Am I disconnected
On mornings when I wake up and feel lighter I wonder where my grief has gone. Am I disconnected from my sorrow or is it moving through me so beautifully that this is simply how good grief feels? I feel a spark this morning... a small and concentrated nodule of hope in my belly, as though hands much larger than mine have gently taken my body and turned me away from the past and towards the beauty that is everywhere when I choose to see it. It's in the meaty snowflakes that fell sideways outside my office window yesterday eliciting deep joy and a desire to roll down a snowy hill while laughing- reminding me of my childhood in Delaware. It's in the cards and messages I received with tender words for my heart and acknowledgment of Hunter's presence and love. It's in the soft belly of my little dog, Bella. I see beauty in Amy's laughter, that sweet sound that warms me like nothing else. It's in the music of David Darling, Jonathan Biss, Amos Lee, Christa Wells and so many others that companion me these dark days of winter. It's in the light of the candles I make from soy wax and the joy of knowing that there are so many ways to light the velvet black of night. I find particular beauty in language-- poetry, prose, spoken word, love letters-- I love the way certain writers have untamed their minds so that the wild flows through them.
Tomorrow is the five-month anniversary of Hunter's death. I have traveled many landscapes since that day. On that morning, August 28th, I sat outside lapping up the morning sun, sipping blackberry sage tea, writing first in my journal, and then a card to a friend who was going through chemo. I also just found a card I wrote that morning to Amy-- She had gone out of her way to make us a temporary bedroom in Hunter's room downstairs while the entire upstairs of our home was remodeled (carpets pulled up, hardwood floor refinished, every wall repainted, a wall knocked out to open things up). In my card, I nominated her for the Wife of the Year award-- little did I know how much more she would do to live into this. I reflected on how sweet it was to see Hunter the night before as we shared sushi on our patio and talked about his upcoming trip to New York City. Then I got a frantic call from Toni-- "Hunter is unresponsive, you have to come right away-- the paramedics are here!" I felt like I was moving through molasses as I called out to Amy and tried to tell her what was happening, not knowing anything more than that one sentence. I jumped in the car, heart-pounding, and called Oralee-- I needed to hear her voice, feel her comfort. It was a looonnnggg ten-minute drive to Toni's and when I pulled up the paramedic truck was there, lights flashing. I ran into the house and held Toni and we both wailed, not knowing what was happening upstairs as they worked to revive our only child. Fortunately, we couldn't hear much. I learned that she had gone in to wake him up at 9:30 because he was going to drop her off at a friend's house to go camping and had found him unconscious. She immediately called 911 and started CPR.
(Just this moment, as I'm writing this, a song came on called Heart of the Universe-- "there is a space where angels sing on rays of light, and love pours forth from the heart of the universe." )
I do not know how long they worked on him-- Toni and Amy and I alternately held each other, begged and pleaded with the universe, wailed, and sat there in stunned silence. At one point I went out to the guest house which I had built as my studio when Toni and I were still together, and later Hunter had lived there for four months in 2019 when being at Oregon State had become overwhelming. I leaned against the outside of the building and called out to him, I prayed with such force all while knowing, just as I had when my father died suddenly when I was 31, that nothing about this situation was in my control. I returned to the living room and for another 10, 20, 30 minutes we floated in a sea of hope and dread until the paramedic came down and said, with a grim and sad look on her face, "I'm so sorry. He's gone." Actually, I don't know what she said because I couldn't hear anything at that point. All I heard, coming from my depths, was NO! NO! NO! and I fell into Amy's arms and held onto Toni and sobbed.
"I want to see him," I said, "I want to see my child." We had to wait for them to clean up and get their equipment out of there and then finally we were allowed to go upstairs where we found him laid out on the hallway floor where they had placed him for ease of access. There was still a mouthpiece in place that for some fucking reason they wouldn't remove-- I laid down next to him and wrapped my arms around him, my head on his still and cooling chest. My brother Tim was there with us. The Rabbi showed up. Jackie, Toni's sister, and Hunter's third mother were there. Oralee was on the phone with us as we cried and sang and prayed for his safe passage. I do not know how I made it through, I only know that humans have survived such losses since the beginning of time, and I was now joining the millions of mothers that have lost a child.
I had no idea this story would come out today-- I started with beauty. Perhaps that glimpse allowed me to remember these moments and that too is part of healing.
