Tag: Grief

This Isn’t About the Tree

Last year at this time, I discovered that our pre-lit tree no longer lived up to its name. I sat on the floor snipping strings of lights and unwinding the strands from faux branches.

The phone rang. I missed it as I had been sitting on the floor and am not as limber as I was once. It rang again almost immediately which set off alarm bells and I whispered “uh oh, that cannot be good” to myself. It was an unknown number with a very known number exchange.

“Is this Janice?” Reader, not many good things follow someone using my government name. This time was no exception. This time it was the news that my dad had been rushed to the hospital. We said our final good-byes only hours later.

This piece isn’t about his death.

It is now almost one year since that day and this week felt like a good time to get out the tree. I am very much a “done is better than perfect” type person and typically I hurry through the set up so we can just enjoy the soft glow of the Christmas lights a little bit sooner. Good enough suits me just fine.

This year, I slowly took each layer of tree out of the box and took my time fluffing and straightening the branches. I found some rogue light strands that I had missed last year (please see above reference to “good enough”). I tested the replacement lights before I strung them and even took them all off and started again because they just didn’t look right. In the quiet of this process I felt peace and calm.

This isn’t about the tree.

Traditions are part of the fabric of life. Making memories is kind of the point, isn’t it? I don’t want every November to be a sad reminder. So I am embracing bittersweet and resetting things. November will be for pausing and taking time to do things right, not rushed. I think from now on I will set the tree up on my own and take that time to think about my dad, his love of Christmas cake, mint Laura Secord chocolates, and his cover of Peggy Lee’s song “The Tree“. I will remember telling him there were less dramatic ways to get me to come visit. I will reflect on my gratitude that I could be at his bedside as the veil lifted and assure him that we would be okay, he could go.

I am certain he heard me then and I think he’d be happy to see this reset now.

Hot Sauce and Sneaky Tears

Did she notice the tears welling up in my eyes? I don’t think so, she was very focused on her job. But they were there and I was caught off guard and quickly composed myself. She carried on with her task, oblivious to the quiet sob I choked back. Or maybe she was being kind and ignored this burst of emotion – she probably sees it often in her role at the blood donation clinic.

As I reclined in the lounger and listened to the whirr of machines around me, I did some self-analysis. My emotions had snuck up on me and it was unsettling. It didn’t take long to think of another time I was ambushed by my feelings.

Covid-19 has caused me to become emotional many times, that’s not new or unexpected. When I drove by the local high school and the sign out front said “School Closed” I felt the tears rise with the realization that we would not being going back for a long time. My grief for the students was logical. Telling my children we wouldn’t be going to Disney like we’d planned was hard news to deliver and understandably sad. Finally seeing my parents after months of only phone calls had me sobbing as it was twinned with the knowledge it would be months before we could be together again. Those instances made sense.

Then there was the time, few weeks into the lockdown this past winter, when I was at the grocery store. Covid protocols were still being implemented and adapted. As much as I craved getting out of the house, I found it was upsetting to see the realities of our new situation: long lines, two metres distance, and masks. This trip was different, though. I was more relaxed and felt less like a scavenger scouring the shelves during a zombie apocalypse. But then I turned a corner and there it was: the bottle of hot sauce I needed to buy for the soup we were having for dinner. And along with that were the tears.

No, I’m not adverse to spicy foods. And no, it wasn’t out of my price range. The bottle in question was the exact same type that a student in my class brought along in his lunch bag. It was the topic of many lunchtime conversations with my classroom family. The hot sauce made me miss those kids in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

Grief is funny that way. It can sneak up on you when you least expect it. The smell of coffee brewing on a summer evening makes me miss my long-departed cousin. Wearing a cozy sweater brings with it the sadness of the loss of my sweet friend who definitely would have loved it. Jellybeans instantly and unfailingly connect me to memories of my grandpa who always had some in his pocket. And hot sauce was a tangible reminder that I would never teach that group of kids face-to-face again.

I have given blood before. I have been poked and prodded and had medical exams. Needles do not faze me, nor does blood. In fact, the kind nurse hadn’t stuck me yet when I felt the tears gather. All she had done was take my hand.

It was not about the hot sauce, or the needles, or the masks, or the two metres, or the lack of human touch. It was and is all of it. And we all carry it differently on a given day. Let’s be kind to each other and gentle on ourselves.

Broken

I am wrecked.

Emotionally.

Wrecked and drained and weary.

I am okay. I can go upstairs this very moment and pick up my Little and tell him that I love him and smell his sweet little boy smell.

But my heart is aching for another’s unspeakable loss.

My heart cannot contain these two opposing realities. I am grateful to be able to tuck in my boys and listen to them tell me about their days. Yet parents I know are saying good-bye to their cherished Little and I am broken.

How dare I feel sad? This is not my tragedy. This is not my loss. But here I am, wrecked and drained and weary.

We have the comfort that she is in heaven, I know. But in the meantime…

In the meantime, her room sits empty, her toys are still. Her parents miss her. They miss her and they ache and that will never subside.

All I have to do is walk upstairs. I feel incredibly sad and grateful.

It’s not about me, but I am broken.