#MicroblogMondays: I'm not there

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Their grief

The email came on the evening of Easter. With "sad news" in the subject line, we learned that one of Maddy and Teddy's teachers died on Saturday in a car accident.

On the heels of losing Scruffy, I'm at a loss for how to tell them.

So today, following a medical appointment for Grey, we sought the ocean.

As they played, I watched the waves, allowing the rhythm of water catching on the shore to calm my spirit and unjumble the thoughts and emotions from all the loss from this past week. From this past year. 

From a lifetime. 

Grief is hard on so many levels and learning how to manage it for me has been an education. Learning how to help others manage it, especially the young ones, is a different level. I have zero illusions about what this will look like or how it will play out. 

What I do know is that I will punch anyone who tries to tell me that losing this teacher isn't a great loss. Come Monday, an entire elementary school will be grieving together and encountering a loss few could have imagined. In a blink, everything has changed.

So instead I'm left preparing to confront grief. Only this time, their grief and healing are foremost on my mind.

#MicroblogMondays: Latibule

Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.

"There is a secret medicine given only to those who hurt so hard they can't hope. The hopers would feel slighted if they knew."

~Rumi

Body grief

 The feeling is a familiar one. Like the aftermath of being electrocuted or being beaten. My nerves feel raw and I'm sensitive to sound, light, even touch. My thoughts come more slowly, with brain fog clouding my judgment and perception.  The need to sleep is always there. And I'm insanely cold, despite it being a warm, sunny day.

Grief is a familiar companion, especially this time of year. My body always slows down with those first blossoms, reminding me of what was lost. But this year it's especially hard, both with the loss of this one and the news that Jaxson has the same disease, with me not being ready to let him go. And so the fresh wounds pile on the old. With me trying to distract myself in order just to get through the day.

Yet my body has other plans.

A massive flaw in Western culture is the blindspot to grief and grieving. Grief is inconvenient and uncomfortable. Grief is economically costly. For many, grief brings to the surface pain and toxic behaviors that many would prefer to stay buried. And there is no rule book for grief, despite the request for timelines and rules for engagement, as it is an incredibly personal process. 

Compounding all of this is that as much as we'd like to divorce ourselves for our grief, our bodies manifest it. The aches, pains, slowness, and fluctuating weight are all signs that our bodies are processing, even when our minds are not. It can feel like regression, especially when one is making strides towards healing, to experience these symptoms as usually, they aren't temporary. Every year my body reenters the grief cycle, which has been a struggle to deal with when my mind knows it has to perform counter to that.

One silver lining of this pandemic is the world has been forced to confront the language of grief. More research is coming out, and many are beginning to talk more openly about it (I recommend this, this, and this). Pop culture is even beginning to examine it. Yet with all of this, what we're still not focusing on is what grief is, what its purpose is, and why honoring it is so essential, especially with those who want so desperately to return to what was. And how fighting with one's body, forcing it to forget, is pretty destructive.

Sitting here and typing this all out, I recognize my default is to try to logic my way out of this grief. Life happens, it's for the best, no longer suffering. It's not your fault. And yet, despite those truths, I also realize that the only way to heal is to go through it. To push back on all the pressures and vocalize that right now is hard, despite others' disappointment or confusion. 

My body is grieving. That needs to be okay.