just laughed. “Typical Reed,” I thought, realizing once again I was not going to do things the way I had envisioned, but would instead have to adjust on the spot. I had a beautiful hike, and felt my heart lift for the first time in weeks. At the end, I wondered to myself if this had been a gentle way to encourage me to get out more. I’ve been getting outside less and less lately, and my grief and sadness has been hitting with renewed vigor. As I drove away, I made a silent promise to myself...and to Reed...that I would try to take better care of myself by spending more time outside.
The past few weeks have been so hard. Navigating virtual teaching leaves me without even an ounce of energy with which to manage my emotions at the end of the day. On top of this, I’ve been dealt several new personal cards that suck, so now my grief seems to be coming from every possible direction. I’m tired, in every single sense of the word. I’ve felt the weight on my heart as heavy as ever. Yesterday, I remembered my promise and decided to go on a hike. It has always loosened my grief just a little bit, and made me feel closer to my son. I thought a day outside would be the respite I needed from the inescapable weight and sorrow of life.
I went back to the trail I had intended to hike on the 10th - Enchanted Forest in Golden. This trail had initially spoken to me because, quite frankly, I could use a little magic in my life right now. It was beautiful, and the rocky incline was just the right level of challenge. Fall leaves littered the path and the sun shone brightly. I hiked and hiked, and kept waiting for the soothing balm of comfort (or serotonin, more likely) to wash over my heavy heart. It never did.
The more I hiked, the more frustrated I got. I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t making me feel better, or why it wasn’t helping the tangled jumble of thoughts in my head unravel and slowly begin to make sense, the way exercise normally does for me. I began moving faster and faster, literally trying to outrun my grief. No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t do it. There was no escaping.
I came home not rejuvenated or energized at all. I sobbed deeply, let the wails wrack through my whole body like they did in those first few days without Reed, and I wondered why I couldn’t just make myself feel a little bit better. I worried if I still felt like this now, on a perfectly beautiful day nine months into my grief, would the load ever be lighter? Would I ever be okay again? It didn’t feel like it would, so I curled up in bed and I slept. It was a long, heavy day, and I was afraid it would never end.
Today when I awoke, I was afraid I was somehow stuck in this heavy, hopeless place and that all the progress I’d made in the past nine months was extinguished. But...it wasn’t like yesterday. It wasn’t a great day. But it wasn’t as bad as yesterday. And that thought encouraged me.
As I tell the story of this frustrating hike along a beautiful trail on a picture perfect fall day, I realize why I couldn’t escape my all consuming grief yesterday. My grief will never be “over.” There will never come a day when I come out on the other side, having shed the weight of my sorrow and filled the child-shaped hole in my heart. There will be days like yesterday where, for no reason whatsoever I cannot outrun my sorrow, no matter how hard I try. In fact, as I learned, sometimes trying to push through that sadness has the opposite effect, leaving me feeling even more heartbroken and drained than if I had just accepted my sadness as a part of me.
We are human. We don’t like feeling sorrow, and we certainly don’t like seeing those around us in pain. It is a natural survival instinct for us to want to step in and “fix” someone’s grief, even if that someone is ourselves. This is part of what is exhausting to me right now - I am constantly trying to convince everyone around me that I do see the positives, that I am not just trapped in the past, wallowing in sadness. And that is 100% true. My job is really fucking hard right now...but I like it, and I have plenty of positive things to say about it. I am really terrified of the implications of my upcoming surgery...but I also recognize how fortunate I am to be in the care of skilled doctors, and to be able to afford procedures not covered by my insurance. I really, really miss my son, but I am also overjoyed by knowing that, whatever else may be true about him...he is my son, and I love him. Trust me...I see the positives, and I’m getting much better about focusing on those, instead of the inescapable fact that I will never be completely whole again.
Sometimes you just need to let yourself be sad. I am constantly trying to balance myself between being real about how I feel and also emphasizing the tiny positive moments, so I can cling to things that make me feel good. This isn’t easy - for every minute of my day, there are silver linings, but this doesn’t mean everything isn't really shitty. If you ask me how my day is, I will not sugar coat it for you, so if you don’t really want to hear, please don’t ask. Spoiler alert - even my best day still really sucks right now. Most people cannot handle this reality at all. We are sad and scared about so many things as a culture right now, and I don’t blame people for not being able to carry the added weight of my grief on top of all that. I wish I could put it down, too.
Sometimes I can take an action and lighten my grief just a little bit. I thought this was the case this weekend, when I tried to set aside my sadness for a moment on the trail. The hard truth I realized, though, is that the trail will always be rocky. Sometimes there is no ignoring this fact. It will always be challenging. There will never be a point when the path isn’t littered with landmines, and expecting myself to set that pain aside and continue moving forward is sometimes unreasonable. I will often want to turn around and let someone else summit this mountain instead of me. I will want to give up...but I can’t. Instead, as I hike through those rocks and travel up the never ending incline, I sometimes need to recognize that my legs simply cannot carry me forward anymore, and I need to stop and rest. I need to sit by the stream and sob, giving myself time to regather the strength to keep going. Then...when I’m ready...I can stand up and keep moving forward.
So, whether you are grieving the death of RBG or someone closer to you: if your heart feels too heavy right now...it is okay to let it. It is okay to sink into that sadness and sob. Maybe tomorrow you will have the strength to get out of bed. Maybe tomorrow you will cross one single thing off your list. Or...maybe tomorrow you will still want to lay in bed and cry. Just let yourself cry, and remember that it won’t be only like that forever.
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