Last year about this time, I announced to my inner circle I was officially done writing about grief. I had grown tired of being head cheerleader of the cemetery club – a club that, over time, had grown exponentially amid my cherished community. Then, a few weeks ago while traveling, my phone rang and a voice on the other side said, “Are you sitting down?” There it was again.
Without sharing details, you might surmise those words brought sad news. Determined to follow through with my commitment, I sat down to write using a different voice — the one that writes happy. I wrote pages and pages of stories about family travels and celebrations, chance meetings with people who wound up changing my life, but somewhere around page 22, I noticed my tone hijacked, my heart sinking back to this dreaded month of July.
It’s been 21 years since our son, Alex, died. Most of you who know me and my family will assess that we’re doing well, we’ve survived and continue to survive — our friends, work and passion for living keeping us vertical as we continue navigating the journey. Admittedly, the grip of grief dulls with time, but never really goes away. Mine hides out in the recesses of my mind — sneaking up on me when I least expect it: a random Tuesday in the grocery aisle of baby foods or that unsuspecting moment when I catch a glimpse of something he loved — macaroni and cheese made from a box, Rice Krispies cereal — “triggers” they’re called. The reality of gone slaps me in the face: My son is dead. That ugly date, July 17, 2004, now permanently etched in time and memory…