(Dealing with Grief) It's Got Me Lovin’ Things I Used to Hate to Do

Late last night I woke up to an uninvited visitor. Like a sharp knock on a door, he announced his arrival with a sudden and surprising break into the quiet of my room.

I sat straight up to greet him with a sigh.

Well, hello, Grief, you pesky son of a bitch.

Yes, I still remember. No, you cannot stay. Of course I won’t forget you. Thanks for stopping by. Fine, just one cup of coffee. Then please, see yourself out. Call first next time.

My grief is a he, I’m sure of it, and he’s pretty annoying. Unpredictable. Persistent, needy, a real Eeyore. He shows up at odd hours, unwelcome times, and is a bit of a taker. Super stubborn.

But we need each other, in some odd way, so we’re working on it. You could call us frenemies. Attached, despite our rivalry. A bickering bonded pair.

It hasn’t always been this way. We used to be just straight up enemies. We’ve worked hard to get to this place of mere annoyance and occasional tears. I couldn’t have had a cup of coffee with him even five years ago, trust me.

He was too heavy. Too demanding. Too aggressive.

When we were first introduced 17 years ago, tablemates at the worst life event I had ever been invited to, he insisted on going everywhere with me. Larger than life, blocking out the sun, hand wrapped around my throat making it hard to swallow. A yeller. A drinker. A real dick.

With time and reassurance, he started to give me a little more space. But worried I was forgetting about him or, heaven forbid, moving on without him, he would come ripping through my home, at all hours of the night, knocking over tables and lamps, punching holes in the wall, eyes overflowing with tears.

It wasn’t a workable relationship. Like an unruly child in need of discipline, or patience, or love, he demanded attention. We needed boundaries. And boundaries take time.

And with time, we’ve negotiated an arrangement that I’m fairly comfortable with. He can visit but he cannot stay. An hour, two hours, tops. I need space in between his visits, preferably at least a month or two. We can talk but keep it down- no need to involve anyone else or get too loud.

We’re still working on my final request- that he comes only when I invite him, rather than turning up out of the blue on my doorstep. But, baby steps.

Like any long term couple, we’re a work in progress.

Sometimes I summon him to take a walk down memory lane with me. He makes for okay company until he starts to get too dramatic, which he has a tendency to do. Then I shove him off the edge of the path and toss aside my walking shoes with a huff.

Sometimes he comes in and tries to steal the spotlight. A movie triggers a memory. A song. A smell. He seizes the moment and rushes on stage, tap dancing and lifting his top hat as if deserving of the starring role in every story. He sours the moment, belting out a quick off-tune anthem before security is able to whisk him off stage.

Sometimes he anticipates an opportunity where he thinks he may be needed. A friend loses her mom. My coworker’s husband is diagnosed. He lightly taps outside my window with his finger, waving, asking to come in. Reminding me he’s there. A quiet nagging request to participate- he knows about these things. In these moments I pull the shades and scold him to stay out of it.

And sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, I barge into HIS room, uninvited, in the middle of the night, a box of wine in hand. I demand a good cry. An emotional release booty call. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I lie over my shoulder as I leave him behind ten minutes later.

And other times, like last night, he just shows up. Sad. Maybe a little lonely. Needing to talk. Or be heard. Or be comforted.

Like I said, frenemies.

I move, through marriage and children and jobs and homes, and each time he lingers behind, looking down and tracing slow circles in the sand with his toe, until I pause, roll my eyes, and sigh heavily.

Come on, I call.

You can come, too.