Good Grief

DEAR ANDY,

We just got done with bedtime. You were, as always, a nut. You’re at an age where you really embody Dylan Thomas’ advice to “Rage against the dying of the light.” After a long bath, we went to your room. I put on your pajamas and turned off the lights. I put on Nat King Cole’s I Love You (For Sentimental Reasons). I held you in my arms and swayed like we were dancing. And I wept like a little child (silently, as to not to scare you). I was in my feelings, Andy. It’s good for us to take a break from the busy doing in life, and to turn away from the things that numb us, to feel what is beneath our containers. I held you and felt tears rush down my cheeks. I kissed your clean forehead that smells of Burt’s Bees lavender vanilla baby wash, and I pictured us dancing to that song at your wedding. I wept. It was good feeling, Andy. To be present, even in the space of discomfort, while holding my beloved, I felt in touch with my most honest truth. And grief came through.

I’ve been thinking of grief a lot lately. Part of my process of healing from the traumatic first months of your life involves coming to terms with what I feel that I lost…what we lost. And I must allow grief to come through to heal. Most people associate grief with the loss of a loved one, but grief travels through us more often than we allow ourselves to recognize. Change can bring about grief, as can the passage of time, or bad news from a friend. We call it “nostalgia” in its lightest forms, but it is a form of grief, nonetheless. Memories of what was- of who was, sweep through our bodies. From stomach to throat to eyes, there are waves of liquid heat that we must allow to flow, if we are to receive the benefit of grief.

It is said that there are 7 stages of grief. I won’t lie to you, they are a bitch. Mostly because the stages include what Buddhism tells us is the avoidance of suffering. We refuse to believe our circumstances in denial. We refuse to accept our circumstances in anger. We are out of our bodies in shock. Once this wears away, once we grow weary and tired of resisting, we accept. And that is the love comes through.

You see, Andy, lately when I feel grief, these waves of “pain” associated with memory and loss, I recognize the presence of love itself. When I hear a song that reminds me of my grandmother, or a time before you were born, or a friend who I am concerned about, I let the love wash over me. I let the tears pour. And I trust the grief won’t sink me into a dark depression. It has taken a lot of courage and growth on my part to learn this. And it still takes a lot of work. I clench my jaw, I try to turn my mind to something else, but the fear of losing loved ones is still present, and with it, the assumption I can’t survive the weight. But I can, Andy. And I have. And so will you.

To deny ourselves the right to feel grief is to deny love itself. The memories we create with loved ones can be lived more than once, but we must accept the waves that come in their re-enactment. We must allow the body to move through grief, and grief to move through the body. This is how we get to live our lives, again and again, in one lifetime. It is how we can see our loved ones, again and again, even after they are gone. It is how we can heal when we know our circumstances are less than ideal. When we feel robbed of life, and time, and happiness, we can still find love in grief, if we let it move through us.

I look at pictures of you now, from when you were very young. And I cry. Because you have grown so much. And I’m proud. ALL mothers do this. But it hurts. It hurts even more for me because I had depression and anxiety after you were born and feel that I wasn’t all the way “there” when you were in the most precious babyhood stage that I’d longed for. For a long time, I felt robbed. I felt angry. I felt shocked and in denial. But now when I look at pictures of us then, I see myself looking at you. The woman who I felt that I was, lost and shocked and in pain, isn’t the woman who is looking at you. All she has in her eyes is love. It’s as if she’s set aside her own pain and anguish to tend to you. She (I) was working so hard to appear ok for you, when I really wasn’t. And that is the most loving thing I have ever done. I woke for you. I worked for you. I healed for you. And for me. And even now, as I let the tears flow, I feel so much pride and love. For us and for me. Because the root of that pain, the root of all my fear, was out of my love for you. It was a love I thought I couldn’t live up to. Because I wasn’t letting it in.

So tonight, I let it in. And cry. And hold you as we dance. My dear Andy, for your own sake, don’t skip over grief. It is the most honorable way for us to embrace our lives. Let it move through you, and don’t be afraid. The waves are love itself.

I love you. For so many reasons. I hope you do believe me. I’ve given you my heart.

With waves of crashing love,

Mom