Grief is My Disease
Grief is a disease.
Like a virulent virus slumbering inside the body until all the genetic markers click into place, grief strikes without warning, without prejudice and will proceed to just continually kick your ass. It happens at any time, out of nowhere and for “no reason at all.”
Today would have been my son’s 33rd birthday, had he not taken his own life just over a year ago. And grief has welled up inside me, swallowing my emotions whole. Tears burn my eyes and blur the screen as I try to type; yesterday I found myself crying at my desk late in the day just anticipating the dawn.
In bed by 9pm, fully awake at 2:30am and full of dread. There is no defense; no antidote… no words… the pain is palpable.
What makes this worse — if such a thing is possible — is that I thought I’d really turned a corner on my grief. On the one-year anniversary of my son’s death we held a memorial service for him, an event delayed for numerous reasons, but finally pulled together. It was the “formal good-bye” my soul had ached for. And it felt like I’d turned a corner and maybe, just maybe, I had a shot at dealing with grief on better terms.
The challenge of work turned to one of opportunity instead of dread. A huge hurdle overcome. Conversations came easier, social interactions became more frequent. I had finally stopped looking at the ground whenever I was out in public. Where once I feared I was slipping into the abyss of compound grief, I now felt like I was on a path toward the light at the end of “the tunnel.”
And now this… all the memories, all the heartache, all.the.pain, of the immediate aftermath of his death have washed over me yet again. I have to remind myself to breathe after realizing I’m walking some distance and actually holding my breath. It must be some kind of unconscious defense mechanism, but a defense against what, I haven’t a clue.
I’m hiding my face from fellow commuters on the D.C. Metro so they don’t see the tears running down my checks; my nose is running as if I have a cold. I’m a complete mess and staring into the gapping maw of Another Day and wondering where the strength will come to take on whatever unforeseen challenges await with every sweep of the second hand…
I suppose when your life has been destroyed by a nuclear event such as the death of a child, you really do “live with it” all the days of your life, for the rest of your life.
I’m still fighting this “new normal” whatever “normal” is supposed to mean now (as if I really had a handle on it before…) Days like today mean I’ll have to rethink my approach, recalibrate emotions, and prepare (somehow) for the unexpected sucker punch that Grief is always looking to throw.
But I am a lightweight going up against the undisputed, undefeated, heavyweight champion of the world. And the only strategy I can muster is to tell myself: “Every time you get knocked down, pick yourself up and get back in the fight.”
It’s not nearly enough, but it’s all I have right now…
