You know that trick where you close one eye and put your thumb a few inches from your face? Your thumb blocks out most of your view. If you move your thumb farther from your eye, your view is barely obstructed. I’m sure there’s a science term for this “trick,” but I’m no science teacher. *Someone enlighten me and I’ll revise this paragraph.*
What’s the point, Tonya? Well, my thumb is grief. Sometimes, it’s all I can see. Other times, I’m able to stretch my arm away from my face and see more of my world. On a good day, I have control of my arm.
Not all days are good.
Not all days are bad, either.
I spent a glorious chunk of the weekend with my arm extended, my thumb not dominating my view. For a couple days, my grief wasn’t the focus of my world. I laughed longer and harder than I have in nine months. I paddled around my favorite lake. I spent time celebrating with good friends. My thumb was just a thumb; my grief was only a part of me. I felt like myself.
Today, my thumb is closer. Today is nine months without Cooper and is the first time the 24th has fallen on a Monday since August.
Cooper has been gone as long as I carried him in my body—a strange milestone. I’ve carried all three of my kids in my heart from the moment I knew they existed. For a fraction of that time, I carried them in my body, but they’ve been in my heart for all time. I’ve spent a good deal of time today reminding myself of this truth, keeping my perspective in check, keeping my arm extended as much as I can.
I want to focus on the good of Cooper’s life, the good in my life, but it’s a constant effort. In these early months—and it still feels so early—grief often demands my attention. It’s a big ole hitchhiker’s thumb three inches from my eye. All I can see are the tender, ugly bits—the split skin and jagged cuticles of my life.
So every day, I work to stretch my arm, to see beyond and around my mess of a thumb. I try to enjoy the good in my life; I know there is good. Getting control of my arm, my thumb, my grief, well, that’s the tricky part. Remember the mean “Why do you keep hitting yourself” game? Someone else using your own arm against you like a fleshy flyswatter? Yeah. It’s like that.
Woods Writes 