A Grief Performed
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” -C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
I remember thinking it was a good thing we were staying in and watching classics like The Wizard of Oz because I didn’t have any pressing inspiration to change out of yoga pants or wash my hair. Just one of those stay indoors, don’t over-exert, and move with how time unfolds kind of summer days.
I was oddly conscious of it all - the lack of excitement or plans, the leisure of my outfit, the stillness of my parent’s condo. Everything felt a little out of place, but with no reason to change any of it. In retrospect, I wonder if someone played a hand in keeping me nearby, unscheduled, ready.
When I got the call, I vomited. It took me less than 20 seconds to jump into action, throwing on shoes, brushing my teeth, and grabbing the essentials. Those moments now just hazy hues outlining moving bodies. But I’ll never be able to erase the feeling of utter sickness radiating through my bloodstream - like someone set my feet on fire, but froze my hands together.
And the things I was doing didn’t connect in my brain. Shoes on, teeth brushed, phone charger packed. Will they have coffee? I should take coffee just in case. Everyone needs coffee. I wonder if she has extra pillows. Who’s with her? I don’t know how we’re going to drive there. I shouldn’t wear this shirt. Does Bam have cat food? How will we explain this to Sarah one day?
All shouting in my head - all happening at once.
I didn’t believe my mother. What a twisted joke, if that’s what this is. What an unspeakable thing to say. A truly baffling lack of judgment. How I wanted to be mad at her for weeks for being so thoughtless - for sending my stomach into knots for no reason, for a laugh or two at best.
Her hysteria rang like bones breaking into my headspace. No, she’s not kidding.
This isn’t a joke. This is everything you’ve begged not to have to feel ever in your life coming to a boil. I choked, my gracious mother bearing the worst kind of news. The sobbing sailed through the phone and punched me in the chest.
I told my brother. He stood in disbelief. I didn’t know how to say it, so I just said it. I just said it and it hit his frame like a meteor igniting. His 6’3” grown man self suddenly melting into a pool of horror at my feet. His eyes drowning in “impossible.” He didn’t move but to hug me. That’s so like him - the gentlest giant - comforting others when he has every right to break down completely.
I called my father. He abandoned the loaded grocery cart and headed home. My father who knows death like an irksome neighbor. They’ve run into each other often throughout his life. He’s no stranger to the processions, the verses, the flowers, the wailing. But to address death like this? To once again look at death in its rotting face when it wasn’t his time, he was too young, he was strong, he was too young, he was a father, too young, too young.
All of us finally together, under one roof, and we can’t say anything. Everyone scrambles to be helpful, to move one foot in front of the other, to get to my sister, but it all feels like a sham. How dare we breathe freely in those moments, knowing. Knowing. I could reach out and touch the heartache in the room.
Fast forward almost six months and those first few days feel like a fever dream. I get clammy thinking about it. My skin breaks out in hives. My heart rate quickens.
Some days, we have to remind ourselves it happened. I wake up in an unfamiliar house, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar state of mind. He’s alive when I wake up and it genuinely takes time for reality to sink back in, nestled in between my ribs.
Some days, we don’t talk about him at all. We see him everywhere. In swaying grass fields, in cows trudging along, in projects that need attending to, in those little girl’s blue eyes. But we don’t talk about him. His name hangs like a puff of smoke wafting through an open window.
Some days, his presence sits heavy in each room, trailing with dried mud. As if I’m going to turn a corner and hear him laughing. As if this was all an unfortunate misunderstanding.
I’ve always held an interesting outlook on grief, part of which stems from never having to manage sudden, tragic death. It’s all been slightly performative for me until now. What I mean by that is of course I was heartbroken when Nana died, but she was 92. It was expected, though hurtful, so what followed was appropriate and by the book for me.
This performance is different in that it’s no performance at all. This is not only do I not wear makeup anymore, I couldn’t care less if I do or not. I don’t keep track of showering, just how often Little has her cough medicine. We don’t abide by days of the week so much as at home and not.
This. This has no guidelines. There’s no manual. How does my sister raise her children without their father? How do we get out of bed each day? How do we continue to move and go and live and sleep and wake when our world stopped six months ago and hasn’t felt right since?
How did they move on and we’re still here?
My sister. My sister. My sister, like a song, like a rainy day when the sun can’t help but to peek through the clouds. My sister’s love like the kind of warmth that oozes through one’s body when drinking a cup of tea. She’s the greatest person I’ve ever met. Even if we weren’t connected in this way, I know I would admire her. Her patience is a force to be reckoned with, her empathy is a seemingly endless fountain, her joy, still, is exactly as it should be - unabashed, silly, giving.
I want to say that your grieving friends and family need continued support. They need messages of love and open hearts. They need to know you haven’t left them - that their grief sits with you as well. Please don’t tell them how strong they are, for in instances of death, strength is irrelevant. Please don’t tell them what an inspiration they are to so many, for in times like this, inspiration is not what gets us out of bed.
Instead, ask them what they need, how they’re feeling, if they’d like some food or company. Let them know they are on your mind and heart and that you love them, you love them so much you will drop everything to watch bad reality television with them, if that’s what they need.
Almost six months later and our days are not normal. They’re filled with damning questions thrown up to the sky. With anger that feels like stubbing one’s toe over and over and over again. With doubt that plagues a household trying to keep faith.
What I’m learning while wading these volatile waters is that grief is scary for many reasons, most of all being that we have to face it alone. We must lie in solitude in our own minds, coming to terms with loss. We must reconcile on our own time, in our own way, if we do at all. Grief doesn’t sit like a blanket across many laps. It blinds like a mirror reflecting our worst nightmares.
It’s terrifying.
Perhaps the only motivator for me personally in a time like this, a time so unnatural and unpleasant, is love. I love these girls endlessly and the reason I haven’t collapsed from exhaustion is my love for them and their little lives. And that isn’t to say that people who buckle via grief don’t love enough - it’s just what helps me get through the day.
I love their goofy toothless smiles and stinky feet. Their insistence on closing the refrigerator door themselves, inevitably leaving it open for ten minutes. Their room-clearing gas. Their uncanny ability to scope out tv shows with the most irritating theme songs that get stuck in my head for hours.
I love that Sarah uses that big, beautiful brain of hers to figure things out. You can see the inner-workings of her curious mind as we reason and lecture and explain. She’s two and she sits with books in her laps, describing what she sees in glorious detail. She is the change we need.
I love that Hannah holds the light of the world in her eyes, wise beyond her years. Her smile infectious, her smile unapologetic, her smile pure, as if she already knows grief intimately and says, “You will not take my joy. It’s in my name.”
I love that Audrey doesn’t let a day go by without vocalizing her blessings. To acknowledge privilege when one grapples with an undeniable hurt isn’t just commendable, it’s unbelievable. Her attitude and character in these moments are unbelievable.
I love them, fully, uncontrollably, without hesitation, with certainty. I love them and I’ll wake up each day, float back down to reality, change all of the stinky diapers I can stomach, and not fear the remainder of our days because I know my time with them is filled with purpose, and there’s nothing to fear about a life dripping with love.
Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.