Not That Good Grief

October 2019

Grief was a new “action” word for me.

My grandparents have all died, one very recently. I felt sad each time, especially 9 years ago when my Grandfather died. To him, I lived on a pedestal. And that felt good in life. Our feelings were mutual. But even when he passed, I didn’t grieve. I cried and missed, but grieving wasn’t necessary. There was no shock in the passings and I leaned on family and faith and I still miss them, but it is ok.

Grief rushed into my entire being at the beginning of June.

My mom was still alive, but grief began, regardless. I was more scared than I had ever felt in my entire life; more than getting lost as a child in Meijer, more than when I lost my toddler for 10 minutes and my heart was jumping in my chest, more than when a tornado destroyed houses nearby as we sat in the basement with a green glow. I worked so hard to hide my fear and worry that I was utterly exhausted in every way for the first 2 weeks my mom was hospitalized. But I am a dutiful girl, so I kept on trucking -until the grief was so strong that, a few days before my mom died, I could not get out of bed for 48 hrs.

Body on strike- likely to prevent my brain or heart from exploding.

 I find mowing the lawn to be a relaxing chore. I cruise around the lawn and feel thankful for our piece of peace in the woods. But whenever I lean over the mower to grab a stick in the grass, my bum comes off the seat and the entire machine turns off. I feel annoyed at having to restart the mower, but it is a necessary safety feature to protect drivers from getting run over by their own vehicles. Why did my body pull the safety feature before my mom even died? Before the other people in my family fully understood she would never walk out of Henry Ford Hospital? With days to go, my body already knew. I like order and lists, so looking back, I feel annoyed by that grief/mower move. Grief has been an invasive fracture in my life ever since it trick-started early. Even before I was forced to say goodbye to my mother, the massive rock hit my windshield causing a foundational crack. And ever since, its web has crept over every inch of my surface in some way.

Before June, the word “grief” mostly brought the association of the catch phrase, “good grief,” from Charlie Brown. That would be my first thought. Honestly, I have never been particularly fond of Charlie Brown, but not entirely averse, either. He’s sort of fussy. Back in high school, my friend and I took a trip to New York City. It was big fun, packed with Broadway shows. One afternoon, she and I navigated the city alone, (she is the youngest of 7 and was therefore allowed a good amount of freedom, my mother was at home and also very giving in nature…P.S. I can never imagine letting my oldest daughter loose in the city) and then saw a matinee of the show You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown. I thoroughly enjoyed it, mostly due to the cast, not the story. It starred Kristin Chenoweth, Anthony Rapp, and BD Wong. If you are unfamiliar, trust me that we were lucky. When I was contemplating names for this little blog I wanted to include “grief” because there wouldn’t be a need to write without it’s current presence in my life. The first time I thought of the word grief and then Charlie Brown, and then this blog, I pictured myself punting his head off of his shoulders as hard as possible and it rolling down a brown hill. I liked it. I like things that are symmetrical. Charlie Brown has a nice, round, symmetrically pleasing head. Smooth, when you envision it rolling down a hill. If you picture Kristin Chenoweth marching and singing , “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown…” while his beachball noggin tumbles south, it is extra enjoyable. Try it.

People are mostly kind to me. My physical appearance these days pleads for pity. They say, still 5 months later, “How are you?” And depending on the person and/or how doughy they’ve softened their face, I say anything from “We are ok” to “I hate everyone. Including babies.”

Mostly I say, or want to say, “not that good.”

I get out of bed each day. Some days crying, but still moving. Every single time I wake, be it midnight, early morning, (typical around 2am) or because my youngest wakes me at 7, my first thought is to remember that my life has changed and it is in a terrible way. Every single day, multiple times, I replay the vision of that last day with my mom in her hospital bed as the foundation of all my other thoughts. And it is hard. Jaggedly cracked and rough. And we stay busy. And we laugh sometimes. And I eat a lot of comfort food. And I swallow my feelings and get the things done. And it truly feels not that good….

Not that. good. grief.