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“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” – William Faulkner

I won’t apologize for my absence or give an explanation as to why I’ve been silent in posting my work other than to offer the word “grief”.

Maybe simply stating my age will explain all of that or my other demographic data. I’m 48 years old, mother, two autistic children, married, disabled, own mother deceased, dying or deceased friends increasing. Not happy news to share and yet the story that is so common for women of my age and demographic. We’re the “sandwich generation” or, as I like to call it, women in the thick of it. The thick of caretaking young and old, the thick of holding up a career while the demands of family and societal pressures sabotage you, caring for your disabled self while trying to care for others, and all the while grieving those that keep disappearing from your life. We’re being squeezed from every direction with demands and expectations all while being told to “take care of ourselves” as if that’s an option when every moment is for someone else.

A friend asked recently how are we supposed to carry on like this? What is life supposed to look like now? How do we grieve in front of our kids when we’re falling apart?

My answer was something like this.

Doing “our best” looks like carrying on with caring for ourselves and our family while sharing stories of those we’ve lost with our kids so that their memory lives on. We show our kids how to grieve by living brokenhearted. We show them that pain is as much of life as is joy and that it isn’t to be feared because it means we were lucky enough to love.

It’s carrying on the best you can and ignoring the judgment of others who haven’t had the fortune of loving as you did. They don’t know what it means to grieve if they haven’t loved or they are not capable of grieving yet. Grief is a natural part of love. It’s saying goodbye.

You think you’ll see them in a crowd because your heart and your mind are still searching for them and the more complicated the relationship the more painful the grief because you’re searching for the love you never received as well. Sometimes you miss someone so much you will always be searching for them.

“Take care of yourself.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“It gets better.” 

All spoken with good intent, and by most of us at some point, yet hiding the societal message of guilt and disdain. It’s what we say when we’re at a a loss for words and desparate to fix the pain of those we love or care about yet have nothing to offer but platitudes and reiterate the messages we’ve been choked into silence with ourselves. What should we say instead? I’ve tried, “I’m here to listen.” That just sounds pretentious and hollow like a self-help retreat greeting.

“I’m always here for you.” Sounds ridiculous as well because are you really? We’re all busy with our own lives and I’ve yet to meet someone that is going to pick up the phone any time of day or drop everything to come hold your hand. At least not now. Now that I’m in the thick of it as well.

Those early days of mothering when I was struggling with just being able to use the bathroom by myself in peace. When I had to juggle a newborn on my hip while wiping one-handed because she would scream the moment I set her down. When I shared this I was met with smirks and eye-rolls, dismissive comments of being “new” to motherhood, when really I was new to mothering a child on the spectrum. I hadn’t found my community yet and had no idea what the next ten years would bring me or how different my parenting journey would be from others.

Last night, twelve years later, I sat in a lobby, waiting, while my daughter auditioned for a “vocal ensemble” (because they aren’t called “choirs” any longer I was told). I wasn’t nervous about how she would perform because I knew she would nail it without much visible effort to most. Not because it comes easy to her but because of the rigorous practice she imposes on herself. She argued with me the entire car ride and while we waited but I didn’t take it personally. I knew it was coming from a deep well of anxiety. What I took personally were the demands of others while I was clearly trying to support her yet, even strangers, take a glance at someone like me and have expectations. In this instance, a man working at the music school expected me to help him lift and arrange chairs since I was a parent waiting for my student and he needed help.

I don’t embarrass easily but this is a quick way to make me feel ashamed. I had to calmly explain to him, “I can’t,” while pulling out my medical necklace to show him as way of explanation, “I’m not supposed to lift something that heavy.” He looked abashed, waved, and went on to ask the next parent. He didn’t apologize for interrupting us or possibly making my daughter uncomfortable but he did seem mortified on my behalf that I had to admit to being disabled. It’s the quagmire of expectations and demands that the “sandwich” women like myself navigate daily all while feeling immense pain physically and emotionally. At times, in these moments, I envision being on a stage, trying to spin plates, and someone shooting at me while I perform. At night I dream of being swept out to sea and adrift in an inky nighttime with the lights turning out one by one from the horizon. Initially I’m panicking to get my bearings but then decide to float instead and stare at the stars.

She went in for the audition on her own and returned ten minutes later being told she had been accepted for the advanced group. She felt it was anticlimactic, was expecting more fanfare, and was openly frustrated as I tried to quietly congratulate her. I bit my tongue and exited with her as quickly as possible while other parents stared at me in response to her feeling let down as their children waited to try out. What I imagined they felt was akin to the annoyance I felt at people’s joy when I’m in the thick of my grief. Their disdain was understandable and 

I gently explained in the car why I rushed her out and she looked scandalized at the realization, “Oh, no…they might not get in?” 

We discussed what auditions meant again and I heard her whisper, “That’s so sad.” In her mind, she explained, the worst possible outcome was her not getting in and she just assumed everyone else would get in because they were neurotypical. After all, that’s what she’s experienced in any other setting when it came to “picking” who was included. I drove home thinking about this and all the small ways she probably feels slighted at times. She had already moved on to another topic and was chatting away about how nervous she had been and what she would do differently with different verses and chords next time. I chewed on my lip and tried to focus on her words so I wouldn’t cry.

For those that can master things in life with effort but have full support or little challenge, like those that find love easily or who are able-bodied or who can belt out a song in front of strangers, there is little thought given at times to what it will mean to lose those abilities or skills that they’ve mastered. In the thick of it, in love, we don’t think about what it will mean to someday lose that which we have mastered even the ability to love. At moments, in grief, it feels as if my ability to fully love as I once did is somewhat dulled yet not numb. Just waiting in dormancy for when I’m rested enough to make the effort to master the skill once again like the torched sequoias that are now budding anew after the fires.

Even when wounded we carry on, the women in the thick of it, because that’s what we must do to survive and how we show those we take care of how to love. At least, that’s how I was raised and what I expect of myself but, in all honesty, I hope for something better for my own children which I’m sure is how my mother felt as well. A world that doesn’t expect women to bear the brunt of caretaking for the elderly or raising children. An existence where women have a choice , and societal support, no matter what their lives look like so that they are not left to feel adrift and drowning in the needs of others.