Elizabeth Cook

I have spent this last week in grief. Grieving the loss of what life was, what life is, and what I thought life would be. We’ve lost huge, massive foundations of our life – security and safety. We’ve witnessed the fragility of humankind and the environment, but we’ve seen the absolute persistence of both as well.

So yes, I’m sad. I’m sad to hear of all those people that have lost family and friends.

I’m mad. I’m mad at all those fucking idiots that don’t listen to reason and warnings to stay inside.

I’m anxious as all get out, because that’s really my default setting. I’m worried about someone I know getting sick or myself getting sick. I’m worried about the unknown – where do we go from here??? I’m worried that my children will be afraid. I’m worried for friends with small businesses, friends that have been laid off, friends that are alone, friends that are immune compromised or have children that are.

But, as with everything in this diametric universe there is the flip side. I am relieved to slow down. I am thankful for a job that has supported it’s employees through this time. I am grateful that my friends and family are in the good health. And I am beyond thankful to all those first responders, hospital staff, and essential services workers who still do a job every single day for the benefit of all of us.

I’m still a hot mess, and I can pretty much guarantee I’ll be like this for awhile. But in the meantime I’m keeping my eyes wide open to see those small glimmers of hope, those moments where memories are made and miracles happen.

I thought I had long ago dealt with the trauma I experienced with Fitz’s birth. It’s not something I need to explain, it was personal and subjective and I don’t need that experience validated by anyone. I realized today, though, that that fear, which I thought was gone, is actually very much still here. It had disguised itself so well as a rationality that I didn’t even realize it had been a major player in my life for the past 4 years.

I realized it through a conversation. Through noticing my choice of words. I used the words ‘pain’ and ‘hurt’ more than once along with ‘afraid’. Even though I was saying, “I like and expect a challenge when pushing my physical limits”. I was even confusing myself.

It wasn’t until I was back in my car, obsessing over what I said when I realized “holy shit, I’ve been avoiding any physical challenges for the past 4 years because of my child birth trauma.”

For the past 4 years I’ve let a few hours experience determine how I live my life, or don’t live in this case. I gave up on things that were huge parts of me. I gave up on trying, experiencing, and even just showing up. Because I was afraid – afraid that what happened before, would definitely happen again.

All this from one conversation.

Take the time to not only listen to others’ stories, but also, really take the time to listen to your own. Your version. Your words. Your story. You just might learn something about yourself.

If I could give you all the answers,

I would.

If I could save you from all the hurt,

I would.

But if I keep you from all that the world has to give,

Then I’d be denying you the chance that you have to live.

If I save you from your very first heartbreak,

You will never know True Love.

If I gave you a reason for every little thing,

You will never know everyday magic.

And if I shelter you from all the Hate,

You will never know the need to stand up against it.

You must live little darling,

And that can sometimes feel like too much.

But you must live little darling,

Because otherwise, you’ll miss out on all the fun.

If you never fall,

You won’t know how great it is to fly.

If you never fail,

You won’t know how to get up again and try.

If you never hurt,

You won’t know what it means to heal.

And if you never cry,

You won’t ever know what it means to feel.

You must live little darling,

But know – you’re not alone here.

We’re all just living little darling,

And with that, there will be nothing to fear.

I can’t do it all for you, my little one,

But I can teach you what you need to know.

I can’t do it all for you – I’m sorry,

Because you and I, we both need to grow.

Oct.30/17 4:30am

It was an appropriately creepy Halloween time walk early this morning. The wailing north westerlies dominated the pre-dawn landscape. I hate these winds. These winds lend voices to things otherwise silent.

The trees moan as they bend to their demands.

Their leaves shiver on the branches. Wires scream with warning, pushed to their limits, and the street lights sway ominously. The cacophony leads me to take a different route than normal, away from the overhead dangers. The dead leaves on the ground are momentary companions, pitter – pattering along with me until a gust comes and they escape fervently, breathless as they swirl away. Behind me the the skeleton leaves are foot steps gathering closer and closer, until I look to see that no one is indeed there, only to find that they were disguising the actual footsteps beside me.

I come across empty lots,scarred black and desolate this early morning. With huge hulking metal mountains parked in a silent corner. The chain link fence rattles keeping whatever it needs to keep out, out. Or maybe in. I hustle past not wanting to find out which.

Finally! Back on the home stretch. Relief is quickly surpassed by dread – this home stretch is dimly lit. The only light from the street lamps is canopied by trees dancing freakishly in the wind, making the sidewalk a psycho disco of strobe light shadows.

I pick up the pace, I’ve had enough of this nightmare, and I just want to be home, safe. My imagination has run wild with these wailing north westerlies, and it’s time to find refuge. I walk, in the darkness , as quickly as I can. Ignoring the sounds around me but sensing and heeding their urgency. I’m being chased by these shadows, and the otherwise voiceless are screaming at me to leave.

I feel like a modern day Ichabod Crane making his way home late at night after the party. Finally assured that all will be well, I was no more than 4 minutes from home – relief! However, the lights momentarily flicker, then, just above the treetops,on the path I normally would have been on, an explosion! The exploding pumpkin head through the covered bridge. Happy Halloween 👻

Today is just like many other days. We’re rushing around, wrangling kids, trying to get them dressed in clean clothes and fed a decent breakfast and bonus points for getting them to brush their teeth and maybe sometimes, or all the time like in my case, this side-show shit hits the fan. There may or may not be yelling and words you normally wouldn’t want coming out of your mouth may be directed right towards your kids for JUST NOT LISTENING! The drive to school or daycare is in silence(only if you’re lucky), you kiss your kids goodbye👋 and race off to the work you’re already now late for, throw your butt into your ergonomic chair in front of your computer and (deep sigh of guilt) think to yourself – was all that, all that yelling and rushing and swearing and stress really worth it?? For this?

Well, is it?

This scenario gave me pause today and me made think – where are my boundaries? Where is the line where I say “No, this isn’t worth it”? Where is the level of stress to the point where I can say “I need a break, I need some help, or I need to get away” ?

How can I make boundaries without feeling like I’m letting someone down? How can I draw the line in my life where I commit to it being the enforceable point between ‘manageable’ and ‘too much’? More importantly, how do I make others see and obey that line?

I can’t do everything, and my super-mom friends that I’m always in awe of can’t do everything all the time either. But we try. We succeed. We fail. We persist. And at the end of the day we just hope our babes believe the honesty in our voices when we say “I love you.” 💖

Grief

The house was quiet and still, where once you couldn’t escape the noise. It was mostly happy noise, not always, but it was life. Life’s noise. The ringing of the phone, the tv in the living room with the volume way up, the laughter among friends, and the screaming between sisters. That day the air was heavy and stale, waiting for movement, for a breath to keep it alive and fresh. Shadows hung in every corner, low clouds that eked into every crevice and made the light heavy and dim. In the corner of the counter, where it had always been, stood a coffee maker. The white of the plastic had yellowed from years of use and cigarette smoke in the house. The glass carafe stained brown and chipped on the spout, where when you poured the coffee it would leak down the side of the carafe and sizzle against the burner creating a noxious steam. It still had a half a pot of coffee in it with spores starting to grow. I don’t know how long it had been there, it didn’t matter.

That visit, with me standing there once again with my mother and sisters, was like an exhalation. An exhalation of life, more than just one, an emptiness so complete and final, yet also, endless.

This is death. This is grief.

Grief is death left for the living. It is a vacuum. A black hole. There is no air to breathe. No ground under your feet. No voice to speak, no sound to hear. It is a void, profound with nothingness and at the same time, all encompassing, all consuming. Grief is the penance we pay for having known someone who lived a life worth loving. I closed my eyes and the vision of my self, the self that grew and developed there, slipped away on a sigh.

I stood barefoot on the warmed planks of the splintering deck, a coffee in hand and the grace of the sun upon my face. It was a cool morning, June in Labrador. I knew I had to leave soon. I knew leaving meant so much more than getting on a plane and saying, “see you soon”. It meant leaving everything I had ever known behind – forever. My home, my childhood, and my dad were all dead.

To the lost boy

He approaches me with anger once again

but this time I don’t back away.

I stand my ground, no longer fearful of him

I choose to listen.

She chose you over me,

anger thinly veils the absolute desperation.

I can see that now.

She didn’t, I respond and quickly follow up,

but I know it must feel that way.

The rage I see bubbling up suppresses,

ever so slightly,

as to not spill over.

We played out this scene before,

a hundred times, a thousand,

and yet this time I reveal the truth,

When she lost you, she lost herself.

And we never saw her again.