Grief is a constant companion from the first moment it arrives. It bursts through the door uninvited, often unexpected, without any regard for what you already have going on. It spreads out, taking over every corner of your space with its presence. You notice things are missing and grief just shrugs, refusing to give anything back. At first you’re angry at the invasion, the audacity of this rude guest to flagrantly ignore your feelings. You demand they give what they’ve stolen back. Then sadness washes over you as you realize you’re helpless to fight this battle. Grief looks good and settled in, leaving its mark in every corner of your life. Even after you’ve accepted that Grief is no longer just an inconsiderate guest and instead a permanent resident, an unwanted housemate, those emotions remain walled off inside you.
Long after their arrival, when you’re finally able to ignore Grief’s interminable presence, to glide your eyes past its slovenly recline on your sofa with empty pop cans strewn about and covered in chip crumbs, you sometimes lose your cool. You look at that menace and something sparks the memory of what they stole from you and it hurts afresh. The sting of the loss, the ways Grief has taken a wrecking ball to your life, bubble to the surface in a flood of painful emotions.
I was scrolling through Facebook posts this morning, and as usual was bombarded by unwanted posts from groups and people I am not following. One of those unwanted posts was a video thumbnail of a group of little kids with the words,
“Nobody: _____________
Covid Babies: it’s our turn for Kindergarten.”
I didn’t click on the Reel but I immediately felt the little needle prick of grief. I took a screenshot because I needed some comfort, and it was easier to send the picture to someone who understands why it would be upsetting, with a simple note that it stung, than have to dwell on it further by typing up a description and explanation. Unfortunately, that comfort didn’t come so I decided to get my emotions out like this.
My miscarriages in late 2019 and early 2020 have been subjects of prior writings, so I won’t go into detail about them here. Suffice it to say, had the first of the pregnancies resulted in a healthy little baby, I would have a 2020 baby, ready for Kindergarten. It sounds silly to me to admit to being upset over such a seemingly small trigger, but I don’t have control over what digs into the wounds. I try to not dwell on the hurt, but I’m only human. Other factors (Hi, hormones…Anxiety, welcome!) make it more difficult to manage my emotions. Anyway, it hurt. Seeing that little thumbnail promptly transported me back to Grief’s entrance and what it took. This line from a grieving Inez in What the River Knows by Isabel Ibanez sums it up well, “Every day, I discovered something else their deaths had taken from me.” In this case, it’s still years later and milestones they’ll never reach are impacting me.
Grief is here to stay, regardless of my wishes. Thankfully, in the process of writing this, the One who was trying to get my attention earlier when I felt so alone, tears sliding down my cheeks, finally got through to me. While the pain of this world is an all-too-familiar companion, He is also always present, and in this I do find comfort. He’s pulled me up out of the muck and mire of this hurt time and again, even though I have cried out to Him, pointing an accusatory finger, anger seething in my blood, as my hurt tried to find a place to land. It did eventually land on Him, but not in anger. I keep resting it in His capable hands. I cannot handle Grief’s residency on my own. So, today I am thankful that despite the ache of loss, I have the comfort of hope.
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