Breathe. Eat. Show up.
/I don’t know what to say anymore. I’m writing again, I’m pitching stories, I’m crafting words again.
But I don’t know what to say here, except that I’m still breathing.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
After I emailed her from a dark procedure room where a social worker had stashed a recliner for me to rest on that horrible night, a friend replied, “Deep breaths and make sure you are eating something.” Those words are still guiding me today, through Thanksgiving yesterday, through decorating today, through family visits and a trip to Santa tomorrow.
Santa can’t offer what I want.
But Santa — Black Santa, that is, the best in the land and only one we recognize — can offer familiarity to my children and routine to my chaotic heart. He’s magic, yes, but death defies the trappings and tinsel of the season. I don’t know that Santa will do much for me, but he will christen the coming month with goodness for the kids.
Goodness is hard to find for me. Some days I find it in God. Some days I find it in gratitude. Some days I don’t find it at all.
One thing I’m not seeking, though, is a solution. No goodness is hidden in false fixes. Unless you can rewind time to midday on July 18, 2019, you can’t cure the wounds left behind that day. Arriving to disaster with empty hands feels uncomfortable, I know. But filling your hands with platitudes or prayers or promises you can’t begin to keep? Those are all meant to make you feel better. They do nothing for me.
Showing up with empty hands, with enough empathy to know no tool can repair this, with a readiness to sit in the char and ash without trying to drag me out of it…
that tells me you see me,
love me,
accept me as I am.
It will be uncomfortable, but so is everything now. It will be awkward, but July 19 was the day everything turned awkward. I’m not sure I’ll ever know anything else again.
Showing up is all we have, for ourselves, for each other, for our kids, even for the dead. Lee’s story isn’t over. It lives on in everyone who loved him, who knew him, who became better humans by his influence. It lives on in me and in each of our six children, who will carry his heart in theirs until they meet again.
Showing up looks different for each of us. Angie takes my oldest two to school each morning and never expects me to wear a mask for my real feelings. Kim mails cards consistently, even though I haven’t replied to any yet. Kari mails my favorite brand of paper towels month after month. Kelly and Lise are my go to friends for a fountain Diet Coke and company; Angie H. has me covered for ice cream on Fridays.
Ruthie flew from Minnesota in August, and Andrea is here from Canada this week, and the week of Lee’s death I received love from Colorado and California and Alabama and Florida and DC and Virginia and Texas and other places I can’t even remember. Local friends have shown up with meals, even now, even four months later. Other friends have shown up by sending Christmas gifts ordered from a wishlist Gina created or daily necessities from another Lisa made or even items from personal wishlists for me and Jocie and Patience and Philip and Robbie and Patricia and Zoe that began a decade ago for my family, before they disowned us, lists I only continued with hope that they might return to them someday.
Nicole prewatches a new show we both like to let me know if there are any hospital scenes. Several friends have messaged or texted or emailed with spoilers from movies like Frozen 2 — from triggering scenes to the preview for Onward — to make sure I’m not caught unaware. Alicia’s laughter about my ridiculous Christmas decor is fueling me to get through the motions of lights and trees and ornaments and all the obnoxious inflatables I can fit in one yard, because I love it and because the kids do too and because sometimes sameness feels just like security.
We’ve had so many people show up for us that I can’t name everyone. We’re overtaken with gratitude. At the same time, we miss our one person so much that we’re overwhelmed with grief.
Showing up is what we’re doing too. Showing up to the alarm clock, showing up to the shower, showing up to carpool, showing up to wherever we need to be (or not, if we can’t), showing up to be a family of a different configuration than before.
Some days it’s all I can do to show up
to breathe.
to eat.
to take my meds.
to see my therapist.
to support the kids as they breathe and eat and take meds and go to therapy.
Maybe for you this is a season of showing up for us, and we are grateful. Maybe this is a season of showing up for someone else, and we are glad you are loving others well. Or maybe this is a season of showing up in self care, and I am proud of you for learning to love yourself as well as you love your neighbor.
Show up.
Breathe.
Eat.
Repeat.
We can do this. We are doing this. And when we can’t? That’s why we have each other.
