I listen to a podcast called “This is Actually Happening.” It’s a podcast of true, “unbelievable” stories. I have found that life is chock-full of them.
I might write that book.
A couple of months after my son died, someone asked me, with a half-smile, expectant raised eyebrows and tone— “Are you doing better yet?”
I briefly paused in disbelief at the question, but it was actually happening. Two months after my son was killed, this person wanted to know if I was better yet.
“No. I’m not,” I said.
This person smirked and then looked away.
I guess it was disappointing for them.
You don’t have to believe me, but I don’t write so much about my grief to get attention. I don’t think I’m special. I am one of countless moms since the beginning of time who have experienced the crushing loss of a child. I write about my loss of my son partly because it helps me process and partly because I want to help others deal with their sometimes absurd “this is actually happening” moments.
A thing that actually happens regularly since the sudden loss of my son on Dec. 22, 2022, is what I call a flash of being told—as if for the first time, that Joey was struck by a car and killed. A moment of “this is actually happening” over and over and over and over and over. And over. Again.
So, grief appears to be my main topic now. If you grow tired of it, that’s okay. You can look away.
In a recent post, I wrote, “One of the things I’ve noticed is how often people want to give the benefit of the doubt—or in this case—the benefit of empathy to the person not in grief, because ‘they’re just doing their best.’ But aren’t the grievers doing their best?” So, if you are tempted to remind me that I should offer grace and understanding to the giver of pseudo comfort, that’s not okay.
Am I doing better yet?
I’m gathering my strength where I can. And I am done abandoning myself. I have a beach towel hanging on our bathroom wall that says, “Stay close to people who feel like sunshine.” I now only go where it’s warm. If you need a warm towel wrapped around you, I can offer you mine. We can huddle together.
I took this photo yesterday of a warm corner in my dining room.
