What Does Grief Look Like Now?

Hi, hello. How are you, friends?

Things are adequately satisfactory in the Coleman household. We’ve made it through another Buffalo winter (almost, right?!?)

Ingrid is sporting a new ‘do with self-styled bangs (yes, I finally hid all of the scissors), and I’ve discovered the simple pleasure of ordering cheap trinkets from Wish.com (coping at its finest).

As far as my health, I'm feeling mostly good, physically. Also:

• Had a clear MRI in December.
• I see my oncologist every other month.
• Get a monthly Zoladex injection. In. ma. belly! 
• Doing the Tamoxifen thang. 

It’s taken some tweaking, but I think I’ve finally arrived at a healthy combination of meds, counseling, and a go-with-the-flow attitude that has led me to where I am now: mostly peaceful/groovy/happy, with periodic smackdowns with grief (who is a muscly and mean jerk, and I am neither of those things, so you can guess who usually wins).

So, 10 Months Out. What Does Grief Look Like Now?

Grief looks like going days at a time without so much as a single tear. And then one day: all the tears.

Grief looks like guilt. Guilt for accepting a boy’s number at a bar. Guilt for not being sad all the time. Guilt for cooking all the foods Paul hated and watching all the girly shows he couldn’t stomach, and being super happy about it.

Grief looks like spending Valentine’s Day eating questionable amounts of cheese while weepily watching Little Women (Why Beth, why???)

Grief looks like family fun days at Bounce Magic or the Science Museum. It looks like everyday family stuff: forgetting to pay bills, complaining about winter, discovering new nail polish “art” on the wall.

Grief looks like exhaustion. Mixed with joy. Mixed with hope. Tastefully seasoned with a spoonful of "frig the world, I do what I want." 

Grief looks like inventing new family holiday traditions. Inventing a whole new life, actually. One that makes sense for Ingrid and me.

Grief looks like a lot of coffee. And a fair amount of gin.

When I'm not trying to wrestle grief to the ground, I find pleasure in watching Ingrid write her name in squiggly handwriting or answering her profound life questions (“Mom, when they bury you, do you get dirt up your nostrils?”)

She talks about death possibly more than most 4-year-olds. Good or bad thing? I don’t know.

I watch her grow and my heart is exploding and sometimes I feel so badly that Paul didn’t get to see this. He was taken too soon, and sometimes this makes my grief look like anger. Or more like...this overwhelming heartache, a sort of sickly-sour-guilty-feeling that I’m here, watching the sun set over the ocean, and he isn’t.

And, no. I don’t live by the ocean. Ingrid, my sister, and I took a trip to Florida in February, and it was DA BOMB.

Love, Liz