A World Without Annie: Month 2
I watched the May days slip by with my eye on June 2nd—the two-month anniversary of Annie’s death. Fortunately, for me, my college roommate Tracy dropped in on her way to Maine on that day and I was distracted by the company of a longtime friend who is one of the few people who has known Annie since she was a baby. So, the date slipped by without too much difficulty.
Then, encouraged by Tracy to follow her to Maine in the following days, I did. I considered myself recuperating still, but I wasn’t going to move furniture or do any yard work; sitting in a car for a few hours was doable and then I could finally get to the cottage and see what kind of work needed to be done. I could easily make a list for others without concern that I’d relapse.
The drive was easy—I left around 5:30AM—and I missed most of the traffic. I stopped at the grocery and picked up a minimal amount of supplies. I wasn’t staying that long—I was coming back for granddaughter Aria’s first birthday on Saturday. By the time I got to the ferry landing, I was ready for a few days alone at the cottage. And then I drove on to the ferry and the engines powered up to cross the lake. I posted on social media what happened next:
“Suddenly this week, an opportunity to go to Maine showed up. I took it. As I crossed on the ferry I was overtaken by memories of the last time I was here, which was with Annie. It was a lot harder to return than I anticipated. And there's a storm brewing on the other side of the lake that seems kind of fitting for my stay here. But friends who leave flowers and notes make it a little easier--not to mention the friends who are already here waiting for me.”
I cried during the entire ferry trip across the lake and then over dirt roads until I got to the cottage. I walked to the water and allowed the torrent of memories from the last times we were here together consume me. It was like a movie I was transfixed by—I could neither stop it nor close my eyes to it. Every inch of the cottage, the stones on the path, the stairs to the water held another memory of when Annie had been there over the past nearly forty years.
My friends swooped in with kindness, treats and wine. I felt supported and comforted even as I continued to weep from a split-second glance at a folded blanket, or a set of dishes or a 20-year-old drawing. It felt like the previous few weeks all I had done was cry. Between healing from surgery and living in this new world without Annie, all my energy was sapped and it didn’t take much to release the tears. I was concerned because, after I returned home—after we celebrated Aria’s first year with us—we would be hosting Annie’s Celebration of Life the following Saturday.
A team of Annie’s friends were doing the heavy lifting—I guess I included that limitation in my healing, too—and they were on top of things. I didn’t have much to do, but I was stressing about it anyway. I thought I was handling everything okay, but when I stopped on the way home at one of the Mass Pike travel centers and bought a (small) cup of Auntie Anne’s pretzel bites and inhaled them before I was out of the parking lot, I realized, despite my protestations to the contrary, I was having a difficult time. The crying should have clued me in—I had been working so hard to not cry, that constantly being on the verge of tears should have been a huge waving flag. Trying not to cry is exhausting.
But, of course I was exhausted, I’m a cryer and grief is stressful. Crying is pretty much my default response every situation, happy or sad. But, the reason I had been holding back my tears was because, since Annie was diagnosed, I had been trying not to cry in front of her. My tears upset her and the last thing I was going to do was be the cause of her distress. So I worked diligently on keeping my tears to myself—or at least out of her range of vision. We talked about it, of course—I think my crying made her feel vulnerable, especially when she was dealing with the relentless rounds of failed treatments and disease progression that just didn’t stop. She knew I was a cryer and she knew I was doing the best I could. And one day she sent me a quote she found online.
When she acknowledged that for me, it actually made it easier for me be there for her the way I needed to be. When I recalled this quote recently, I realized that I had been worried that I’d cry so much I wouldn’t be able to get through Annie’s Celebration without dissolving into a puddle. But, that’s what that day will be all about—the sadness, yes, but also the happiness of having Annie in our life, in our world and celebrating that. Of course I’ll get through it. And of course I’ll cry.
I think she’d be okay with it.
Here’s the full quote:
Cindy, this moving story brings me feelings of recognition and empathy. In the early months after my daughter’s death I returned to places that held many memories of her. The pain was bottomless yet I felt a need to be in those places that held traces of her.
After a year and a half I thought maybe I was done with the endless daily tears. But returning recently to one of those locations showed me I am in no way done crying.
I love the Glennon quote.
I'm a cryer too. Stress hormones are released in tears, I've heard. Regardless, it's my default setting and feels cleansing. Beautiful words and tears, my friend.