I thought I was doing so well. Months have passed since I've had a real meltdown. The crying jags I'd experienced when my dad first passed away had become more spread out and I can't remember the last time I drove down the highway with tears streaming down my face. Little did I know I was lingering blissfully in the eye of the storm, unaware of the next onslaught of gut-wrenching emotional upheaval.
I should have seen it coming. I felt the stress building over the past few weeks but chalked it up to the craziness of this time of year. All those end of school year events - the baseball games, the recitals, the piles of school work and projects that have slowly accumulated on our coffee table, waiting to be perused and either filed or thrown away. I'd take a deep breath and remind myself that soon it would all be over and my little family would be on its way to a peaceful retreat to the rivers and mountains of West Virginia for a Father's Day weekend getaway. Surely some fresh mountain air, river tubing and relaxing away from the stresses of work and endless digital connection would do us all some good.
Don't get me wrong. It was a lovely weekend. We dragged the kids up and down a bunch of hills, including a small piece of the Appalachian Trail. We showed them how you can see three states at once, talked a lot about John Brown and the raid on Harpers Ferry and imagined what the area must have looked like during the Civil War. We basked in the warmth of the sun as we floated down the peaceful Shenandoah River in large inner tubes, steering clear of the drunken floating parties of twenty-somethings that seemed to grow larger as the afternoon wore on. We roasted marshmallows, drank root beer and wine and laughed at our dog as she barked madly at the countless deer that feasted in our backyard.
But somewhere deep down I felt it crawling up from where it had hidden for months, that raging beast formed of grief and anger and stabbing sadness that I thought I'd gotten rid of. I found myself snapping at Ella for whining that she wanted to go home when we first got onto the river, fearful of the water snakes that the bus driver had unwittingly joked about on the ride to the river tubing site. I yelled at Jack when he threw Ella's flip-flops right at my head as we dried off behind the car at the end of the afternoon, not thinking he'd take me literally when I told him to throw them to me. As we attempted to get dinner ready at our little house that we'd rented, I felt my frustration growing as little things nitpicked at me - my dinner plan of roasting baked potatoes over an open fire being thwarted by limited fire lighting supplies, the kids bickering at each other, the dog whining at every tiny thing that moved. When John mentioned that I seemed a little stressed, the dam cracked wide open and I couldn't hold the tears back. I actually had to go hide for a while to get myself back together. When I finally re-emerged the kids apologized for fighting and I felt even worse that they thought they were the cause of my momentary unhinging.
The nice thing about kids is that they don't hold things against you. To me I had single-handedly ruined everyone's weekend by freaking out. To them, it was the best weekend ever. They can't stop talking about it. They want to go back next year.
The evil meltdown grief monster kept its grip on me through Monday morning, causing me to blow steam out of my ears when I couldn't find my iPod earbuds as I prepared to go out for a much needed run. When I finally made it out of the house I took off full speed, running like my life depended on it, trying to escape the beast that would not let me go. I spent a good part of the run sobbing violently, gasping for air as tears poured down my face. What was the matter with me? Where did this come from? I'd been doing so well, sharing comforting words with my mother over the phone during some of her darker moments, reminiscing about my dad to friends in a calm, rational manner, telling my kids funny stories about Poppy over dinner. I hadn't realized what was lurking beneath the surface.
By the time I returned I felt much better. I went into the house and finally told my husband why I'd been such a crazy bitch for two days. I resolved to face the rest of the day with a smile on my face, which turned out to be a challenge when I encountered an especially obstinate patient later that afternoon. But I pressed on.
Later that day I happily discovered that my mother and sister had spent a great weekend together in Philly. My mom got some much needed bonding time with her little grandsons and my sister sounded more relaxed on the phone than she has in a long time. They enjoyed a calm, peaceful weekend at sea while I was lashed by a freak tidal wave. We might all be in this together, but we have our separate waves to ride. They've been pummeled just as hard as I have, but in different ways and at different moments.
On Friday we are laying my dad's ashes in their final resting place, a peaceful hilly cemetery in Georgetown. I think this may be harder than the funeral service that took place a mere week after his passing. The numbness of the early stages of grief protected us at that time. It's been replaced by something greater and harder to define.
My family keeps me grounded. My husband is incredibly understanding and puts up with a lot from me at times. He's the most patient person I know. My kids have shown me what unconditional love is. Even though I might completely lose it and yell at them for something that may or may not be their fault, they still hug me and tell me what a great mom I am. This is why the waves don't consume me. They knock me down, they might even flip me over and grind my face into the sand, but when they recede I have the support I need to get back to normal.
Today I feel fine. I've realized that I did not ruin our weekend - that 99% of it was happy and fun. The sun is shining, I don't have to go to work, summer is finally here. I wonder sometimes why I spill my guts here on this blog - after all, anyone can read it. Then I realize it's because I won't ever tell anyone about this otherwise. I'd keep it all bottled up inside and whenever someone would come up to me and ask "How are you doing?" I'd just nod and smile and say "Oh, I'm fine." This is my way of sharing. This is my therapy. If you happen to read it, maybe I'll help you get through something you're going through, or maybe you'll understand me better when I smile and say everything is fine. Or maybe you'll think I'm completely crazy! I don't really care. It feels good to put it all down.
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