The last week has been a Russian nesting doll of grief—looming holidays hold haunting dreams, dreams carry the varying squeeze of anxiety, anxiety nestles stress, and, deep and solid inside them all, sadness.
Last Thanksgiving, Covid put our family traditions on hold. Three months after Cooper’s death, I’m not sure we could’ve handled the traditions—traditions he loved. I know I couldn’t. This year, we are back in business. It won’t be the same, but we are trying. I’ll leave a space for Coop in my pie corner, keeping him with me as I always do. Maybe it’ll help. It can’t hurt.
I think my anticipation (dread?) for holidays has fueled my dreams. Something has. I haven’t had dreams like these—dreams that left me crying and exhausted and newly bereaved—for months. One dream was its own version of an evil nesting doll. Cooper was alive, having survived his suicide attempt and worked through a long recovery. He was alive, but spontaneously decided (read: he was manic) to go deer hunting. He rushed around, tearing tags off his new pants, pulling on his favorite shirt, gathering his gear. He’d stop at a store and get a permit. Did he think hunting was a good idea, I wondered, since the last time he’d used a gun it was to end his life? Could he, would he promise me he wouldn’t try that again? That he would come home safe and alive? Then I woke up, but only in the dream. A new type of torture—a dream within a dream within a dream. I “woke up” several times in my dream, and each time faced the realization that I’d been dreaming, that my mountain man was dead. Eventually, I really did wake. That was a morning for lying in bed with my hand over my eyes, wanting to block out the dream but capture any time I could with Cooper.
Since that dream early Sunday morning, I’ve felt the tendrils of anxiety dancing behind my breastbone, occasionally pulling me close for squeeze. I can breathe through it now; I’ve learned tricks. I can’t avoid anxiety, but I can usually handle it. If I can’t, Ativan can. That should be a cheer for the sad and anxious. If I can’t, Ativan can! Probably sends the wrong message, but it’s true.
The stressing nesting doll? We all pack that one. I don’t know how to avoid stress, avoid worry. I know—give it to God. Tell my brain.
It’s that nesting doll in the center that’s the problem, though. Sadness. It’s inside every part of me, affects everything I do. My actions, my words, my energy, my mood, my face. Yup. That’s just my face now. These days—these holidays—the doll in the middle is running the show. She’s in control, but I’m working on it. The outer dolls break apart for inspection and introspection. I can dismantle those dolls. But the sadness doll? The heavy little one in the middle? Solid. No cracks or seams, no popping her open or losing half of her. She’s built to last. She fits in my fist and my pocket and my heart and she won’t go away.
So I carry her.
Friends and strangers, authors and experts, those who know—they all say grief is unique to each person. We all grieve differently. To get through, to survive, do what works.
I’m working on that, too.
We just wrapped up our fall show. Part of the performance was based on student writings, one of which dealt with suicide—being a survivor of loss and a survivor of suicidal feelings. The words were powerful and the movement poignant. The young author has affected more people than she will ever realize. For that piece, I lit the walls purple and teal. I put AFSP and NAMI numbers in the program. It’s impossible to hear “suicide” and not think of Cooper. In my own way, a hopefully harmless but healing way, I tried to honor him. I left space for him. It works for me.
Saturday was International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day and there were in-person events around the world. Living where we do, in such a rural area, the nearest in-person event was hours away. Luckily, there was a statewide virtual event Sunday. I wasn’t sure about the event, but a survivor mom friend recommended it, so I signed up. I’m so glad I did. It was an emotional afternoon, but I’m learning emotional isn’t negative; it’s just emotional. Feeling the support of a community of survivors is therapeutic. Sharing without judgment is sacred. I wasn’t sure about the event, but I’ll do it again next year. It works for me.
Saturday was a warm, sunny fall day and I had a free few hours. Thinking it would do me good, I headed for the labyrinth. I could walk, think, soothe, and still be at the theatre ahead of the students. Well, the gates were locked. I pulled in and sat staring at the gates for a few minutes. I was disappointed, but rationalized the lock by reminding myself it was deer season and that I could return Tuesday after school. That’s exactly what I did—I drove straight to the labyrinth after school. Those damn gates were locked. I really wanted to walk. Maybe even needed to walk. I considered my options. I could leave. That would be logical and rule-follow-ish. My head was such a mess, though. I mean, the worst that would happen is someone would find me and ask me to leave, right? And honestly, if they’d gotten a look at me, they’d’ve just slowly backed away. That little nesting doll of sadness was pulling at my body, my face, my soul. I was 5’7” of sadness. Stupid nesting doll. So, I parked, left an “I’m walking the labyrinth” note in my window (because that would make a difference?), went around the gate, and walked. It works for me.
That nesting doll doesn’t know everything. In my left pocket, I carried a buckeye from Cooper’s Woods. As I walked, I collected milkweed pods and other interesting dry plants. And as I walked, I talked. I talked to God, to myself, to Cooper. Eventually, I reached the bench in the center. There’s a nice flat rock at one end of the bench, and that’s where I laid the buckeye and the most interesting of the pods. Maybe some creature or the wind will take them. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Leaving then mattered. I sat on the bench with my eyes closed, tears dripping from my cheeks, late afternoon sun warming my back. I took what the space offered. It works for me.
This writing rambles—I know. It’s been a while and it’s been a rough while. My life rambles right now. I’m trying to be thankful for the good things in my life, and there are many. Cass will be home in a matter of hours. Logan will be home at Christmas. I’m blessed with people who love me anyway in a time that is full of anyway. I’m acutely aware of the good, but that rude little nesting doll casts a long, dark shadow.
It’s a sickening feeling, dreading days I’ve always loved, but here I am, dreading days I’ve always loved and I know I’m not alone. So many people are hurting right now, and for many the pain is raw. They haven’t had time to begin to heal, but are supposed to feel a certain way, to be a walking inspirational t-shirt. Grateful. Thankful. Blessed. Maybe so, but sometimes the words that don’t make it onto the shirt are equally true. So be gentle with everyone. Leave space for their grief, their pain, and their person. It’s okay if you don’t understand; we don’t necessarily expect people to understand. Just be gentle. Love us anyway. It works for me.
p.s. The gate was locked, but the labyrinth was open. Now I know. A friend told me; no authorities were involved.
Woods Writes 