Grief Awareness Day

Some jerk decided to create “Grief Awareness Day” and apparently today was it. Well, let me tell you, for anyone living through unfathomable grief, the last thing we need is a day to remind us of how shit is our life. It definitely contributed to the music at my pity party today.

I woke up to a grey morning. It was raining and I had several work emails waiting for me to deal with before I was even out of bed. At some point later, I checked in with Twitter, which made me aware that today is “Grief Awareness Day”. That was the beginning of the end of any possibility today might be a good day. It was as though the  grey dreariness outside had seeped into my headspace and I could not shake it loose.

Such is the reality of grief like mine. No, each day does not get easier than the one before. We are programmed in this life to seek happy endings. We find it hard to accept that not all stories get better over time. But they don’t all end well. Living through your child’s suicide is not a story with a happy ending. It is a rollercoaster that you never wanted to ride and that never ends. Yes, there are happy moments, but there are always troughs that follow the heights. Today was one.

As I was feeling crappy, after finishing most of my work, I decide to drag my sorry butt out to the local farm for groceries. A bit of fresh air and southern Ontario countryside to the rescue. The farm I had planned to visit was closed (par for the course today) so I headed over to another one just ten minutes away. The latter was a farm I used to visit often with the kids when they were little. Charlie loved it there, I recall as I turn into their red milk urn-lined driveway. And cue waterworks. I sobbed my way through the shop, which was filled with memories I had otherwise forgotten but which were easily reawakened by the sites and smells that haven’t changed in all these years. I wander around listlessly and eventually make my way to the check out, carrying several frozen meal options because I don’t have the energy to cook. Just as I reach the till, I spot a book on a table. “This way, Charlie”.  Seriously? Can someone please give me a break today?

I lug my groceries back to the car, throw them on the passenger seat and throw myself in after them. I close the door and begin to wail, thinking to myself, I’ve been living with this for nine months and it’s not getting easier. It’s never going to be okay. How can I possibly keep going? Do I have the energy? Can I keep this up?” There’s a part of me that wishes I didn’t have to. I really wouldn’t mind if 50 years was it for me. I’ve had enough. I just want this pain to end (which is ironic given that that’s all that Charlie had wanted).

Just as these dark thoughts are filling my mind, my phone rings. It’s one of my favourite people, my cousin, FaceTiming me from the UK. I haven’t spoken to him in ages - long before Charlie’s death. 2020 sometime, I believe it was. The fact that he just happened to call at that moment was a small miracle. I have since wondered whether Charlie made it happen. Speaking to D. was just what I needed. I blubbered for the first half hour or more and then, slowly, just as the sun breaks through the clouds, so did my mood begin to lift,  guided by D’s wisdom, patience, and humour.

At about the same time, two friends reached out to me, entirely coincidentally. Again, thank you friends, thank you Charlie. In our darkest moments, the smallest of kindness can carry us through.