Always Keep Good Tissues Around

The other day I was optimist as I worked on a different slant to my memoir, deciding instead of making it so Daniel-and-me-centered, I could make it more God-centered. I even thought that after twenty-three years, I could make the portion about intense grieving less fierce, because, after all, twenty-three years since Daniel's death has gone by. I wasn't that once-upon-a-time young mother who couldn't help but get nostalgic and cry over a grilled cheese sandwich or a little yellow raincoat with a frog on the pocket. I was not that mama who kept asking God "WHY?" I had adjusted.

And then today came along. This afternoon I spent time online looking for a mountain getaway for Carl, the boxer-dog Levi, and me. Church friends seemed to all be taking trips to the mountains and then when a neighbor walked by (keeping over 6-feet apart) telling us her plans for a family trip away, I thought it was time to convince Carl of my intentions. I'd been tinkering with the idea that Carl and I could head up to the North Carolina mountains and have a break from our home business. I could write the great American memoir and Carl could play with his new drone. Levi could gnaw on a bone.

Most of the listings on VRBO had their COVID-19 deep cleaning statements. There were paragraphs about how they adhered to the CDC guidelines on cleaning, using an EPA-approved disinfectant between customers. That sounded super safe to me.

Carl's never been to Asheville, and while the Biltmore isn't open, I figured that we could venture around that artsy city. I dived into looking at rental cabins, at their porches that overlooked mountain views, the nearby streams, even photos of black bears. And that was when the nice little planning of a getaway went into full flash-back. I was surprised that it took no effort at all. It was October 1996: I was in a rustic bungalow in the Banner Elk region with three of my kids and their father. Four-year-old bald-headed Daniel, in a blue T-shirt that covered the catheter in his back, was with Rachel by a stream. They were laughing together, enjoying the water running over their toes. With that scene in my mind, I was no longer excited about a mountain adventure; sadness swept over me.

The churning in my stomach went up towards my heart. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. I didn't have to think about if I were in a movie what music would be playing. As tears hit my eyes, the Jazz playlist I had on played an instrumental version of Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven. As if it knew what I was going through and what that song does to me. I closed all the browser windows. Goodbye to the cute cabins with crisp mountain ranges surrounding them. So long to imaging myself on a porch swing with a morning cup of Earl Grey.

I thought I could be normal. I thought I could plan like my friends and neighbor do. I called myself a fool for thinking that I could slip into suddenly being unbereaved, especially at this time of year. Daniel's birthday is next month. I always say you could be on a deserted island without a tangible calendar and yet feel that pang in your heart and throat as your child's birth date approached. There's no hiding from it. We mothers know these things.

So for those who wonder how we mamas go from happy to sad in the click of a mouse, this is one way it can happen. We are bee-bopping along, content, going to plan something or do something like normal folk do. And then, that trigger --- a song, a word, a memory --- reminds us that ever since our child died, we lost the ability to be considered normal. We function at a different level and the truth is that it often brings tears, loneliness, and isolation. We might be in a room filled with merry people and we might even have a smile on our face, and then, as quick as a lightning bug flutters across a summer lawn, we are no longer one of the merry.

Eventually Tears In Heaven reached its end. A happier song filled the room. But my heart and mind had not caught up to a mellow-Sunday-afternoon feeling again.

What saved me is knowing that I could write the scenario I had just experienced and post it here on my blog. I could share what had happened to me via social media and others would read and go, "Ah, yeah. I know." And that would suffice. Knowing that I am not alone and that many mothers can relate to this breach of normalcy somehow makes me feel less lonely.

I will get back to searching for a mountain place to rent. But first let me understand who I am and never be surprised at how even after twenty-three years I can still be caught off guard by tears. Parental bereavement with all its hidden characteristics never goes away. We just learn how to adapt to living with it.

Perhaps that's why my motto is: Always keep good tissues around.