Here’s something else they don’t tell you about grief: It doesn’t look like you’d expect it to look.
If I had my way- and I do so love to have my way- I’d perch myself somewhere and don an appropriately demure black lace veil. Clutch some wilting violets to my (also appropriately) faded volume of The Book of Folly. My face would be pressed against a window streaming with rivulets of rain and, when I cried, it would be with cathartic and echoing bouts of weeping. Afterwards, I’d feel better. For a little while, at least.
And I won’t lie- sometimes that is what it looks like (sans veil or ability to wrangle weather, sadly). But other times? It startles me with how it manifests itself:
- Frustration at traffic. Frustration at potty training apparatuses. Frustration at exhaustion.
- Panic when the phone rings. Despair when the phone doesn’t ring. Full-on anxiety when the email pings- followed immediately by the knowledge that somehow- yet again- I’ve forgotten something crucial and probably burned all professional bridges everywhere, ever.
- Excruciating sadness when someone references even the most casual instance of mortality: aging, retirement, high school graduation, baby books, milestones, children leaving home, and recently even a passage in a book where a character said how much nicer the holidays are when young kids are present. (I mean really.)
- Tears while cooking the meals my Dad always made for me- that’s expected. Tears while cooking meals my Dad never made, had, or- should the situation have presented itself- would have been made by me for him….those tears are slightly less expected. Like, not at all. (“What are you making?” “Coconut shrimp.” “Did your Dad like coconut shrimp?” “Not particularly.” “…Oh.”)
- Anger. No, rage. No, what’s bigger than rage? That. But only directed at completely inane and inconsequential events, objects, and television characters.
- Early onset dementia. That’s the only way I can explain what’s happening to my mind in terms of car keys, bills, appointments, and when- exactly- Susannah last made a potty trip. (See: Bullet point 1, example 2.)
- Utter annoyance at the majority of social media and one thousand percent of reality TV. Can the Kardashians just agree to go away and leave me alone? I’m trying to survive here for a little bit.
- And sometimes (okay, often) I find myself rocking Jasper a little longer than he perhaps needs or desires, because I need and desire to feel his sleepy baby heaviness against my chest for a little bit longer, snoring and cooing like the baby he is- at least at night. But then the guilt comes pouring in, because I’m not savoring every moment of his fleeting toddlerhood. No, I’m spending those overtired hours thinking about my Dad and how he died at 63 and how he was 29 when I was born and how when he was almost 35- my age- he was living this life that I am now. Little kids and mortgages and dressing up for random events with my Mom. And always- always- tucking us in with a kiss and a song, and possessing not even a little bit of knowledge of how unfairly the end of his life would play out.
I didn’t expect grief to look like that.
And I know it’ll change. And change. And- obnoxiously- change again. I’ll be fine- then I won’t- and then there will be another new, surprising type of grief to knock me on my ass and isolate me, frighten me, and (temporarily) incapacitate me.
The car keys, however, will become easier to find. So will the non-angry moments.
But I’ll probably always dislike the Kardashians.
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