Cracked

Surrender is the only way through

Lego pieces scattered on the floor

We were on our way to the beach to choose a place for Garrett’s first Celebration of Life. On the way, I saw a post on Facebook that said, “NOOOOOO! Not Garrett!” I was still feeling exactly that: NOOOOOO! Not Garrett! Not my child! I convulsed in sobs until I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop crying, nor did I want to. However, letting go of the pent-up energy made room for decision-making, family conversations, and preparation for his celebration. My son, Dakota, leaned forward from the back seat and put his hand on my arm. A gesture of comfort. He kept it there for a long time. Why do I remember this detail? Emotional memory.

The day Garrett died was surreal. Emotional memories, indeed, are the strongest. That day will be burned in my memory forever. But I wasn’t feeling emotional. I was numb. More than numb. I felt lost, thrown into another dimension. How could I even begin to envision a life without my son, his sense of humor, his wit, his personal connection with others? Where would the laughter go? The late night calls would be forever silenced. His poor wife and newborn daughter! How would his passing affect his 10-year-old son, who’d already experienced so much tragedy? I needed to do something, but didn’t know what, and had no energy to do it anyway. My thoughts floated into emptiness. Helplessness.

We gathered as a family, and I cried when Jim and I told Garrett’s sister and son, in our home, what had happened, and they both burst into tears, crying, “No! No! No!” We sobbed together via FaceTime with Garrett’s younger brother, Dakota, who lives in Tennessee. He caught a flight within the hour and was home before noon. Then I didn’t cry unless I was informing someone who needed to know on the phone. I felt no need to reach out to anyone else. I only called people who were expecting him, or us, in the next few days. People who were depending on him to show up for work. People waiting for him to give them guidance. People anticipating him walking in with his one-liner, erupting in laughter throughout the room. People who didn’t know the joy of seeing him would ever end. Saying the words out loud that Garrett had died was excruciating. The words hung on my lips, but the gravity of it sucked them back into my belly, only to be expelled with my grieving sobs.

That week, I was either numb or sobbing. It was like a pendulum swinging, not from grief to happiness, but from numbness to devastation. My brain was overworked but going nowhere. My body just shut down, waiting in vain for direction. Grief made my mind behave in ways I didn’t recognize.

Those first few weeks, maybe months, felt heavy on my chest. Perhaps from all the strapping energy required to keep myself together? As if letting go might cause me to fall apart into a million little pieces, never to be the same. Was my brain giving a forbearing hint about what was to become of me? Like a Lego set that took years to assemble, dropping and shattering in seconds all over the floor? Would I have the energy, or even the desire, to put all those pieces back together? I didn’t feel there would be. That’s why I spent so much energy trying to keep it all together, while stepping barefoot over those Legos every day.

Music also brought me to tears. When I felt there was too much pressure to hold it in any longer, I would turn on the shower and open our recently accumulated family shared playlist, with every song about loss and grief. I could sob for as long as the hot water kept up. I could surrender. The steam, the music, the crying, it emptied the grieving venom out of me. It broke me; it cracked me right open.

Now? I feel more deeply than ever before. Not simply for myself, but also my compassion for others. It sometimes runs hot or cold. I shut it down when I can’t hold any more heavy. But I think my back for emotional weight is stronger. I am learning to be comfortable with grief. I’m also learning to share my feelings with others on a profoundly different level than ever before. (Like here, on Substack, to complete strangers.) I’ve been told that it makes them feel closer to me. Even by a girlfriend that I’ve known since middle school. I’m sharing my most painful life experience with the world. It’s not comfortable for me, but my desire to get us all to share and uplift each other through anguish and confusion is greater.

I can already tell I won’t be reassembled the same, but I can’t help but ask myself, where do I need to go? What change do I need? A new perspective on life? A new calling? A new attitude? If all those Lego pieces are going to be put together with my now precious energy, then it’s going to be a better version. For all this pain and turmoil, I want a masterpiece.

I used to think grief would destroy me if I allowed myself to crack open. Instead, the breaking has made room for things I never knew were there. Garrett is still teaching me, even now. Maybe that’s what love does when someone dies. It refuses to leave us and moves right in, instead.

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How have you changed after a profound loss? Let’s Talk About It…

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” - Rumi, poet, theologian

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