Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls

Living with grief over the years is like some sort of strange arranged marriage.  Imagine already having the love of your life and being told in no uncertain terms, that no, your love has to go, underground, and instead you will spend the rest of your life with this unwanted ghoul.

At first, quite understandably, you despise Grief.  You hate everything it represents- losing your love, losing your dream of a happy life, pain that presses on your lungs relentlessly, even flashbacks of your love bleeding on the ground.  Grief brings all of this and shoves it in your face regardless of the time or company.  What is there to like about such an inconsiderate partner?

So then, you go on the run every time Grief comes knocking.  You hide under the bed.  You go shopping.  You take the meds that help you to sleep so your dreams are not filled with sirens, flashing lights, uniforms, blood, and twisted bones.  Better to have no dreams than those nightmares.

Nothing works for very long.  Let's face it, Grief is a fucking stalker.  Eventually, you invite Grief in and offer a chair, regard each other, albeit reluctantly, and get on with your relationship.  Turns out, facing Grief head on is the best way to conduct the sorry business of losing your child.  You get busy talking about it and learn who loves you enough to bear the discomfort of hearing about it, over and over again.  You see, for some of us, the nightmare never ends.  I get that the script gets old; but I'd rather witness it than live it, I promise you that.

Progress comes slowly and is probably less easily recognized by those who don't have children or who have never lost one.  But it is there.  Make no mistake; it is there.

You finally stop listening for Grief's knock on the door.  The two of you are now so enmeshed, that such formalities are no longer needed. 

That's why it feels like such a betrayal when Grief comes barging in when you are sick or stressed or doing almost okay.  You stand there, your heart beating out of your chest, realizing your loss as if it were the moment you were told she was dead on the road.  That pain of never seeing your child again rips through your body from your scalp that is now shrinking on your head to your feet, that no longer seem willing to hold you up.  You sit, folding in on yourself, wherever you are, a chair, the floor, your bed...and you look over at Grief.  I thought we were friends!  How could you do this to me?

Grief stands firm, no apologies.  You look again, and suddenly, there is recognition.  "Oh, it's you.  I know you."  You've seen this behavior before.  It is really no surprise.

There is an unwilling sort of commitment; you have to live with Grief until the day you die.  But friends you are not.

You Can't Wear Tennis Shoes to a Funeral

So Jacob had a couple of public speaking things at school recently.  He would pretty much rather have his skin peeled from his bones than talk in front of people.  But he soldiered through.

 We made a Kohl's run to pick out his business casual gear.  We hatched the plan while dropping him off for school one day.  "So, okay, one day after work, we'll run out by the mall and grab your stuff.  Slacks, khakis, button downs, a tie, and shoes, right?"

He didn't hear me in his haste to get out of the car.  He returned, "What, shoes?"

I thought he said, "I don't need shoes."

I responded, "You have to get shoes!  Some occasions call for real shoes. Like a funeral.  You can't wear tennis shoes to a funeral, Jake."

Jake stopped the door in mid-swing, and said, "Wait, what?!!"

I repeated it, and he clarified, "I'm fine with getting shoes.  I want shoes."  He grinned the open, easy smile that he guards so closely from just about everyone.  He continued, " I was so confused, like one minute we're planning a trip to Kohl's and the next minute you're talking funerals...like, why are you just going all dark on me?"  We cackled together, and he walked away, still smiling, and shaking his head.

As I drove away, I said to the car, "That boy." and smiled the whole way to work.

So fast forward to our shopping errand.  Before I could even say it, he did.  "This reminds me of the time me and you and Cory decided on a whim that I needed a suit."

"You remember that?"  I replied, more pleased than I could ever convey.

"Of course I do.  Remember me and Cory took all the pics of me looking GQ and I had a tie to match her dress at Easter."

We smiled, the full continuum of happy to sad and back again playing out on our faces, as we recalled that was her last Easter, and she'd been buried in the dress.  He'd worn the tie to her funeral.

We shopped together easily, filling two armfuls before deciding we might need a cart.  If I haven't said so before, Jake is the best company on any sort of errand.  He is easy to be with, helpful, funny.  If you buy him some Starbucks to get started and promise a burger or wings at the end, he's yours for the day.  His wife is going to adore him.  Ahem..you're welcome.

Finally he went to try everything on, and ended up calling me in the dressing room to try to help him get the tie fixed, at which I failed miserably.

I looked up at the mirror after checking the Google directions one more time, and caught a glimpse of him all dressed up.  It struck me suddenly that maybe this school year or maybe even since January, how much he has matured.  He has crossed the mid-line from boy to man.

I could only hope that Cory was somehow crammed in that little dressing room with us, admiring her little brother, now taller than both of us, from all angles.  She would approve of his dress shirt...purple.  She would crow excitedly over his adventurous tie choice:  flowered.  She would shake her head a few times and embarrass him, singing, "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy, it hurrrts..."

She would reach up to muss up his hair and call him, "hey there, Joe Jonas, I mean Brendon Urie..."

He would playfully smack her hand away, pretending to be bothered by all the attention, but secretly loving every moment.

Finally, broken out of my reverie, Jake called my attention to his shoes.  We'd spotted them at the same moment, and cried out, "Those!"

Now, he looked himself up and down in the mirror, pleased with what he saw, unknotted tie notwithstanding.  He gazed at his feet.  "These are MAN shoes.  I think you're right, Mom.  You can't wear tennis shoes to a funeral."

Somewhere, her fashion sense still intact, Cory smiled at her little brother and shook her head in agreement.  You really can't.