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For the first few months after Sam’s death, I suffered stabbing headaches in and around my eyes. 

“Narrow-angle glaucoma,” the ophthalmologist said. “Yours is the worst I’ve seen.” 

I wondered if the pain was from not crying. I didn’t ask. The question sounded ridiculous in my head: My son, he’s gone, and it hurts when I cry, so I wonder, did this happen, this buildup—of tears?—because I’ve been stopping myself from crying? Suppressing grief, like pruning branches, I’ve learned, only causes it to mushroom.

(an excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Unimaginable Loss: Chapter 8. Grieving)

It’s been over eighteen years since my little boy died. So I wasn’t expecting this.

It was subtle at first

For months now, Grief has been knocking on my door. At first, it was a subtle tapping. 

What was that? 

Then a little harder, louder, a beating heart? 

Why does that sound make me cry? 

Then someone asks a benign question and I answer. But when my words mix with the air they burn my eyes. 

Why am I tearing up again? What is happening? 

A pounding fist now, faster, more urgent. 

Go away! Leave me alone! 

I don’t wanna open that door. It’s been bolted shut for years now. 

I’ve been doing so well.

Preparing to downsize to a smaller empty-nest, I’ve been decluttering our home, cleaning out closets, and now Sam’s closet, donating his clothes, his toys, painting over his green walls, replacing his green carpet with builder-grade beige, covering and neutralizing his bedroom.

His desk I’ll be donating soon. He’d written his name multiple times in blue marker on the desktop, so I start cleaning it. First with alcohol and a paper towel, then some baking soda, then a magic eraser sponge seems to do the trick. All gone, completely erased. Making progress, moving forward, also feels like sacrilege. I stare at the blurs of blue on the paper towel and on the sponge.

What have I done?

I continue ignoring the pounding coming from that dark dank musty scary place. 

I’m not going down there again.

Now I’m angry. If I do open it, I’m gonna shove Grief down those stairs and with all my might slam that door shut, again.  

Grief dragged me down

BAM! Grief crashes through, tears the door off its hinges, grabs my neck, drags me to that gaping hole, and shoves me down those stairs.

A pad and pillow have been laid out on the floor. “I’m not a monster,” Grief says. 

I curl up on the pad and the heaving begins. Guttural cries, like the ones I heard years ago, come gushing out, loud, shrill, raking my throat raw. 

How did I end up here again? 

Chest hurts. Can’t breathe. It feels like dying. I may not get to see those things I was looking forward to in the coming years. 

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” Grief says. “You’re not dying. Not today, anyway. You think we can’t have a visit, or a good cry now and then?” 

I was moving forward. I’ve been doing so well. I don’t wanna feel this way again. 

Now indignant. “You can’t just barge in on me like this anytime you feel like it.” 

“Oh yes I can,” Grief says. “And I will. I’m sorry, but you’ve been ignoring me, my polite tapping, for months! How long am I supposed to wait for you to acknowledge me? No matter what you think, I’ll always, always, be a part of you, your soul, your body, your mind.” 

Maybe next time I’ll open the door sooner

I lay there for days. Throat sore, eyes swollen. No sleep. No food. Wasting away. Remembering. Staring into the dark. Listening to the rain, feeling it, smelling it, welcoming it, letting it soak me to my core. I’m grateful for rain, for water. A fish now, swimming deep, breathing in water. 

More than a week passes. I’m weak, but lighter. I get up. Approach those stairs. I’ve been here before. I’ve done this before. It’s slow-going, taking only one step a day. 

I make it back up to the surface, to sunlight. I see the the damage, splinters all around me, on the walls, the floor, the desk, the bed… 

Blinking in a mirror, face blotchy, eyes puffy. Ugh. I look like a featherweight after a fight. Did I win or lose? I shrug. Too tired to care. 

Still not hungry for food. Craving only water, and rest. I lie down again.

In the distance, from somewhere down in that dark dank musty scary place, I hear Grief’s voice trailing off. “Until next time. See you around. Sorry for the damage.”

Yeah…damage. See you around.

Maybe next time I’ll open the door as soon as I hear that subtle tapping, remembering that suppressing grief, like pruning branches, only causes it to mushroom.

Until next time.

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