A few weeks ago, a Mom Who Knows and I were talking back and forth on Messenger. I’d had a really rough stretch–a month-long eclipse between the anniversary of Cooper’s death and his 30th birthday–but had also just participated in my first Out of the Darkness walk–an emotional but uplifting experience. The walk was healing and hopeful, but the darkness in me was still there. Still, it felt like I could maybe–just maybe–see some light.
During that online conversation, my friend recounted a story from her first year of learning to live an unimagined, unwanted, horribly altered life. An older and wiser woman sent her a card, promising she would “see rainbows again.” My friend “cried and cried, hoping it was true but afraid it wasn’t. It was true.” Not that it was fast or easy or painless, only that it was true.
In the Before, I knew nothing of grief. Not this kind of grief, anyway. Normal progression-of-life grief, yes. The grief we all experience at some point. But this pervasive grief? This grief that leaves me unrecognizable to myself and sometimes others? No. In this grief, rainbows–literal or metaphorical–can seem impossible, a childish fantasy as real and true as the leprechaun holding the pot of gold.
But I love rainbows. I want to see rainbows. Believe it or not, I look for rainbows. Even now–especially now–I look. Rainbows are elusive in the After. Bright spots are so hard to find, but I’m looking. I’m trying. My face, my actions, my words may say otherwise, but I’m looking.
I’m looking on a stage.
It’s October. It’s time for a fall show.
Rain to the right, sun to the left; ingredients for a rainbow.
We start rehearsals next week. Honest-to-God rehearsals for a play that will be performed on a stage, in front of an audience. The students are excited; for the younger students, this is their first school play. Our last “real” show was The Addams Family in spring 2020, and it was canceled four days before opening. We are ready to hit the stage, to create, to build that theatre family we love so much. The director is excited, well into list-making, chart-making, stage-sketching mode. I’m working on being excited.
Here’s the thing. I was always an optimist. I probably still am, deep down. Bubbling nearer the surface these days is a sticky, gunky layer of pessimism. I don’t like it and I don’t want it here, but I can’t quite shake it. Maybe that pessimism grew from the worst thing I could imagine. Maybe I let it grow, albeit unintentionally. I just know it’s there.
Hearing the worst news–news that a child of mine died, and by his own hand–well, that changes a person. The coroner was kind and gentle, but his words were a maul that broke something inside me, creating a fertile environment for pessimism, blinding me to rainbows. Learning to hope, allowing optimism, seeing rainbows? That’s hard, never-ending work. I have to make a conscious effort, look for the rainbows. Optimism is no longer my default attitude.
So I go into this production wanting to be excited, trying to be excited, and hoping that this is one thing that finally feels normal–still feels like Before. I know how to do this; I’m good with lighting, I enjoy working with students outside normal school hours, and we have a strong collaborative team.
All good.
But I also go into this production knowing I’m the weak link right now. As annoyed as I am by this fact, my brain still isn’t its old self. It’s fuzzy and foggy and easily distracted. My brain seems to have a very small mind of its own. Frankly, my brain is pissing me off, but being pissed isn’t making me any smarter. Knowing I’m the weak link–that my brain isn’t reliable–makes me self conscious. Makes me doubt myself. Makes me a stranger to myself. Still, I am doing something. Something normal. Something I do reasonably well. Maybe my part of the show will work its way back into my consciousness, a sort of muscle memory. Let’s hope so.
There are rainbows. I know there are rainbows. I have to remember to look to the sky but away from the sun; rainbows happen when the sun shines, but across the sky, closer to the rain.
~~~~~
On a related note . . . Today, a gigantic, wall-setting crane looks an awful lot like a rainbow.
Woods Writes 