On Shock

Cooper’s birthday falls just over three weeks after the day he died. Last year, as his birthday approached, I posted in a Compassionate Friends group what I planned to do on his birthday, and another group member rudely informed me I was being ridiculous and to come back when the shock had passed.

I could not believe she said that to me! After all, I was functioning. I was working four days each week. I was vertical all day. How dare she?

Well, she wasn’t wrong. She was rude AF, but not wrong. I did the things I’d planned on his birthday, things that he would have enjoyed or appreciated, but I was certainly in shock. Not the shock that makes the notifying officer hold my elbow and suggest I sit, but long, deep, protective shock of early grief.

Several times over the past eleven-plus months, I’ve thought I was surely emerging from shock, that reality was taking hold, that I’d leveled off and could maybe begin to adjust. Then, just as labor contractions seem unbearable but somehow grow stronger still, I’d reach a new low in this grief, in this life.

I don’t usually have a problem with the “by the seat of my pants” approach to planning and progressing, but just this once I’d love a timeline. I’d like someone credible to say I’ll feel better by . . . well, I guess I’d have to start with month 12, since I’ve trudged through the other 11. A schedule would be awesome, but I’ve learned some things since 08.24.20.

Grief isn’t linear. It’s a real jerk, but not linear. There have certainly been days that weren’t awful, but I can’t establish a trend. I can follow a good day with one of the worst days so far, or I can follow a good day with an okay day or, if I’m lucky, another good day. But lurking in the background is the non-linear jerk, grief, ready to remind me of my reality.

Grief revels in surprise attacks. Sometimes, I get a good hour or a good morning, then crash into grief on a word or sound or memory—so long, good day. You’ve been replaced.

I’m not the only one who’d appreciate a timeline. I get it—it’s been almost a year. Can’t we be done with this sadness and crying and depression and fatigue and me not being myself? I wish. I’d love to feel like myself, laugh like myself, think like myself, but grief is in control right now. My grief—my love for Cooper and sorrow over his death—is running my life. Did I imagine last fall that I’d carry this pain with me as I head back to school for a new year? Nope. I had no idea I could be this sad for this long, but I am. My consolation in this sadness is that it grew from my love.

People tell me I’m doing better than I was at first, and that’s probably true. I feel sharper, but not always. I can enjoy time with friends and family, but not always. I get out of bed and accomplish something, but not always. I can focus on happy memories, but not always.

More and more I think timelines in grief are myths we want to believe. If someone told me I’d magically feel better 08.25.21, I’d want to believe them. That’s not even three weeks. I can handle this for another three weeks, right? But timelines are myths.

Honestly, I still don’t know if the shock has worn off. Maybe the change is so gradual I won’t notice until the rushing waters of grief have eroded some of these sharp edges. I do know that I feel this loss—a loss I’ll carry every day of my life—deep inside me. Something heavy and awful and sick-making and sometimes jagged has settled in and become my companion.

Not all companions are welcome.