Grief is a Ghost
An embarrassing, uncanny ghost
I’m ready to take my clothes off and hide under a sheet, but the woman in the room has one more question for me.
“You mentioned grief on your intake form…” she says expectantly.
“I did?”
I received a gift certificate for a massage a few weeks prior, and I must have checked the “conditions” box reflexively when I booked, like: past surgeries, rosacea, grief…Or maybe I have grief on autofill.
Now the massage therapist is circling back on the checked box like a responsible professional.
“Just wondering how that comes up for you.”
“Coming up” is a thing grief does, but not like an unexpected visitor at the door. More like a phone notification you can’t figure out how to turn off.
It doesn’t go away over the years, it just becomes less acute and more insidious. It spreads like smoke, getting into everything with sticky, smelly tar.
“I carry it everywhere. It’s in me all the time.” I tell her.
I’m trying to be nonchalant and own it like an old pro. I have to pick up my kids after this, so it’s not a good time crack open. But my voice wavers and my eyes well up — not so much that I can’t choke it back, but it’s a noticeable amount.
There’s “My Grief” again, always lurking, ready to embarrass me.
Of course I checked that box three weeks ago. It was my way of saying, “Yes, I have The Grief. Could you massage it out of me?”
I’m less excited to get naked now.
~
My 30s were a span of nonstop loss: My mom died, then my dad, then my goddamned dog, and my grandma (who loved me more than mom and dad put together), and finally MY THERAPIST OF 15 YEARS.
These were my oldest, most familiar fears coming true but it was still foreign and disorienting once it actually happened. I like to think my therapist faked her own death just to escape me, The Grim Weeper.
Somewhere between dog and grandma, a friend texted, “Do you need company, or should I just slide a pizza under the door and back away?”
~
My life became a series of metaphorical pizzas slid under the door. I couldn’t go anywhere without feeling like an open wound, even with my closest friends. I was out of place in my New York City milieu — home of the ambitious, the hardened, the corporate sociopaths — slopping around the sidewalk like emotional pudding.
So I stayed home, long enough to go a little crazy like Howard Hughes without the fortune. This was before COVID.
If I got too agoraphobic in the living room I’d just go back to bed because what’s the fucking point? I hoped having children would ward off those days completely (lol) but they often exacerbated them and made them feel well-earned. I depleted myself being a normal mom who wasn’t awaiting the next tragedy, bad tripping on every horrible possibility, that any break I took felt like I was recovering from the flu. (Separate from the real flus you get from having little kids.)
But I got on with life and carried the grief around like an old wallet. I know I’m switching metaphors now, but that’s part of the process. My grief vacillates between a state of being, an almost paranormal experience, to a noun that I possess. I know it’s everywhere and everyone deals with it at some point, but like a fingerprint or TikTok algorithm, mine feels distinctly mine. It closes me off, but sometimes I meet someone who lost a parent a little too soon and there’s an unspoken understanding and respect.
Whatever shape grief takes, it’s always unshakeable.
~
There are days I don’t think about lugging the old wallet until I have to pay for something in front of other people. I see how objectively ugly and sad it is. The leather’s all worn down and it’s brimming with old receipts.
Here’s what it looks like when one of the crumpled papers breaks free and falls to the floor:
I see my dad’s cousin at his grandson’s birthday party. He points to a pitcher on the drinks table and says something that brings me to tears: “I think that’s ginger ale.”
An innocuous comment, with a flicker of the face I forgot until I saw it. It was the same expression and tone my dad would have if he was helpfully ID’ing ginger ale at a 6-year old’s birthday party. A thread of shared genetics, upbringing, or just a trick of my grief-warped mind? I wipe my face with a stiff Sonic the Hedgehog napkin in the corner. (PMSing while peri-menopausing does not help situations like this.)
The name I give my daughter is an anagram of what I called my grandmother, but I don’t know this until she’s six months old and someone points it out. I admit I didn’t realize it, and they say, “Oh, I thought that was the whole point of her name.”
Those n’s, i’s, and a’s are sounds I never want to stop saying even though she’s gone.
My son doesn’t stop soon enough at a crosswalk on the way to school. I yell too loud and frantically, and it’s awkward enough that other parents turn and look at me. I sound just like I did in the ICU when my dad stopped breathing during his last kidney dialysis. Or maybe I’m paranoid and no one is looking at me. Either way, there’s no way to quickly explain, You don’t get it, I’m a loss machine.
I stuff the embarrassing old wallet back in my pocket and keep walking.
~
Is there an upside to grief? If you accept living with it forever, making the most of it must be part of the process too.
Once the immediate shock of loss fades (it takes longer than what I’d call a fair amount of time) you appreciate the fleeting seconds of what’s left. Switching my thoughts from dread to gratitude has become a daily life hack, like remembering to sit up straight or fixing my Resting Bitch Face (it’s actually perma-worry.)
Fearing The Next Bad Thing has turned into proactive, slightly morbid preparation. I’ve become obsessed with developing psychological strength instead of seeking psychological safety. (Especially the false safety of staying in bed.)
I mainline stuff on potential, productivity, grit, and The Good Life from the greatest bald thinkers of our time:
I’m sure this is another form of denial — hardcore self-helping so whatever happens next won’t debilitate me — but prolonged grief makes you desperate for a comeback story. Maybe I’ll shave my head and get a book deal for The Lazy Girl’s Guide to Stoicism.
That’s it for upsides, but I hope this is a developing story and I can keep you posted. In the meantime, thank you for reading! I take your likes, shares, and comments as seriously as that photo of Jocko Willink.
📣 New Sub Shout-Outs 📣
Big ups to new subscribers Summer W., Leslie, Chris N., PickleRick (!), Sammy., Sylg, Robert W., and of course Людмила М. (I’m looking forward to your crypto pitch.)
Friendly reminder that I thrive on the attention and validation of friends and strangers, so if you know anyone who might enjoy my serious thoughts on silly things, and jokes about serious things, go ahead and share below!
Heartbreaking, yet beautiful.
💕💕💕