Holding Two Truths in Different Hands

Our son died on September 17th, 2024. He was 25, the oldest of three boys, and was loved. That is all I truly know. 

Most everything else has become contradictory and paradoxical. Since he’s been gone, I’ve found I can hold two opposing beliefs at the same time. Perhaps I saw both sides before, and didn’t notice. But now it seems I’ve got two repelling magnets in either hand. 

I’m happy for you  ↔ I’m mad Nicholas didn’t get the chance

Dying at twenty-five is out of the natural order. What isn’t out of the natural order? Many of his same-aged friends are finishing graduate school, getting married, and having babies. Every month I get wedding invitations, baby shower invites, and graduate announcements. Each time I open them with both awe and jealousy. I don’t need reminders that these things will never happen for my son. My brain can’t keep up with the unfairness, and sometimes other people's joy is what gets me through the day. 

Sometimes the announcements help me believe that there is still good in the world. Just because Nicholas can’t graduate from medical school doesn’t mean I don’t want others to. My niece had a baby right after Nicholas passed. I thought I was full of love until I came across a photo of me at the time. 

I want everything to stay the same  ↔ I want everything to change

We live in the house where our boys grew up.  Our staircase still has marks from a baby gate from years gone by. Our couch is new, but it is in the same place as it ever was. Our boys sat there watching Blues Clues, SpongeBob, and YouTube. We sat at our kitchen table and ate a meal after their grandpa died, every night during COVID, and most birthdays. Now just my husband and I sit there staring at the three empty chairs. 

I subscribe to different realtor websites. I get updates on new homes in Portland, LA, Boulder, and Costa Rica. There is a houseboat in the Pacific Northwest that has my name all over it. A new life in a new place feels as if it could bring a new me. 

And I know that no matter where I go, grief will follow. Do I want to walk through the ghosts of our boys at the local playground? When I glance at the tub where I used to bathe my boys, I swear I can smell their little boy bodies and picture the onesies I'd have to tug on once I'd dried them off.

Time goes too slow  ↔ Time is too fast

People say I’m in early grief. Almost two years in, it feels like Nicholas left a million years ago, and also it was yesterday. 

I can do this ↔ I can’t

They say grief comes in waves. One time my husband was hurting, and I reminded him of this handy aphorism.

He looked at me as if I’d said a stitch in time saves nine. 

Then he said, “What good is that analogy? Nicholas is gone at the top of the wave and the bottom.”  

The wave analogy never worked for me either, mostly because I like to say no to everything now. Also, I love swimming in big waves, and when a big one arrives I know to dive underneath. In grief, the only way I can dive under is if I’m writing poetry, no one is around, and it’s early morning. Other than that, I’ll get slapped to the floor by the wave.

I’m not grieving enough ↔ I’m grieving too much

For the first few months, my eyes poured water, even as I slept. I’d wake up, and my pillow needed to be dried out. 

Now, people say things like, "I’m so surprised you can talk about him, and you're not crying."

There are signs from beyond ↔ Everything is ordinary

A bald eagle landed in our backyard for hours and studied us. The glass bowl with Nicholas’s ashes tumbled back to shore. Sometimes when I write poetry, it feels like he’s there. 

None of these signs is good enough. I want him back to life.  Even if he’s a literal eye in the sky, that’s not what I want. I want him home. 

All of this is true and none of this matters. Al-Anon, a support group for people who love someone struggling with addiction, has a question:  How free do you want to be?

My answer to that is always 100% free. I can’t bring him back; it doesn’t matter where I am; he’s not here. I can’t do this, and I am doing it with too little and too many tears. I’m happy for you, and sometimes I’m sad for us all.