Grief In The Passenger Seat

January is ebbing away and I have not written a post all month.  I try to think of what to say.  People ask me how I am doing.  Really.  As in, “How are you doing, really?”  I answer that I am doing well, all things considered.  And I think I am.  But am I, really?  It’s the “really” that makes me wonder. 

I am busy.  I am so darn busy that I probably don’t know how I really am.  I can say that I don’t have time for loneliness or resentment or self-pity or hopelessness.  This is good.  I also don’t have much time for processing through my grief, unless I make time and force myself to slow down long enough to feel something.  I worry about whether this is healthy.  Am I running away from pain?  Or am I running toward something positive - a future I can envision living in?  I still don’t think about the future much.  Thinking about it without Ron is still depressing.  So, I just do what I have to do for each day and each day is busy enough that I keep moving forward.

My grief has shifted.  More often now, I find myself smiling at the memories rather than crying.  I know people said this day would come.  I wasn't sure I believed them, but it seems they were right.  A memory of Ron will wash over me, seemingly unrelated to anything else going on in the moment, and I wonder where it came from and revel in its hilarity and joy.  Ron making a silly face.  Ron making out with me hardcore and the way it made my tummy flip-flop.  Ron doing housework or yard work with his sleeves rolled up.  Ron singing along to his iPod while cooking.  Ron playing WoW or Magic or Elder Scrolls or Pokemon or some even nerdier computer game.  Ron intently watching documentaries.  Ron smiling at me from across the table of a restaurant.  Ron drinking a Slurpee.  Ron drinking a beer.  Ron sleeping with his thick eye lashes curled out away from shut eyes.  Ron holding hands with me while we walked dogs in matching strides.  Ron being afraid of something I wanted him to try - for example, swimming in Lake Michigan in the middle of the summer night while drunk with a lightening storm coming in and wind causing huge waves and undercurrent and seven anxious dogs barking on the beach while five humans went in wearing our undergarments.  Ron would only go waist deep, concerned about the undertow.  I teased him at the time, but now I look back and smile at this memory and his ability to hold his own and only do what he was comfortable with.  Any of these memories make me feel overjoyed. 

My grief counselor told me months ago that for awhile after his death, my grief would be driving my metaphorical car around.  It would be steering and making decisions.  I would be passive, unsure what to do.  She suggested that eventually grief would get out of the driver’s seat and move to the passenger seat.  Then it would be right there next to me, still navigating at times, but letting me steer and drive my own life, make my own choices.  She said grief would eventually move to the backseat, only visible if I looked in the rearview mirror or purposely turned around.  Still in my car, just not in the forefront anymore. 

I admit that I bucked against the idea at first.  I didn't want my grief to stop driving because my grief felt like my only connection to Ron.  But I have found other ways to feel connected.  Even moving on and becoming a person I think he would be proud of is a way to maintain that connection.  Keeping his memory alive by saying his name and telling people about him is a way to stay connected.  Not being ashamed or embarrassed of being a widow is a way to stay connected.  In my real life car, I am still known to reach over and touch where his leg would be or throw a dazzling smile in that direction or to put my hand where I used to hold his.  A driver communicating with a dead boy – wonder what the other drivers think if they see me do this.  I still talk to him, write him, ask him things, and listen for responses.  All of these, and more, are ways I stay connected to Ron. 

There are moments when the grief will sneak up and hit me.  I will hear a song playing on my cubicle neighbor’s radio or on the overhead speakers in a store and it will make me start bawling.  I will see or hear something truly beautiful or utterly comical that I want to share with Ron and feel deep sorrow that I cannot share it with him.  I will be telling someone a story and find that there are parts I cannot say without my voice cracking and eyes welling over.  The worst is when I am upset and I only want to talk to him about what is troubling me.  Lately, I have been crying on my commute home and crying myself to sleep.  This is nothing new, except that it went away for a little bit and now it is back.  Although it sounds all sad and weepy and pathetic, I welcome these outlets.  It shows me that I am still feeling.  I am comfortable with feeling sadness at this loss.

There are also moments in my life now when I feel intense happiness.  I never believed this would be possible again, but it is.  I like my life.  I like my independence and solitude.  I like roller derby A LOT.  I love my dogs.  I love my family.  I love my friends.  I even like my house.  I still don’t like my job very much, but hey . . . you can’t win them all.  The point is, overall, I am pretty happy with my life, other than the fact that Ron Clark is not a living part of it.  There are moments when it feels like sacrilege to feel so happy. 

Ron planned well when he got me the fresh meat package for roller derby.  He knew I needed something like this to fill my soul and give me drive and a sense of purpose.  I don’t think I would be recovering from my grief or moving forward in my life alone this well if it weren't for derby.  I don’t know how he knew this was what I needed, but he did.  He was very wise.  I continue to be grateful for him every single day.  In my book, he is a saint.