Today is Brian’s 18th birthday. Scott and I decided to play hooky from work. We drove down to the beach with our bikes in the trunk. I wore my gratitude t-shirt with #therightside on the back and pink sunglasses, swag from the TriGirl triathlon done early in my grief. I turned on Lauren’s “throwback jams” playlist (Viva la Vida by Coldplay was the first song). The weather was perfect.
We parked and decided to ride due east on the sidewalk that runs straight along the seawall, an expanse of large boulders beside the ocean. We faced a strong headwind for several miles, until we turned around and it was easier going back. We then rode back past our car, went a few more miles and turned around and had the headwind again. Hard going out, easy going back, then hard again. It occurred to me that this is kind of how grief has become. It’s hard, then easy, then it gets hard again. It’s not nearly as hard as it was in the beginning, but it sometimes comes back and sucks for a little while.
After an hour of riding, we packed the bikes and went to lunch at The Spot, a place we used to go with the kids. They still have the same kids’ meal and little plastic cup with the red lid.
This 18th birthday thing is kind of a big deal. It’s a milestone, and while there’s some acceptance that it wasn’t meant to be for us, I can’t say I don’t still wonder what he would be doing, whether he would have continued playing sports, who he would have taken to prom, which colleges would we be looking at. But that’s not our world. Instead, we are empty nesting.
Along with empty nesting, goes transitioning. I started working a lot more but was also playing tennis three or four times a week. About six weeks ago, I tore my calf muscle while playing. I could not walk for a few days and limped for about three weeks. While it cut off my tennis cold turkey (and hurt like heck), I pretty quickly saw it as an opportunity rather than a curse. I had been wanting to play less, to focus more on my work, my writing, and give my body a break, and the injury greatly accelerated the process.
And so, I have been using the slower pace, the time to sit and reflect, to ask myself what I want to do with the new space and time in my life. Life is full of transitions, shifts and changes. With this birthday, I can dwell on the fact that I have only the same pictures to post (that ended eight years ago), or I can choose to shift my thinking to gratitude for the moments that we had with Brian (almost ten years), and for what I gained from giving birth to this child. I thought I would share some of the latter.
Before Brian, I didn’t know I could show up like that as a mom. Brian’s illness was complicated, long, grueling at times, and scary. I may not have done it perfectly, but I was there. I showed up, was present, sober and open-eyed every step of the way.
There might be a lot of things I regret from that experience, but one thing I know for sure is that Brian knew he was loved, despite dying from cancer. He knew God loved him, and that we did too. I beat myself up because I was worried we had not talked about heaven, but later I learned that I really did talk to him about it, even if it wasn’t in the way I or maybe others thought that should look like. He knew about heaven and that he was going there.
Before Brian, I didn’t know I could survive that kind of pain. I didn’t know that life could change on a dime, turn completely upside down, my family could be carried off to an uncharted planet, never to return, but eventually we would survive and even thrive again in this strange terrain. I learned that we can survive almost anything.
Before Brian, I didn’t know that death and loss are a part of life, that people need to connect with others who have experienced deep trauma so they can heal. That there is no timeline for healing, that there is something called “the long arc of grief,” and that the need for support never ends. That I can be part of the message that healing is possible.
Before Brian, I didn’t know that relationships continue even after the body is gone. I didn’t know about the language of the universe, the power of belief, words, space and time, energy, and spiritual connection.
Before Brian, I didn’t know that I could use exercise to help heal my soul. That monumental loss could lead to radical self-care and attention to my physical, emotional and spiritual needs.
Before Brian, I didn’t know that, gradually, I could release what I thought life was supposed to be like, and exhale into what life actually is. That I could find joy and even peace, moment by moment, in the middle of an incomprehensible storm.
Before Brian, I didn’t know I could let go of things (physical objects). Things are not memories; they remind us, but they are not the moments, and getting rid of them does not erase the memories.
Before Brian, I didn’t know about duality, that deep sadness and profound gratitude can co-exist, side by side, that my child can be physically absent but also be with me every second. I didn’t know that I could find a new faith, one that would be good enough for me and for God.
Happy birthday in heaven Brian. I’m so grateful I’m your mom.
Love, Mom
Valerie Locher 