On Asterisks*

November. “Thankful, Grateful, Blessed” clothing and decor everywhere, the pumpkin spice of hard goods. Barf.

Maybe I’m a happiness scrooge, but I don’t really think so. It’s more that I need an asterisk after every thankful, grateful, and blessed.

I’m certainly thankful* for the good in my life. I’m thankful for my family, my friends, food in the freezer, a job I enjoy. I am thankful-ish. How can I be truly thankful when Cooper is gone?

I’m grateful,* too. I honestly am. I have the support of people who care, people who try, and people who know. For that support and those people, I am grateful. I wish I didn’t need such support.

I know for sure I’m blessed.* I have three unique children with a strength of character I envy. If they believe in something, they really believe. All three are able to choose their battles. Their priorities make me proud. They grew into adults I would (and do) choose as friends. But Cooper died.

Before you interpret this writing as a public pity party, I’ll try to clarify. Disclaimer: I’m only speaking for myself, although I suspect others in my situation can relate.

My sadness does not make me begrudge your happiness. In fact, I am more capable than ever of being truly happy for others. I want to see your families thrive and grow and bring new generations into the world. I want the people I love to be happy and safe and loved.

I do.

But . . . my family and my future are fractured and I haven’t found a fix on this side of the veil.

I have the capacity to feel joy for your level of Thankful-Grateful-Blessed-ness, but my joy for you may come with tears or quiet or temporary withdrawal. It’s a package deal. Holiday special. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me; my reality has changed and I’m living this unrequested life the best I can. Sometimes, I’m going to cry happy tears for you, but they may be mixed with sad tears for me. Bittersweet much?

A few days ago, I was walking ahead of some friends. Friend One had spent the past week praying that her son’s sudden, serious health scare would pass uneventfully. I’d just finished telling her how relieved I was that he was recovering, that the condition could be managed. What went unspoken but not unknown was the relief that she wouldn’t be joining this hellish club of Moms Who Know. As I walked ahead, I could hear her words to Friend Two, could feel the exhaustion and worry and not-quite-eradicated terror in her voice as she said, “These kids of ours . . . ” Friend Two completed that sentence with ” . . . are alive.”

In my mind, another asterisk—a sad, solitary, silent asterisk. Cooper isn’t.

I love these women. They love me. I am confident in my belief that neither would intend harm and I took their conversation as it was intended—commiseration over parenting (even when the “child” is middle-aged) and undiluted relief that the son was still alive. I get it. I share their relief. The pity party portion is that it took me a few quiet minutes in a friendly crowd to get my mind back on track. I am so glad the son’s condition is now controlled. The possibly-selfish asterisk was spontaneous. Package deal. Holiday special. Life-long special? Time will tell.

It’s hard to explain the emotional tangles—the perpetual contradictions of the heart—that come with this unrequested life. I guess I need a combination of trust and acceptance. Trust that I am truly happy for others when good things happen in their lives; accept that I’m still sad for the lost future in my own life.

Don’t get me wrong—I don’t want people to watch what they say or do around me (with the possible exception of jokingly saying “I’m going to kill myself”). Please, just be yourselves. Be thankful. Be grateful. Be blessed. I’ll be all those things for you and with you. Wear your happy shirts. Be excited for marriages and new babies, the holiday season and family traditions. Please. Enjoy every minute of your lives. I’ll enjoy your happiness. If I need a few minutes to myself, leave me alone. If I cry, I cry. Turns out, I shine at crying.

I don’t own anything that purports “Thankful, Grateful, Blessed,” but you go ahead. I won’t participate in the 30 days of thankfulness trend (or whatever it’s called) on Facebook, but I’ll enjoy reading what friends post. Maybe I’ll try to play along next year. Judging by other Moms Who Know, it could happen. This year, it’s still better to refrain altogether than lie most days or burn 30 asterisks in one month. And, if we’re being honest, I’d probably forget more days than I’d remember. Some things haven’t changed.