Thinking of everyone on a sudden and unexpected grief journey in time for the holiday season…
My brother was killed in a mining accident in 1983 at the age of 19. I came across this essay I’ve never shared, so I’m posting it on my sporadic blog. It’s not long, but it shows how those traumatic grief journeys we all go on wax and wane. Grief is full of surprises, it never leaves, and it takes a long time to change—no matter how you move through the stages. And sometimes, it’s true, you just need to be by yourself. And that’s all right.
I Should Have Had Thanksgiving By Myself
My brother Jack had only been killed in October, a few weeks before, when Thanksgiving came. It quietly appeared like an awkward, uninvited guest. No one knew what to do with it, where it would sit, or who would look after it. How dare Thanksgiving come and interrupt our grief?
I said I would have the dinner at my house so as to not go to our family home. Maybe the change would be good. I would cook my first turkey all by myself, and I would be the hostess for the very first time. My mother called me twice Thanksgiving morning. She didn’t know if she could do it. I understood that, but thought we needed to be together. It wasn’t really about the holiday. I told her to just bring Grandma and come.
The second time she called to say she couldn’t do it, I made a tearful and clumsy error. “But mom, you still have me,” I blurted. I knew it was a mistake. It wasn’t really what I meant, but who could tell in the confusion of deep grief? I kept trying to take care of her by keeping what was left of our family together. I knew my mother loved me—but not like she loved Jack. In the depths of my soul, I could never comprehend her agony. I didn’t mean I could replace him, only that I was still alive. And didn’t cuddling her only grandbaby always make things feel a little less hopeless and tragic?
She agreed to come.
I stood at my kitchen counter and cut up vegetables and gazed out the window. I wanted to hear Jack’s voice again. I looked toward the sky and begged God for signs and answers and relief. I asked God to speak to me personally and let me know that someday, Thanksgiving would feel right again.
I don’t remember much after that. I don’t recall the conversation. Maybe there wasn’t much of one. I don’t remember the food or the football or the parades. I was grateful when they left so I could wrap myself in my husband and my baby and concentrate on my own existence. At the same time, I tortured myself because I pitied my mother for having to return to an empty house to suffer alone.
I was powerless to ease her pain.
The end of the day would never come fast enough. I turned out the lights and buried my head.
I should have had Thanksgiving by myself.
