Grieving Ryan

 I am a thinker, a knower of things, a problem solver, a writer. When feelings arrive and threaten to overcome me, I turn them into words, I create frames of thought, I form action plans. But today there are no more words, no new frames, nothing to do, nothing to say. All that remains is to feel.  Sad.  Deeply, utterly, unbearably sad. 

 I don't want to think about the day he died. I don't want to hear the pain in his voice when he said, "It's just so hard." I don't want to feel my palms beating against his door as the alarm sounded and nothing moved on the other side, as I began to know and yet still hoped. I don't want to see the line of blood from the corner of his lips. I don't want to remember his death, though I do every day.  I want to remember his life.   So today, I will tell you a story of his life, a moment I would have forgotten but for my compulsive picture taking and a photo that lives on a bulletin board at the bottom of the stairs where I see it every day. I love it because it is such a natural picture.  He didn't know I was taking it. His smile is pure authenticity.  We were at an arboretum with the grandparents and cousins. The cousins, as usual, were inseparable, having a fabulous time.  Grandpa was along for the ride, and frequently would find a bench on which ...

I went back out into the world for the first time.  It's different to be with people in person. There are hugs and small talk and unplanned conversations.  You run into people you've known for years but never met. I lost count of how many people said to me, "Congratulations . . . and condolences." And the people who didn't know but stumbled into the subject so that the easiest thing for me to say was, "I lost my son in February and got married in April." And the easiest thing wasn't easy. Joy and grief don't cancel each other out. They coexist in the strangest of contradictions.  Sometimes feeling one strongly makes me less aware of the other for a time, but only for a time. Then it comes back, often stronger than before. Being in rooms full of strangers and friends is different.  It numbs the feelings. I hold my professionalism, I tell my stories and teach my lessons. I tuck the emotions safely away, not in hiding, just not expressed. I expected...