Riding the Waves of Grief

I didn’t cry this week. Oh sure, I got misty at memories, and wept a bit, especially when people offered condolences or talked about my son.

But I didn’t cry. None of the sobbing, gasping, choking, can’t speak, can barely breathe, crying. None of the uncontrollable waves that would send me back to bed for hours, because I couldn’t do anything else. One morning I woke up and I was actually feeling— happy.

The first month after my son died, I was simply enduring. I spent hours and hours on my phone, sometimes scrolling but often just mindlessly playing games. My broken arm limited what I could do physically, although I tried to walk most days. I got together with family and a few of my closest friends, but even that was exhausting.

I wrote his obituary. We picked up his ashes. I dealt with banks and government offices. The boxes he had left in my storage got sorted.

The next month was easier, and harder. I gradually let go of regrets, and stopped expecting him to text me a picture of his latest culinary creation, or to walk through the door shouting, “Hey, Maj!” But when I cooked I’d remember how much he loved our weekend breakfasts, or how he said my Pad Thai had ruined eating it out for him. When we went to a restaurant I’d know exactly what he would have ordered off the menu, how he would have hesitated over the price and I would have said, “Go on, get it!”

Pictures of him kept coming up in my Facebook and photo memories. Gradually they got easier to look at, and they made me smile instead of cry.

The parallels with the healing of my arm are surprising. When the cast came off, I couldn’t even hold my phone in that hand. I needed help to get dressed and cut my food. I was taking ibuprofen on a schedule, because my wrist and hand were swollen and sore.

Bit by bit I could do more, as the physio exercises started to build up the muscles that had atrophied in the cast. But sometimes, I’d twist or jar my arm, and it would send me running for the ice and the painkillers. Or I’d do too much and the next day the constant ache took all the colour and joy out of my life.

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And this afternoon I am back in my bed, crying.

The trigger was the couple at the next table in the coffee shop, talking about their adult son. The one who couldn’t find a career path. Who needed to do something to make money. Who hadn’t come to help with the yard work. I heard them as I was looking at a Facebook memory, of a trip to the Oregon Coast we did when Carson was 14.

I wanted to tell them, as long as he’s alive, there’s hope. But I was already crying as we got up to leave. And I’m still crying.

And so it goes. And so it will probably go for years.

After the first month, I was able to accept the finality of Carson being gone, which gave me a bit of peace.

After the second month, I realized, as I looked at pictures and reminisced with family and friends, that I had not lost that adorable toddler, that thoughtful pre-teen, that moody but loving teenager. They were already gone into memory. All I had lost was the future Carson, and although that is tragic, it is not the whole of who he was or of our relationship.

Sometimes the seas are calm and I drift or paddle. Sometimes I surf. Sometimes the waves smash me, leave me bruised and choking.

But I still ride the waves. Because what is the choice, besides being brave?