Sparks

 

Grief is a constant companion. Sometimes it looms in billowing clouds, hinting at rain on a sunny day. Other times, it’s like a seed that lies dormant in frozen earth, only waiting for water and sunlight to call it forth. Then there are moments—days even—where grief rises up like a tsunami, completely overpowering all other emotion. There are countless other ways it makes itself known. But the truth is, it’s always there. 

After three years, three months, and eight days, I have found ways to allow grief to trail me, rather than to carry it all the time. Because the weight of loss is quite heavy and ever-so tiring. Because I’ve adapted to a new way of life, even if it’s not the life I ever would have planned out for myself. Somehow, some way, I’ve been able to successfully go back to school, get my real estate license, work two jobs, write, read, work out, walk the dog, and find moments of joy in life. And yet—yet—grief stands behind me on occasion and clears its throat. Don’t forget about me. I’m here. I’m never going away. 

Nor would I want it to leave. 

Grief doesn’t always step in quietly either. I started taking improv classes and went to a student show. During the performance, one of the improvisors mentioned a wheelchair. The second performer pretended not to be able to walk. The audience laughed, but, for me, it kindled something different: a visceral reaction, an overwhelming sense of loss on the surface of my heart. Some would call this a trigger. I think it’s more like a spark, igniting the loss and allowing it to rise to the surface like fanned flames. I thought of leaving the theater, but I would have made too much of a ruckus getting out. So I stayed, sat with the pain until the scene ended and they moved on to another game. 

There are other sparks. A song on the radio, driving by a place in the city where Zane and I used to ride, seeing anything related to the children’s hospital where he spent the last days of his life. The best thing to do is to allow grief to have center stage; to allow sadness to sweep over me; to cry. However, these sparks often happen in the least convenient times and places like a public setting, in the car where it’s not safe to drive blurry-eyed, or the day before an important client meeting where it would be disadvantageous to show up with puffy red eyes. So my go-to reaction is to brush it aside or outright ignore it with distractions. I know this is unhealthy. This becomes especially clear when I awaken in the middle of the night, suffering from an existential panic attack. 

So what to do? What’s the solution? My grief counselor said I need to honor my grief. When it wants to make itself known—when it needs attention—I must acknowledge it and take heed. For me, I’ve been incorporating my son in the new things I do. Talking to him out loud and in my thoughts, thinking of him, asking him to be with me. It’s definitely not the same as having him physically here, but it’s better than being alone. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Allowing grief to accompany me through the rest of my life means I am never truly alone. Because it’s only there because of profound love. The deep, unconditional, and unending love I held for him while he was alive and that I hold for him now even though he’s gone. 

So though sparks are hard and stir up difficult emotions, they are also demonstrate my remembrance and devotion to my relationship to Zane.