Roll with the (gut) punches

So, we survived the first round of "big" holidays. Meaning Thanksgiving and Christmas in our world. Yes, each alone is a bit of a whopper, but they, especially Christmas, have always been pretty big in my family.

My parents (and funnily enough, also my in-laws anniversary... decently helpful for me who is absolutely awful at remembering dates) falls on November 27, which doesn't always fall on the holiday, but it's hard not to associate the two. And then there's Christmas. We had a number of traditions and wonderful memories of course, but December 25th isn't just Christmas. It's my mom and dad's birthday.

In a number of articles I've read they mention how holidays/birthdays/anniversaries can be especially hard, to which I couldn't help but laugh at simply because why space them out when you can just get the double/triple/whatever whammy. One could say it's being efficient: grief edition.

I had prepared. Or as much as one can. On the day I found out my mom had died one of the things I explicitly remember turning me to complete hysterics was realizing I'd never get another holiday season with the family I had grown up being able to celebrate with for years. But the actual holidays themselves weren't as bad as I'd expected. We spent Thanksgiving in Oklahoma, and my dad came and spent a week with us for Christmas. Granted, there were other distractions surrounding Christmas that pulled focus from where I expected it to be (I'll cover that another time), but having him here and being able to explore the city and eat our fill of delicious seafood was a huge help in making it through.

While it wasn't nearly the experience I had braced myself for, it wasn't without highly emotional incident.
You'd think I'd have learned by now it's not the times we expect or plan for that hit hard. Nope. It can be anywhere, like waiting in line at the Dollar Tree, browsing in Target, or driving down a road in Oklahoma.

It started out as a beautiful day. Truly. The weather was amazing. Despite having checked the weather report multiple times before hitting the road, I still managed to underestimate how warm the mid-west can be in November, and hadn't packed quite the right options. And yes, I realize I spent the majority of my life in that part of the country, yet I still was unprepared. Apparently I've turned New Englander fairly quickly.

Because of the wonderful weather, we decided to check out this fantastic new outdoor area being built in Tulsa called The Gathering Place. An absolutely fantastic space to roam about (but remember the sunscreen!) with plenty of walking paths, lovely trees, and a part called Swing Hill. I mean, c'mon, doesn't that sound fantastic? On our way, we passed by another area along the river that had undergone a huge renovation. Beautiful walking paths, shelters, and seating areas scattered along the way, just waiting to welcome you to take part in a lovely day spent out doors.

While driving along, I had the strange tingle I had been here before. Now, we've visited Oklahoma a number of times over the years, so I was certain I had been at least in the vicinity at some point during one of those visits and shouldn't be surprised it felt familiar, but then it struck. The realization of why this specifically felt familiar. Suddenly my stomach sunk, my throat tightened, and I did all I could to just hold back the quickly building emotions.

To be clear, throughout this entire time I've been working very hard at allowing myself to "feel the feels" because not doing so seems to be the thing that hinders recovering from the deeper parts of grief. But sometimes you just don't want to give in. Sometimes you just want to quietly acknowledge, then move on.

And I tried. My god, did I try. I really just wanted to keep the day the way the rest of the trip had been up to this point- momentarily being hit by a pang, then moving forward. But today was different. This moment was different.

Earlier that day I found out an amazing friend of mine had passed away, well before his time. That loss, on top of all the others from the year, and then passing that place at that moment apparently ended up being my breaking point.

While we were driving and being updated by my mother in law about all the work that had been done along the river walk I grasped my husbands hand and started taking deep breaths, attempting to keep the tears at bay for just a little longer.

The reason why I knew this place; it was where he and I had come to walk during a previous visit. The visit that once we landed at the Tulsa airport I immediately got in a rental car and drove up to Kansas City to see my mom who had been admitted to the hospital to help with her sever depression and anxiety. And one of the last times I saw her in person.

Traffic was a little tricky as since it was an unseasonably warm day after a holiday everyone had decided it was a good idea to check out the new space. Tensions seemed heightened by everyone in the car, or maybe it just felt that way, but either way, once we parked I could not get out of that car fast enough.

We exited the car and I grabbed Josef, very similarly to that Wednesday morning when my dad called to tell me, I just went into hysterics. His poor parents were left in the dark about what was happening. Thankfully he ushered them along and said we'd catch up later.

I was ready for almost any other thing to "trigger" these feelings. I was ready to feel sad, or lost, or any other number of feelings on Thanksgiving itself. When we played Scrabble I had a bit of a lump in my throat. When I called my dad, who spent the holiday with friends in Kansas, I was sad because I missed him, but felt immense relief that he found a way to celebrate the day that worked best for him. When we were driving I felt a bit of de ja vu from when we packed up and drove through two Nor' Easters earlier in the year to get back to Kansas City.

But this. This came out of abso-fucking-lutely nowhere.

We're nearing the year mark (which, btw, how did a year already go by? A WHOLE YEAR?), and while I'm preparing myself for that, I'm also trying to take this experience as a not so friendly reminder that this whole grief thing doesn't play fair. It doesn't have rules it abides by. And for someone like me, who really, really, enjoys playing by the rules, well, it's teaching me to roll with the (gut) punches a bit more.

Out of the Darkness (part 2)

Sorry for the much longer than anticipated delay in penning the second part. Quite a bit has happened between then and now, and I'll touch on that in a different post... or three... (as I said, quite a bit has happened), but I did want to finish recounting the experience we had at the walk in November. 

So where was I? Ah, yes, the beginning. Of the walking part of the walk that is. 
There we were, a small horde; some protected by umbrellas and raincoats (we fell under this category), some bravely donning just their clothes, sans waterproof outer layer of any sort, all drawn together for a similar reason.

In the time before the actual walking part of the walk began, people milled about. Some (like us) enjoyed the very generous hot coffee and tea and snacks while standing under a tent, while some checked out other vendors who were there in support as well. But there was something every different about this gathering I noticed. It was so incredibly diverse. 

When I've done races, while there is some diversity, everyone sorta looks the same. Yes, different ages, races, ethnicity, but everyone pretty much fit into the "racer" mold. We all had on similar running attire, basically the same demeanor, and of course, the race bibs. 

But this group was anything but cookie cutter. I kept looking around and saw, well, everyone. All ages, races, identities. Everyone. It hit me like a brick wall just how indiscriminate suicide is. I remember telling Josef that this acknowledgement was both comforting and heartbreaking. Which is fitting, because the emotions that surround suicide are incredibly confusing and contradictory. 

Umbrellas in hand, making our way through a soggy (weather and eyed) Boston morning.

So off we went, our beautiful sundry of those all affected by suicide in one way or another, walking together in the rain. Man, that sounds poetically depressing, but by the end, it was quite the opposite. 
As we started, there was an odd hush that happened throughout the group. Not that we were expected to march in silence, but it almost felt as if collectively we all took the first block or so to acknowledge and reflect why we were there. I know I was struck by quite a strong wave of emotion when I really thought about what brought us there that day. And as I glanced around I could see I was far from the only one with a wet face not caused by the rain. 

Over the course of the walk, moods evolved. There was laughter, even some singing, people reminiscing lost loved ones favorite times or events they remembered by sights or sounds along the way, but my favorite was this adorable little girl, skipping, or swinging by those two holding her hands throughout the walk. 

I noticed her and those with her while we were waiting to start. My heart ached for all three of them because, although I didn't know their story, I knew that that young lady already had a very grown up thing in her life. Something that me, someone easily at least three times her age doesn't even quite fully understand. 

So on we walked, or in polka dot girls case, skipped and puddle jumped, for about a mile or so, in the rain. But then, just like every movie or book, as we reached the end, the rain finally stopped, and the sun finally decided to make an appearance.

Afterward there were some hugs exchanged between strangers and friends alike in the square where we started, and slowly everyone dispersed. While I preferred to stay more on the periphery, it was oddly comforting knowing there is this community. A community I never thought I'd be part of, but none the less, I am. 

If you would like more information or would like to participate in an Out of the Darkness community walk near you, please click HERE