"You look like . . .

“. . . shit.”

So said my good friend recently when I appeared on our weekly Zoom call. And maybe she wasn’t that blunt (although she can be…) but it was words to that effect which came through the internet and into my ears.

She wasn’t wrong.

I mean, honestly…it’s really not the lens.

I was trying to take a selfie recently to post for an organization I support. I am not kidding when I tell you I took nearly 20 shots of my face before I decided, “Whatever the next one is, that’s it!” There were only so many times that I could try and clean the camera lens before I realized that it wasn’t the camera or the light or the setting. I look terrible!  

And why wouldn’t I? My friend was right--I did look like shit. I do look like shit. After years of caregiving followed by three years of Annie fighting like hell to beat cancer, which resulted in her death, what else would I look like? Why am I trying to put on a happy face? I don’t have one of those right now. I have an occasional one that shows up when I’m with friends and family; when I’m in Maine where Annie’s tree is; sometimes even when I’m teaching. But my face is an open book—I’ve never been able to mask my feelings and right now I am grieving.

And this grieving thing is no easy feat. Concerned friends want to ask how you are, and when you say “Fine” they say, oh come on now—no you’re not. But on the other hand, if you say, “I’m desolate. I’m tired. There are days when I’m in a constant struggle with the undertow of grief” you often get looks of helplessness and pity. Which are fine—and appropriate—but none of that makes either of you feel better. I’m not scolding my friends—I have some of the best around. It’s just a really difficult position to be in for all involved.

I became aware that I was grieving during the time I was taking care of my Dad. (Shameless plug: you can read all about it in my book.) That’s when what I’ve since heard referred to as anticipatory grief showed up. That kind of grief is elusive—it feels like grief, but the person for whom you have these feelings is actually still in the room. But he really wasn’t there—not like he had been the previous sixty years. After the deaths of my mom and then my sister, it seemed like my dad kind of stopped trying so hard. This was not in the plan, particularly the part where he was living in my dining room-turned-bedroom. And of course, he didn’t do it on purpose—had he been aware that his frequent anger and frustrations were causing me harm, he would have been mortified. But he wasn’t able to confront it and the loss of him as the dad I always counted on to help me showed up as a kind of loss. But not exactly because he still needed to go to the doctor, have three squares a day (and a happy hour) and be kept safe and healthy. I had to put aside whatever it was I was feeling--identified or not—and make sure we had low-sugar yogurt for lunch.

And then he died and Annie got cancer and the treatment often didn’t work and we rallied as a family and she was a badass and showed us all the way to forge ahead and then she died. So, what else would I look like except a woman who has borne loss and sadness and despair and grief.

I have enough vanity left to not really prefer to look like shit, but I have enough sense to understand that that’s the way it is right now. I haven’t abandoned all sense of outward appearance—I shower regularly and do a load of laundry every week. Or so. Of course what’s happening inside me will show up on the outside. And it might not look that great.

And I’m actually okay with that.

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