One of the weekly prompts from the past several weeks was “The hardest thing I ever did . . . ” That prompt is still hanging out in the drafts folder; it’s just too much. Too depressing. I revisit the prompt now and then, revise a line or two, add a bit, then save it as a draft. It’s a perpetual draft, as “The hardest thing I ever did . . . ” cannot be reduced to a finite list or group of sentences and paragraphs.
Much of what I’ve written on that draft is no surprise — those first hours and days and all that occurs between a death and a service. I could write for days on those days. What may be a surprise is what goes unwritten. Unsaid. Unnoticed. Because honestly, the hardest thing I ever did . . . happens in some iteration every day.
Sometimes, the hardest thing is to crawl out of bed, shower, and go to work. Just like everyone else, I don’t know what each new day will bring. Once I get to school, I’m usually fine. Not always and maybe not all day, but usually. When I’m not fine, I keep pushing. Pushing forward when my inclination is to curl into a ball and stare through tears at the wall is often the hardest thing.
Seven months into this, and I still get nervous about unknown situations. I’m not the bullied child on the playground; that’s not the issue. The issue is going into a group of strangers or acquaintances for the first time. Some don’t know me at all, but others sort of know me and they are the trickiest. They know me enough to have an idea of what’s happened, but don’t know me well enough to say anything. So, there’s the look. The “I-feel-like-I-should-say-something-but-I-have-no-idea-what” look. It’s a stew of pity, concern, sadness, and curiosity, seasoned with a pinch of “Thank God it’s not me.” The look is natural — nobody’s fault. Normal. Understandable. I’ve given the look; now I receive the look. So yes, I’m 50 years old and get nervous about going into a group of people I don’t know well. Going anyway can be the hardest thing.
Firsts. Just . . . firsts.
Covid has impeded grieving. There are many people I’ve not been able to see because of precautions. As more of us are vaccinated, as winter morphs into spring, as our very long hibernation wanes, I see more friends. I want to see them, but am also anxious for each meeting. More firsts.
Sharing Cooper’s story, start to finish, with a dear high school friend, something we’ve both needed since August, was wrenching. Of course retelling the story, even its most awful chapters, was a hardest thing. That process will never be easy, although sometimes I can get through dry-eyed. Not when I know my words are hurting her in so many ways; she hurts for Cooper, for me, and for herself. She knew him. She loved him because he was mine. She has sons. She has brothers. My story, Cooper’s story, is too close. Feeling her pain swirl with mine and telling the story anyway was the hardest thing.
I happened to be outside Easter evening and saw friends on a stroll through town. Friends who can relate. Friends I haven’t seen for a year. A first. So, we talked and cried and hugged in the middle of my quiet street. They knew Cooper, too; we’ve known each other longer than we’ve been parents. They’ve faced trauma in their family, have been on the receiving end of well-intentioned comments and the look. That first was difficult but validating. Still, telling his story and telling it honestly can be the hardest thing.
Everyone warned me “first” holidays would be awful — the worst. The hardest. Everyone was right, but I expected holidays to suck, especially this first time without Cooper. Holidays are days for family. Holidays are bursting with love and tradition and togetherness. Holidays can be the hardest thing.
What I didn’t expect was that an ordinary day, a beautifully warm, sunny April day, could be the hardest thing, but here we are. Those random days, absent obvious triggers, have devastating potential. Sometimes, regardless of my ambitious plans, I find myself on the couch, the sun warming my face through a window. Getting up can be the hardest thing.
Yesterday was Easter. Another holiday. Today was a day off school, but otherwise unremarkable. A class in the pool, then errands. I intended to paint the chair I bought a week ago and work on a couple other projects. Instead, I put away the groceries, stretched out on the couch “for a few minutes,” and didn’t move for two hours. Eventually, I dislodged myself from the sofa and went outside, where I should’ve been and intended to be all afternoon. I hung up the new hammock swings and made a more permanent place for new wind chimes, then curled up in my swing and stared at the tree, the sky, the ground. That’s it. Yes, getting up can be the hardest thing.
Some days are better than others, but there’s something to survive every. single. day. People who have been precisely here tell me it’ll get easier over time. I want to believe them. I choose to believe them. What’s the option, otherwise? Until it gets easier, until the firsts are less frequent, I just keep pushing forward but acquiesce to occasional curled-up-in-the-swing hours. I don’t know what else to do or how else to handle this unwanted reality.
Each day is a first. Surviving each day can be the hardest thing.
Woods Writes 