Mar. 12 - Three Months Later - And here I thought I was mastering this grief thing

I usually take the bus to and from Rochester for work, but this week I've been driving in for an off-campus class every morning. Waiting for the shuttle to get me to my office afterwards can be painful (I'm not the most patient person), but I guess it beats walking for eight or more blocks when I'm not willing to pay for parking downtown.

At the Saint Marys stop today, I recognized a woman who boarded and sat across the aisle from me. It took a while to place who she was. Hmm ... someone from the PICU ... a neurologist, but not the main one ... I don't remember seeing her in the latter half of our stay ...

She looked like she was trying to figure out how she knew me, too. I asked for her name and gave her mine. She said she was Gloria and asked where she knew me from. I told her she had cared for my son, and even though I didn't mention his name, she remembered. Unfortunately, since she hadn't heard any more about his case after we left the PICU, she didn't know what had happened to Garrett and asked, "Oh! How's he doing?"

I thought I would handle it fine. I hadn't gotten all emotional weeks ago when I told a woman on the commuter bus (who I had seen plenty of times but hadn't really met before sitting next to her that day) that yes, I did leave to have a baby last fall, but he had some unexpected medical problems and died a month later. Maybe the delicate difference is that Margo didn't asked how the baby is, but rather referred to me leaving to have a baby. There wasn't an erroneous assumption that I had to correct. My news that he didn't make it was additional information, but it didn't carry the extra burden of obliterating the basis of a question.

But having gotten through that encounter fine, when Gloria asked, I thought I'd be just as composed. I paused as I thought about what to say, and finally explained, "Well, he had to go in for another procedure, and he didn't make it." By the time I hit "procedure," I thought I was in the clear. But with having to say "he didn't make it," I was undone. Bring on the water works. Ugh. I hate falling apart in public. And to make matters worse, we were sitting in the very front of the bus, and as soon as my face contorted into a wrinkled mess, more people started getting on. Bah!

It's funny, just yesterday I was thinking, Huh, today is March 11th. Garrett's been gone three months now. What a difference this is from the first few days we were dealing with the loss. That pain is still there, and I don't imagine it will ever go away -- but it's not so immediate. 

In the beginning, I'd wake up thinking about Garrett, and would instantly feel completely leveled emotionally and physically. Now I don't think about him first thing in the morning. And when I do think about him, being overcome with emotion doesn't seem to happen unless I go down some specific paths mentally.

So in that sense, it's like having an injury where "it hurts my leg when I do this." Well, then don't do that, silly. The hurt will always be there, but I don't need to experience it so deeply unless I'm open to it. Not that I ever try to get worked up, but I can try not to when I see it coming and stave it off. (For the most part, I let it come so I can process it and work through it -- but sometimes I catch myself starting to think about the ER when I'm trying to fall asleep, or choke up listening to a song when I'm in the car by myself and almost to my destination. I know those thoughts will keep me awake the better part of the night, or put me in an uncomfortable mindset while I'm getting groceries, so I shove them aside. I'll deal with them sometime -- just not right now.)

So here, three months later, it's nice to be able to keep the sting at arm's length when needed. At least that's what I thought yesterday. And then today I had to modify that expectation. I guess I can reign in my internal dialogue when it's headed someplace I don't want to go, but I suppose I won't have so much control when external factors come into play.

It still seems odd, though, that thinking to myself, "He's gone. He's been gone three months. He seemed so healthy, but he didn't make it," doesn't necessarily open the floodgates of despair. But when Gloria asked, and I had to tell her that he didn't make it ... I don't know. It's like saying it in that context, when it's new to somebody ... somebody who expected he'd be all right ... Having to make that correction just crushed me once again with the enormity of how wrong it is that he's gone.

Yes, he was doing so well. Yes, he should be with us now. Yes, he should still be doing well. But no. No, he needed another treatment. No, it didn't go well. No, there were complications. No, he didn't make it. No, no, no. NO!

Having to think through that again was like dealing with all the agony of the first week without him, but compressed into a few minutes. For her part, Gloria was very compassionate. I apologized for crying -- although I'm not sure if I was apologizing so much to her or to myself (stupid unruly emotions) -- and she reassured me that was normal. I regained my composure before we arrived downtown, but I was still shaking when I finally got back to my desk. Ugh again.

But why is that? Why would it be different than when I had to tell a few people on the Lake City bus? Is it because Gloria knew Garrett? In his short little life, she was one of the people who got to see him more than most of my own family, and she knew what he was dealing with medically. Is it because talking with her temporarily brought me back to a time when things could have been different? When things should have been different? Maybe that nanosecond of remembering hope, of subconsciously reliving hope, rendered the blow of "he didn't make it" all the more powerful.

Who knows. I guess grief is its own animal, and won't easily be tamed.