On Thorns and Forts

What’s it like, a little more than two years into this unrequested life?

Well . . .

My body has this quirk. Actually, it has several, but I’ll focus on one. Several years ago, I got a thorn in my left knee. I did the appropriate digging and squeezing and tweezing, then forgot about the thorn. A well-behaved body would expel any remaining thorny bits in a festery mess, but not my body. My body built a little thorn fort around the damn thing. Now I have a raised spot on my knee and the thorn is apparently safe and sound in. my. leg.

That’s my best analogy right now. I don’t want a forever thorn. Forever thorns shouldn’t even be real. I’ve tried to get rid of that thorn. It won’t leave. Sometimes, I find myself rubbing my thumb over the the thorn fort, worrying the bump, certain I can feel the thorn, convinced if I can feel the thorn, I should be able to remove the thorn.

I can’t.

Two years (and one month) later, my body, my soul, my whatever-makes-me-me has begun construction on a fort for my grief. This grief—this dark and dreary weight I drag through my days—won’t leave; I must carry it. I’m finding ways to carry it. In the early days, I thought maybe—just maybe—time would force my soul to fester and sorrow would leave my body in some emotional ooze.

Nope.

Then I hoped my honest Mom Who Knows friend was wrong, that my experience would be different from hers, that my first year would indeed be the worst, that I’d get it over with and carry on.

Ha.

She wasn’t wrong. Year two educated me on the truth of shock (in retrospect), the myth of getting through the firsts (such a lie), the heaviness of a grief that’s settled in for life (even worse than it sounds).

Now, unbelievably, I find myself in year three. For my young-in-grief friends, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I can’t say the dark cloud lifted as soon as I clocked two full years. That didn’t happen, and I’m not here to sugar-coat anything. My band of Moms (and a few Dads) Who Know were gently straightforward in my early days and continue that same soft support. Their existence shows me grief and life can and must coexist; that thorn is securely housed in an otherwise-healthy knee.

So, I carry my grief. Some days, it’s not terribly visible—a time-smoothed rock in a pocket. People who didn’t know me before might think I’m quiet, reserved, dull. I’m not the only quiet, reserved, dull person around. Other days, my grief is a stone collar pushing me down, down, down, until all I can do is fall into bed when I get home. On those days, even strangers can see my brokenness. Two years can make a big difference and no difference at all. It just depends on the day.

I carry my grief every day of my life.

In the early months of After, I made monthly visits to the spot where Cooper died. It’s a peaceful, secluded cemetery near home; visiting was and is logistically easy. Now, I visit when I’m bursting with grief—those days my chest and throat and eyes are filled with the pain of losing a child. Sometimes I go months between visits; other times, it’s a few weeks. Sometimes, I take a blanket, sit where he sat, and talk, cry, meditate until I can breathe. Other times, I leave a birthday hand pie on the ground, tuck a tiny note under the frayed bark, whisper words, and go.

But as I carry this grief, as my soul builds a grief fort to house an unwelcome guest, I adapt. Even though I’m still grieving, I’m growing. Somehow, this pain that will not abate has fostered a desire to make a difference. I’m not magical—I’m not even special—but I am able. So, I turn on the lights in a church basement once each month and I facilitate a discussion. I raise money for AFSP and walk in our Out of the Darkness walks. I work to put a face and a name to mental illness and suicide. I talk with my students about difficult, ugly, all-too-real subjects. I try to make a difference. Two years in, I finally feel able to make a difference.

Does that mean I’m all better, that I’m over it? No. Definitely not. Also, “over it” is a throat-punch-worthy suggestion. Just don’t. Two years in, I still need my Moms Who Know, but in a different way. At first, I was so blinded by my own raw wounds that I couldn’t see their scars, didn’t notice fresh scabs where their wounds had reopened. Now, I am more aware. I don’t know what it’s like to carry this weight for 10 or 20 or 30 years; I only know what it’s like to carry it for two years. The difference, I think, is that I know I don’t know. They have their own grief forts. But at two years, I can reach out to newly-bereaved parents. I can be a Mom Who Knows. I have the foundation of a grief fort.

It’s so hard to explain this grief that has taken up residence in my soul. Queen Elizabeth II said, “Grief is the price we pay for love.” Jamie Anderson said, “Grief is just love with no place to go.” Both quotations feel accurate, and both allow me to be gentler with myself. I don’t know how to stop loving Cooper, and I hope I never learn. And honestly? That mountain man of mine would appreciate a good fort.