Congratulations & Condolences

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 them to come flooding back. I wondered whether I close my conference days sobbing along in my hotel room.  I didn't.  I thought I might write, but it wasn't what I was there for. For four days I set aside the experience of grieving even as I described an identity of grief. I donned my professional aura, knowing that grieving would be waiting in the wings.  

I made time for grieving and recovery. I planned for light days upon my return, laid contingencies for canceled flights. It was fortunate that I had allowed time for rest and writing: I needed those days to make my way through Covid. Intermingled with Covid's chills and aches were small moments of tearful memory, but there wasn't space for the release of emotions held at bay.  

Today I woke up mostly better.  Covid's grip on my body has been reduced to something like a head cold, coughing and stuffy, but otherwise myself. Finally there is capacity for grieving and grief has claimed the day. 

The emotions grip my body as tightly as the virus had these recent days. I fill tissue after tissue with intermingled sadness and infections, loss and yearning and the joint memories of the life we shared and the life he should be living still and for years to come. His joy in living as he race from one curious adventure to the next, and the pain when he could not find that joy any more.

I miss my little boy and the light in his eyes.  I miss "Thanks Mom!" and watching him run. I miss never knowing what he would think of next and his tender heart for all small beings. I miss his intelligence and his humor and the amazing questions he would ask. I miss the little problems I could help him solve. 

There was a saying in our family. Ryan would grin as he said it. "It isn't lost until Mom can't find it." Somewhere Ryan's joy got lost and Mom couldn't find it.  I miss him so.