The Daily Grind

Most of my days begin in the same way. After dropping off Jamie at school, I sit down with my laptop, catch up with e-mail and facebook posts, and proceed to waste the bulk of my free time. Many days I barely manage to squeeze in a shower before it's time to pick Jamie up at 2:45; she can attest to the fact that I often show up late, hair still wet. Where does the time go? Oh, I know I should be more productive. There is laundry to do. Dishes to put away. Seeds to plant, weeds to pull. I mean to walk the dog, use the treadmill, see a friend. But I don't. Instead, I spend most days inside, at the computer, distracting myself from the cold, hard, painful reality of loss. It's approaching a year since Shea's death, and I still haven't begun the insurmountable task of writing thank-you notes. Some would argue that people don't expect them, but the guilt of the task undone will remain a heavy weight on my shoulders until I put them in the mail. Each kindness, every generous act we received merits a sincere and eloquent response. So why do I procrastinate? Why am I so stuck? I think I'm getting better, I really do. But it is a SLOW process. And John and I have some very dark moments. It's been a horrible year, filled with a number of tough losses. Beginning with last June, when Sam, our beloved golden retriever, suddenly went blind. Despite our best efforts, his health went downhill rapidly, and he died on June 19. It was especially tough because John and Shea were in NYC, where she was receiving experimental treatment, and Megan was away at school, unable to say goodbye to him. I cried for days. Ten days later, after a scan, we received the horrible news that Shea's treatment wasn't working, and that there were no more curative options available. They came back to Illinois on June 30. Of course, we hoped that she had months to live, but that was not to be. When we woke up on July 25, we found that Shea had died during the night. The days and weeks and months that followed have mostly been a fog. Our wonderful friends and family got us through those early days, helping us choose the pictures for her wake, ironing the clothes she'd wear, designing and printing the programs for the funeral mass. The turnout was overwhelming. The music was beautiful. Somehow, thanks to the love and support, we got through it. But how do you get through the rest of your life after losing a child? You need to reinvent so many things... ordinary days aren't ordinary anymore, and birthdays and holidays are a little bit dreadful. I confess that too much wine has been consumed on milestone days, blurring the pain that comes with Shea's absence. She was our middle child, the peacemaker, the most sensitive and empathic, the most thoughtful gift-giver. Her smile lit up the room -- my whole world seems darker without her. And yet, the days and weeks and months pass. "Men channel grief into productivity," I read. That is certainly true of John. He comes home from work and picks up my slack, cooking and cleaning and planting. He is remarkably patient with me. We are gentle with each other, knowing well that each and every one of us grieves differently. Criticism isn't called for. We survived Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's Eve. John's birthday. Our world was rocked again when my dad became ill in the beginning of March, with MDS. I was brought back to a place I didn't want to go as I joined my parents at the hospital, translating blood counts, explaining neutropenia, debating whether to transfuse. Painful memories, still raw, were revived. I spent my 48th birthday at the Kellogg Cancer Center with Mom and Dad, watching him struggle to drink enough water to bring up his blood pressure. Twenty-five days later, he was dead, and once again, I was there with the still body of a loved one, saying goodbye, tears falling. To tell the truth, my tears were as much for Shea as for my Dad. How odd to be the voice of experience, as a daughter joining mother and brother at the funeral home. "Hard-won expertise," my mother said. It's not something I ever wanted, the vocabulary of cancer, the advisor in matters of death. But I got through it, once again. Those days passed. How I would have preferred to crawl into my cave on Mother's Day, my first without Shea. I couldn't do that to Mom, on her first without Dad. John, ever busy, made dinner for us all. Another day to be endured... Another day, another dog. We put Guinness to sleep on May 15, ending the risk that he would ever bite anyone else, human or canine. I bear the scars of his last attack. I would have sworn he loved me too much to ever bite me; he proved me wrong. "Springer Spaniel Rage," they call it. We were cuddling, I bent to kiss his belly. It was foolish; I knew that was his trigger. It happened too fast to prevent. I miss him terribly. "Hard-won expertise." The past year has made me an expert in loss. Two beloved dogs, best friends and companions. My dear dad, aged 83. My daughter. Grief is debilitating, that I know for sure. What I've also learned, the hard way, is that as much as others offer comfort, words of solace, offers of support, I am still very much alone in my grief, as a mourning mom. When a well-meaning friend says, "I know how you feel; I lost my (insert loved one name/relationship)," unless they've lost a child, they have no idea at all. Having lived through these losses, I'm here to tell you that there is no comparison between my grief for Shea and my grief for Dad, for Sam, for Guinness, all of whom I loved. I mourn her a million times more.